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The chorus to a pop song can be a wonderful thing. No matter how unsettling or scratchy the verse, no matter how atonal and challenging the bridge, everything comes right in the joyous rush of a decent chorus. The chorus is where storm-clouds are parted, waves calm, and sunshine lights up the darkest corners of the human soul as abruptly as fluorescent strip-lights in a scary cellar. The Script have just such a chorus, and they know it: so much so that it has been crammed, with minor trims and fiddles, into almost every song on their second album. Its their secret weapon, a chugging, stately thing which is designed to be equally at home in a stadium sing-along or as the soundtrack to an emotional montage in a TV drama.
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