The Next One's a Slowish, Sad One. They Almost All Are: Blackmarket, St. Vincent Decor.

Once upon a time there were two smart asses from California. They decided to make jerky, spunk pop. They needed backup though, as bass alone doesn't really constitute a rhythm section. But they moved through drummers at higher velocities than Peter Andre chugs his sordid way through the British celeb V-list, predominantly due to their irritating obsession with cracking sub-standard jokes even Baddiel and Skinner would turn their noses up at. Possibly... Those two arduous troubadours went by the names Keith Murray and Chris Cain, and played (and quite incomprehensibly still play) under the moniker We Are Scientists. Well, cut the crap facial hair and forever more appalling interview quips, jack in the featherweight lyrics and power chord reliance and you could remould their essence into Arizona's Blackmarket. The bar brawl trio, despite having been in existence for approximately 20% of the time WAS have plodded along with their formulaic dross are at least 20 times better, Tongue Twister Typo sounding a little like Julian Casablancas on uppers. Minus the slurring and the gurning.

Yet Blackmarket belong to the ramshackle lo-fi rawk bracket of the 90s, constructed, deconstructed and occasionally reconstructed with varying levels of relevance by the likes of Weezer and Evan Dando's The Lemonheads. Hammerhead (Somebody Else) contains tumbling guitar sequences disconcertingly reminiscent of Alex Turner's serenade to the ASBO-asserted fluorescent adolescents of contemporary society, whereas Blue Lemon, an ode to fiercely resolute loyalty, pricks hirsute forearms and plucks on heartstrings like Joanna Newsom wantonly picking apples in Granny Smith's orchard. The harmoniously immaculate The One I Know You're Not and discordant vociferousness of Dot To Dot tie up the tidiest of ends in an LP that's destined never to reach the flowing locks, sandy toes and band logo t-shirts of all those still gripping onto the hope of this generation's Pinkerton. Which is a shame of equivalent scale to the dissemblance of The Cooper Temple Clause. And they were really something...

Blackmarket's Myspace.