The XX – The XX

My first encounter with The XX was at London’s chronically over-hipped, under-furnished ICA. Sandwiched, as they were, between a greasy half-bap of apocalyptic garage-rock courtesy of Loverman, and a slice of The Big Pink’s lovingly kneaded wholemeal, one could forgive a band for failing to meet flavour requirements. Not so with these young’uns; in spite of bearing the stigmata of the Cult of Hoxton (carefully sabotaged haircuts, explicit yet inexplicable jewellery etc.), they ensnared a previously restless audience with their compact disco shuffle and urban whimsy.Since then, the London quartet have continued to take all the shortcuts that hot-tipdom affords, bagging high-profile support slots hither and yon whilst deftly bypassing the ‘playing to seven people in a pub in Luton’ stage; the chatter around their eponymously titled album has certainly been disproportionate to the band’s level of live exposure. Unlike so many other media playthings before them, though, The XX (both the band and the album) are, to my mind, fully deserving of such attention.And so we embark on what can - indeed must - be considered a gush. If at any time during proceedings I seem perilously close to declaring this "the album of the year" - or worse, "a masterpiece" - then please laugh me into journalistic oblivion. Hyperbole kills bands, and don’t you forget it kids.Nonetheless, from the Vangelis-tinged ‘Intro’ right through to the distant piano chords of ‘Stars’, it’s achingly apparent that this is a really, really good record. Minimal instrumentation (Romy Madley Croft’s guitar lines are exquisitely simple), hushed male-female vocals and incredibly delicate production (courtesy of the band’s own Jamie Smith) place The XX in a highly individual sonic space, somewhere between the mellower side of Motown and the dark ambience of London’s underground club scene.Speaking of the latter, location plays a vital role here; beyond the usual pap about "night-bus" music - as if our capital was the only conurbation to provide nocturnal transport - there is definitely something of The Big Smoke about this album. Whether it’s in the vast, synthetic spaces afforded to each instrument, or the looming presence of the recent Dubstep explosion - or, perhaps more quantifiably, in the ever-so-slight London twang to the dual vocals of the aforementioned Croft and Oliver Sim - this is indigenous music for the urban population. In that respect, links can be drawn to the grimy euphoria of Dubstep wunderkind Burial who, as it happens, was a fellow student at Elliott School in Putney (along with members of Hot Chip and the Maccabees, the guitarist from Dragonforce, Kieran Hebden and his fellow Fridge member Adem, and Pierce Brosnan. One can’t help but wonder what it is they put in the turkey twizzlers.)The band’s resounding achievement, though, is to infuse their music with melancholy without letting it lose buoyancy; whether in the reverb-drenched balladry of ‘Shelter’ or in (relatively) sunnier offerings such as ‘Basic Space’, the quartet’s subtlety of touch and exceptional restraint prevent a descent into out-and-out dirge, while not losing sight of their angst-inflected roots. The result is uplifting, in a way that reminds me of early-morning bus journeys to school (not so many) years ago, Sony earbuds wedged in resolutely against the engine noise and shrieking 11-year-olds: yes, today is going to be a shit day. But this is a bloody good album, and it’ll still be here tomorrow.In short: buy this. 85%The XX on Myspace