A sophisticated grape dislocated by drones, jazz drums and trumpet
Like a Bad Seeds for men with a high-end wine subscription, the sharp-suited [a]Tindersticks[/a] examine the worrying meeting point of romance and masculinity. Yet their eighth album is a dislocated creature. The opening track points towards a new direction, all fractured drones, eerie jazz drums and trumpet, [b]Stuart Staples[/b]’ nasal tones uttering incantations like Vic Reeves’ club singer gone voodoo. Yet aside from the dusty, lo-fi ‘[b]Black Smoke[/b]’ and gothic funereal instrumental ‘[b]Hubbard Hills[/b]’, Tindersticks return to their roots of elegantly arranged multi-instrumental crooning. Like a vintage Bordeaux, it slips down a treat (aside from lamentable ‘[b]Peanuts[/b]’, which gets stuck in the throat), but the moments of oddness whetted our palette for more.
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