When bands release self-titled albums, it can signify numerous things, most of them negative, such as lack of inspiration or effort (…)
When bands release self-titled albums, it can signify numerous things, most of them negative, such as lack of inspiration or effort (…)
Four years ago, Welsh-Greek warbler Marina Diamandis couldn’t play the piano. Now she’s managed to put together a whole album (…)
Filthy humour, a doo-wop sensibility and garage rock production are bound to make for a novel, if not sloppy cocktail. The third album from (…)
After Ghana achieved independence from Britain in 1957 it gradually moved into a period of relative affluence. (…)
Back in your boxes you merchants of stern and deep bass-heads, because here’s a man with a deft touch (…)


Nothing’s more of a turn off than being made to feel like you’re suckling at the prosthetic teat of the PR machine. Belched from the underbelly of this proverbial monster, Florence and her machinations manage jangling instantaneousness that isn’t sickening enough to write off completely, but grates with oddball affectations and the mistaken conviction that yelling constitutes singing. She was sold on the merits of sequins and a loud mouth. In this respect, she delivers completely.