For indie pop may be said — quite uniquely in modern music — to privilege the song above all else. While fans of other genres may love their bands for their style or their attitude, their sounds or their beats, their musicianship or their integrity, indie kids may be alone in caring scarcely a jot for anything but the song itself; the song qua song. Who cares if the singer can’t sing, or the drummer’s a little sloppy, or the guitarist looks like he bought his guitar for tuppence ha’penny (and sounds like he was ripped off)? Just listen to the songs. We might see something democratic at work here — extending the pop franchise even to those who lacked sufficient confidence for punk. Attendant on this, elements such as sound, orchestration, recording technique, tend towards the rough-hewn and sketched in. This sense of unfinishedness in the sound of the records cannot help but draw the listener in, inviting them to fill in the blanks with their own imagination — thus conjuring, around this kernel of the real album, myriad virtual albums, multiplying into infinity. Indie pop, it turns out, is a cool medium.

The Quietus | Reviews | Pastels / Tenniscoats