Jugando por la playa. Tanlines, Mixed Emotions.

Admired and eulogised by many ever since the balearic rhythms of Real Life beached on the internet back in 2010, the debut full-length from Brooklyn bros (phraseologically; not genetically) Tanlines has been eagerly awaited in many a corner. The track that way back when sounded akin to a diluted, or perhaps sobre Friendly Fires (affix Diet/ Zero/ Lite pre/ post) features, and still sounds like the flimsy fare hacked up by the St. Albans monotony brigade, permeated by omnipresent uhs and ohs. However the segueing dream pop disco showboating of Rain Delay precipitates the realisation that Jesse Cohen and ex-Don Caballero man Eric Emm have come some distance in said temporal gulf.

However that's not to say that this cognisance extends to the band themselves for Mixed Emotions is – perhaps purposefully given such denomination – a rather disparate collection: Cactus sees the duo slather the blithe marvels of El Guincho over a light afrobeat lilt, the pulpy bits in the mix coming from Emm's thrilling condensed guitar trills that periodically recall the precision within the work of his past employers. Yet emanating from its denouement is the musty fug of Crystal Fighters to cheapen what may otherwise be construed as something of a gem; a diamond in the rough as it were. And there's a fair share of roughage on ear throughout: Green Grass sounds like an all too earthly M83 were Gonzalez' outpour stripped of all cosmic memorability; Nonesuch comes across as tone-deaf karaoke take on Time After Time; and All Of Me, having initially followed the cheapy synthy chord progression of Whigfield's intolerable Saturday Night soon shifts to what sounds like The Drums dribbling through any one of the umpteen all but entirely demolished public address system in any one of the innumerable discotheque hellholes on any one of the Med's endless isles of unpleasantness. With any mathematical intricacy removed Emm here leaves us with a rather drab imitation of 'pop' that, behind the impeccable production and ad-inveigling movements (Not The Same will inevitably end up soundtracking some wistful, nostalgia-slanted Easyjet ad this side of September) the focal emotion engendered is one of disappointment for where any heart or soul may be is but hollow vapidity and tropically-infused tedium.