In Glorious, everyone is perfectly coiffed, has a perfectly maintained hardbody and no one seems to speak. The idea of animatronic, soulless suburban sprawl is artfully captured in these white-boarded houses and plush lawns. But every now and then we see the facade slip: the woman with a bandaged head, implying recovery after plastic surgery; the scarred, imperfectly tanned belly of a woman in a bikini; a woman floating by on a pool toy with her neck in a sling; a ginger boy with a coral sweater wrapped around his shoulders - it's not a real injury but absolutely an injury to fashion and surely that matters in Glorious.

What is distressing is that our focal point, Foxes, is hard to differentiate from the citizens of Glorious - aside from her angst-filled lip synching, of course, and one glimpse of her hip tattoo. It renders all the Stepford iconography meaningless by virtue of giving the viewer no point of action to rally around.

Everyone slips out of their comas at about the 3:12 mark, just when the track slips into the bit where there is a glorious backing choir to elevate the lyrics. But their rebellion, their newfound sense of liveliness is nothing more than becoming actual moving human beings, like someone hit the power button on a set full of robots at once.