With an atmospheric opening more mardy than Gordon Brown on election day, The Hundred in The Hands open a self titled album with a brave mix of reverberating bass, sulky guitars and a lackadasiacal melody. ‘Young aren’t Young’ soon delves into the ever recurrent ‘90s nostalgia, combining the dancy beats of Donna Summer with the vocal delicacy of The Cardigans. With futuristic synths and chamber pop harmonies, the opening introduces the sultry Ms Everdell perfectly.

‘Gold Blood’ is a particular favourite of mine, with the ranty lyrical style, and headache inducing fight between guitar and percussion, made all the headier listened to in stereo. The sporadic void of guitars at crucial points of the song are timed at obvious yet imperative moments, adding a much needed touch of dynamics.

‘Dressed in Dresden’ in perhaps their strongest song, and was how I ingratiated myself into the music of the Hands, proving a popular song to place on repeat in the office. Even overkill hasn’t tarnished the immaculate execution, dramatic vocals and sultry underbeats of the song, and it remains a keeper.

‘The Beach’ is a dramatic little ditty, whose pathic warblings bring to mind a woeful Yorkshire lass venting her melancholy on a hillside somewhere. The lyrical content occasionally borders on boyband territory, yet the cliches are saved by their original approach to indie pop. Their driving guitar riffs and layered vocals make their music different enough to warrant a slip into the old purple prose now and again.

I’ve no doubt Hundred in the Hands will do just fine in Shoreditch, I’m not sure the big wide world are going to appreciate them. Here’s to hoping they manage to get their kooky music on a phone advert or come up with some such commercial hook. After listening to ‘Last City’, I say good luck to the kids; anyone that can say the word “awesome” without sounding like a bit of a twat, let alone making it sound sexy gets my vote.