La Roux - La Revieoux

Synths were in, as were female artists flogging 80s electropop and L was the monogram de jour. But, thing is, only the workmanlike, stringent promotion of Lady GaGa's global brand had gleaned commercial success where Ladyhawke and Little Boots were fighting tooth and nail just to dent the top 75. And then who should swan into the top 3? A po-faced androgyne, taking style tips from Adam Ant with a vocal like a pre-pubertal choir boy testing his highest register mid-castration, surely a love it or hate it, acquired taste? The video and promotion weren't any great shakes either, team this the aforementioned marmite factor and who could have guessed that La Roux would land a number 2 debut and a follow-up single rocketing straight to the top? If her self-titled debut follows suit, sullen front woman ( La Roux are a duo, with an enigmatic co-writer/producer male cohort, Ben Langmaid, looming in the shadows a la The Eurythmics) might muster up the mirth to crack a celebratory smile. She may have good reason for icy facade, La Roux is all about a break-up you see. No wonder then, that onstage, Elly looks like a grumpy teenager reluctantly pushed into a school talent show by an overbearing music teacher, she's performing songs that are based on the annals of her young, once-broken heart. Blood on the Tracks it ain't but there's more emotional heft here than such synth-led, 80s froth ought to boast.

Listeners should already be familiar with the sleeper hit In for the Kill, the vocal is either winning or a deal breaker and it does have a certain intensity that only lets up for the falsetto-laden middle eight but the innately satisfying hook and fresh take on revelling in the retro makes it a bit of a winner. Second single Bulletproof is immediately more likeable, she swaps her ear-piercing vocal razor blades for a more accessible, if a little whiny, traditional pop vocal as the catchy funk of the Cassio keyboard and drum machine combine, along with a brilliantly simple and consciousness-seeping chorus and take hold. I'm Not Your Toy feels as though it's attempting to reach the lofty heights of Bulletproof's effortless bounce, albeit in a more minimalist fashion, however, it lacks a little momentum with the catchiest crescendo of the song reached before the plodding chorus even kicks in, a grower moreso than anything. Something decidedly more instant is Tigerlily, the first sign of La Roux's potential for real genius outside the generally crowd-pleasing singles. It's a an ode to lovelorn obsession by way of a deranged stalking metaphor via a demented ZX Spectrum and affected vocal with a spoken-word bridge in an ominous baritone that'd give Vincent Price the heebee-geebees. Light relief comes in the form of frothy Fascination and pulsating Reflections with their amiable buoyancy and satisfying crunch of synths,

But for all the bravado on show there, the finest moments of La Roux's running time come when things slow down. A blatant play for heart-strings-tuggage comes in the form of the indisputably pretty Cover My Eyes which reveals a softer more vulnerable side while feeling completely true to the tone of the album as a whole, even with the presence of a choir, yes, a choir. The unvarnished, heart-breaking honesty of "Every time I see you walking with her I have to cover my eyes" is almost childlike and the feeling of pain it subtly conveys is almost palpable. As if By Magic isn't of quite the same tear-jerking proportions but maintains a gentle poignancy, there's a certain ambiguity to the lyrics that leave it open to interpretation as though it's daring you not to relate to it in some way or another. Elsewhere Love Armour, combines the softest of bruised vocals with the unwavering buzz and whir of crisp beats and bubbling synths. Funny how the use of nothing more than the simple plink of keyboards and some synthesised beats can convey emotions far from synthetic. It's with both of these songs that La Roux proves that 'soulful' warblers don't have the monopoly on emotion in pop. Leona Lewis can butcher Snow Patrol's back catalogue, ballgown and dodgy weave in tow as she simpers about a forest for the rest of her days, even with all the C6 notes in the world she could never hope to muster up the same succinct encapsulation of heartbreak in such an effortlessly deft fashion.

As mentioned, La Roux was mostly written on Jackson's arrival in Splitsville and as such, the album's musical tone cleverly progresses from the initial intensity of cross words and that painful parting of ways before revealing a front that everything's okay only for the bravado to be stripped away on Cover My Eyes as it beckons a tear-stained reprieve. The dawn breaks and tears are wiped away for Fascination and the mood perks but by the closing track there's a reassurance that this wasn't just a puppy love but a the real deal that's left its mark. Isn't that clever? A seemingly angular, robotic slice of pop that, in actuality, is all stuffed full of snotty Kleenex and hastily torn love letters and candid Polaroids with a genuine progression from track to track, resulting in a cohesive album, the likes of which don't come along too often these days. In the era of iTunes making playlists and re-jigging tracklistings is all too easy, but even if, for some reason, you wanted to shuffle La Roux's tracks around, you'd feel guilty, knowing that that's how it should be heard. It's not as fun as Little Boots or as effortless as Ladyhawke but it's shrewder, the real McCoy, there's certain weight and level of commitment behind the 1980s nostalgia and, surprisingly for debut, a sense of gravitas. If the record-buying public take to this album as they have to her material thus far, then the pain of that oh-so prevalent break-up may have been worth it, anyway, musician's don't suffer enough for their art these days...

