Splattered all over the glossy pages of the NME, LA femme fatale quartet
Warpaint probably couldn't seem less like an ATP-obsessive's epitome of an insatiable ideal were they chanting banal choruses concurrently spewed out incessantly by The Saturdays in place of the Cocorosie maxing-out on amphetamine mêlée contained within. Their debut long player proper, The Fool, stretches such nonpareil exponentially, as the vagrant coyness of PJ Harvey (Set Your Arms Down) meets the ramshackle, scruffy shuffle of Best Coast were it strung up by its ribcage with gangly, ambling Robert Smith guitar nuance (Warpaint). Whilst the symbiotic six string flux of Undertow is as enchanting as a candlelit ramble along sandy shores beneath a beaming bone white moon, the likes of the folklorically inaccurate, siren-like Baby, akin to medieval period drama depicting Lancelot in battered Converse with a look of longing inscribed on his wistful face, and Shadows, lulling laconically over thudding drumskin monotony are irrevocably drab. Bees recalls A Place To Bury Strangers lodged under Summer Camp vocals and fragmented programming that leaves you with a similar sense of disparate discordance were HEALTH to collaborate with Josh Ritter on a Banarama tribute record, whilst Majesty jacks up the reverb, losing itself in Cobain-indebted desolation. An intriguing, if insipid safe-as-houses shot in bright daylight on behalf of
Rough Trade, and they'll presumably need every penny The Fool is sure to siphon from hipster overdrafts if they're to hurl any more cold cash in the direction of
Wilder...
