With its shuffly drums, whistled melody, and understated, blooming guitar, opening track David Palmer sounds like some sedated, euro-cool take on Young Folks, maybe Pumped Up Kicks. Echo never escapes that indie orbit, never quite reaches elegant detachment. The act of disconnection feels put on. It's a pleasant, chilled-out listen, but there's some air of pickupartistry around the affectations, too flatly pretty and crisply unknowable to be truly interesting.
Nowhere is this less true than on the title track, which is full on beautiful, riding Warm Jets of guitars, and buried back at track 8. It's a weirdly respectful move that makes me second guess myself. Stupid sexy french flanders, don't know if I'm under yer spell or what 3.5/5
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