Big Trouble in Little Boots - Hands Review (there is, of course, no trouble but witty post titles are not my forte)

I don't know what a Dubree Styophone is or what I'd do were I handed something called a Tenori-on but Little Boots seems to have an idea as these are some of the unorthodox instruments she makes us of to create her thoroughly electronic sound. Indeed, the album isn't the most organic sounding and each song certainly feels as though it's been cut from the same 1980s electro-glam cloth but my, isn't it a cohesive, slick and exciting record? All lean and shrewd in taking special care not to outstay its welcome but tantalising for the duration of it's well-judged stay. This whole 'litany of solo female singers unleashing this synth-heavy 80s revival lark onto the pop charts' angle might be wearing a tad thin but do bare in mind that before this craze the Mark Ronson trumet brigade that was the sound de jour. By comparison, shiny, robotic pop with a sweet tone is a welcome respite. Her first proper single release came recently in the form of New In Town which blends a Goldfrapp vocal, a saucy kylie wink, some crunchy synths and hip, young sass to make a pleasing opening track and debut single for uber-hyped, critical darling but ironically, it doesn't really do her justice. The big chorus is a little too poppy by way of bratty for its own good but the sashay of the verses and the luxuriant middle eight hint at greatness. Can the rest of the album build on this promising blueprint?

It would seem so. The robotic Stuck on Repeat is sublime, haunting and effective as it builds, ascends, drops out and reaches a thrilling crescendo. Earthquake's whirring synths and electronic beats serve as a canvas for a light but affected vocal as the subject matter of the age old domestic is compared to natural disasters. It's a would-be brooding lament hid beneath a neat little analogy but the harmonies and big chorus don't let on, sonically frothy but lyrically a little bruised. Click has a touch of The Knife about it, a smoky, creeping melody with an ominous instrumental while Meddle boasts an electronic stomp and an undulating beat that sucks you in. Phil Oakley pops round on Symmetry and delivers a booming chorus and a spoken word bridge with all the bombast one would expect from the man who so famously asked 'Don't you want me baby?'. And cleverly enough on Ghost, though entirely electronic, Little Boots manages to conjure up a welcome touch of theatrics with a marching band beat stuttering away like something from a bygone arcade cabinet.

It's not all effortless cool and weighty electronica though. Remedy, though indisputably catchy, flirts far too closely with faceless, Cascada-style, dancefloor filler banality. A stammering baseline and a restrained tone are all that holds it from requiring a music video featuring Little Boots straddling a greased-up backing dancer in a suitably ethnically diverse but tastefully PG nightclub. Having said that, if any song on here is going to give this girl a hit (and maybe even a Eurovision entry), Remedy's her best shot. Meanwhile, the MOR bop of Tune into My Heart shouldn't win her any fans, it also features a somewhat ropey metaphor, but that's sort of a running theme here. A not entirely convincing maths motif lies at the core Mathematics which, whether intentional or not, has a delightfully campy edge to it balanced by a deadpan delivery and rather sparse production building into a pleasingly beefy chorus. And the staccato No Brakes likens a doomed relationship to an automobile, 'No heart brakes' gettit? It hints at greatness but has engine trouble along the way (oh dear...)

Steely and electronic, any warmth emanating from Hands is courtesy of Hesketh's restrained yet emotive - but hardly spectacular - vocal, the album is never cold or industrial but it is lacking in a certain richness that perhaps comes with the use of instruments with names as seemingly ad-libbed as a stylophone. There is, however, a certain shimmering effervesence to the whole affair and the fact is, there's plenty to love here; the poppy hooks, the cucumber cool demeanour, the lyrical flourishes and sheer listenability of the whole album as a body of work from start to finish. Is it deserving of the critical praise heaped upon her, who's to say? Jesus probably won't appear before you when you listen to it, so nix that thought in case BBC's accolades has you thinking such a divine occurrence was possible in the presence of Little Boot's dulcet tones. But if he did happen to appear, on other business we'll say, I'd like to think he'd appreciate the fresh sounding take on the 80s and the consistently strong and relentlessly memorable melodies - was that blasphemous? Oh well...

Hands is certainly deserving of commercial success. Where many a fashion-foward synth-loving lady has tried and largely fizzled, Little Boots may succeed with this is a finely crafted, electropop album, that wonderfully, is pretension free. It has a certain cool factor but not in a way that's at all alienating and it joyously revels in big choruses and chart-ready hooks without feeling focus-group tested. With that in mind, there's no reason that Little Boots and her Tenori-on can't beep, plink and coo all the way to the bank with this one...