Wet Leg: Moisturizer

moisturizer feels like Wet Leg deciding they don’t need the “quirky viral band” safety net anymore. It’s louder, hornier, sweeter, and (crucially) more emotionally legible than the debut—without losing that sideways grin. Critics mostly landed on the same idea: it’s a step-up in songwriting and focus, with a 90s alt-rock bite and a bigger band sound now that the touring members are fully in the room. 

The first thing you notice is how physical it is. “CPR” kicks the door in with a tight, choppy groove—like the band’s learned how to turn their deadpan into force rather than just attitude.  From there, the record keeps pivoting between two modes: snarl-and-swing bangers (“catch these fists,” “liquidize”) and soft-focus, slightly surreal tenderness (“davina mccall,” “11:21,” “u and me at home”). That push-pull is the album’s real engine: messy desire on one side, domestic stillness on the other. 

Lyrically, Rhian Teasdale leans harder into love, sexuality, and queerness, and she does it with that Wet Leg trick of making sincerity and irony share the same line. Pitchfork framed it as a near-reinvention—more clear-eyed, more fully formed, and less dependent on the novelty of their persona.  The Guardian made a similar point: the target shifts away from purely observational “hip” takedowns toward more personal confession, but the humour and barbs still show up when they feel like it. 

As a full listen, it’s also more cohesive than album one. Some reviewers basically called it a fixation record—everything circling attraction, arousal, embarrassment, and the weird theatre of being into someone.  That cohesion is a strength, even if it means a few tracks can blur when you’re not in the mood for the same emotional temperature. (Needledrop, for example, liked the focus but wished for more instrumental and topical variety.)