When the stock market collapsed in on itself and talk of recession and doom came into clear view, many of the curious amongst us speculated as to what this would mean for music. With loss of jobs, there was the exciting possibility that a push of new music would come through and expose itself as a response to the financial meltdown. What’s actually happened is that bedroom music has become conveniently popular and that with redundancies came a bigger bulk of artists downloading their copy of Ableton and plugging their microphone into the laptop slot. The end product was music for escapists, by those seeking escapism, and the blog-bred stampede has yet to come to a stop.

I suppose we can’t all do what Dexter Tortoriello did with Houses, though. After losing his retail job at Apple (not a redundancy, more a straight-up sacking) he took his girlfriend in stride and made for Papaikou, Hawaii, where he spent days drenched in the merciless sheets of rain and fell further and further in love. And in the vinyl scratches and at times rough-around-the-edges vocals of All Night’s recording, you get a complete sense of the entire experience. This is a lovestruck, tender debut, shrouded in optimism and dying to get intimate.

It’s an times difficult to relate to All Night unless you’ve placed yourself in the tropical surroundings; the monsoons; the beating heart of the sun. For this album to announce itself at a time when the nights get shorter and the coats thicker, seems strange. But make no mistake, the recording of this debut took place under exactly the kind of conditions these sounds help emulate.

You’re either sinking your head into the cold sand to the drawn-out ‘Sleeping’ or you’re running head-first through the storm in ‘Endless Spring’. These pop songs soundtrack the tiny yet precious memories of every summer in living memory; ‘Soak It Up’ is a seize-the-day chant; ‘Rose Book”s nod to shoegaze a dramatic rush of blood. The heavy amount of instrumentals that bulk up the album allow the whole experience to brush past like a stranger in a crowded street, it not being until you turn round and see them looking back that you distinguish their beauty.

There’s the occasional blip; a slightly endangering slant towards the “chillout” genre of music that dominated CD compilations during the early noughties; collections that consisted of multiple efforts to replicate Moby’s achievement with ‘Porcelain’ but instead ending up without something vacuous and bland. All Night just avoids this: It’s cheesy – very much so. Clichéd? At times, yes. But it’s arrived at the right time. This is almost certainly the pinnacle of a much-debated chillwave genre’s splurge of output; bedroom music that relies on its energy and message of escapism. Tortoriello takes his listeners on a journey, through every jolt of thunder and every ray of sun, massaging the ears with thick blasts of luscious, electronic delights. You never want it to stop.