Desert Glam Disco Gets Its Sharpest Shine Yet
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London’s Jetlagged sound like a band with the amps turned up and the imagination running hot, but Wicked Tongue
brings their world into sharper focus. The single trades the brass-heavy punch of earlier work for fuzzy guitars, thick riffs and a groove that keeps one boot planted in desert rock while the other steps beneath the disco lights. Jetlagged call it Desert Glam Disco, and the phrase fits: equal parts dust, glitter and danger.
There’s a sly confidence in the way the track moves. The verses creep forward with tension and self-doubt, carrying the bruised logic of a night that has already gone too far. Then the chorus opens up, bright and swaggering, like the moment a spinning room suddenly becomes a dancefloor. That contrast gives the song its charge. Paranoia, regret and the awful replay loop of wondering what was said, what was meant and what cannot be taken back are all converted into rhythm.
Josh Hommes describes the band’s sweet spot as “heavy enough for the boys and sweet enough for the girls,” and Wicked Tongue
occupies that space with a grin and a bruise. The track doesn’t soften its edges to make room for the hook; it uses them to sharpen it. The guitars are gritty and sun-baked, the rhythm section carries a restless glam-rock bounce, and the entire arrangement feels built for volume. It wants to rattle the floorboards while leaving enough room for a little strut.
The song’s lineage is clear. There is the weight and desert heat of Queens of the Stone Age, the theatrical snap of T. Rex, the psychedelic lift of Primal Scream and the classic-rock muscle of The Rolling Stones. But Jetlagged do more than parade their influences. They fold those reference points into a language of their own: big-hearted, slightly unhinged and unafraid of melodrama when the song demands it.
That sense of scale matters because Jetlagged think in widescreen. The band have built their identity around maximalism, but Wicked Tongue
shows how precise that instinct can be. Every riff lands with purpose, and each chorus arrives like a pressure valve opening. The song remains alive to embarrassment, self-doubt and emotional fallout, yet the arrangement refuses to become weighed down by them.
Wicked Tongue
turns private chaos into communal energy. It belongs to the aftermath of a reckless night, when memory remains blurred but the consequences have begun to sharpen. Jetlagged never wallow in that uncertainty. They let the beat carry it instead, balancing heat and hurt as they move deeper into the noise.
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