There's a confidence in calling something 'cheesy' before anyone else gets the chance to. The Lazy Eyes lean into it, they have an understanding that sincerity, when left out in the open long enough, will always risks ridicule. But what's remarkable on Cheesy Love Songs is how little they flinch for a young band dropping a sophomore album. This is a record that understands it's inheritance. You can hear the ghosts of bedroom psych, of records made by young people who discovered that distortion could double as a shield, that reverb could make even the most fragile confession feel infinite. But Cheesy Love Songs doesn't hide inside those textures, it let's them bloom until they almost overwhelm the room, like a feeling you tried to downplay that instead insists on becoming the only thing you can hear. The kaleidoscopic guitars, the melodies that feel like they've been unearthed rather than written, the way it treats love as both spectacle and small disaster. These are songs that circle the same emotional drain: wanting too much, too quickly, and then sitting in the quiet aftermath of having said it out loud. The band doesn't pretend that intensity is sustainable; instead, they document the crash with the same care as the ascent. In that way, Cheesy Love Songs feels like a document of early belief - the kind that arrives before irony calcifies, before restraint feels like wisdom. It's a record made by a band still willing to risk the embarrassment of being 'cheesy' in pursuit of something louder, brighter, and more honest than cool. And maybe that's what makes it an iconic modern Australian sophomore album: not just that it captures a moment in time for the band, but that it refuses to outgrow it.