foxhound

I must admit and put my hands up in saying hat I initially missed this one, one of those releases whose attaching press release bears absolutely no relation or gives no indication as to the sounds within. Foxhound be their name, a Turin based quartet who’ve been hotly tipped and critically acclaimed in their homeland of late following glowing reception heaped upon their debuting ‘Concordia’ set. Set across eleven tracks ‘in primavera’ sees that crucial self released difficult second album emerging and with it the pangs of expectancy and all that promise shown on their debut brings. No need to worry then as this lot despite their tender years – all aged 21 – sound like past masters well versed in the skills of crafting melodic pop nuggets at the drop of a hat which rather than going down the avenue of brash skinny jean upstarts prefer to populate their sonic spectrum in the art of seduction. Radiating effervescence these love notes comes hardwired upon a sumptuously infectious disco dinked punk funk grooving that had we known better, at times veer ever so cleverly to some smoked fusion drawn together of Aztec Camera meets Radio 4 essences as evidenced on the sun coaxing breezily jitterbug sprayed mirror ball murmured ‘erase me’. elsewhere ’I just don’t mind’ is dimpled in all manner of dub drilled haloes and electro shocked with the kind of irresistibly cool alt core swagger that used to at one time or another smoulder the grooves of releases bearing the name the seal cub clubbing club upon their hide (likewise goes for the subtronic art pop dashing found on the mooching ’my life is so cool’ unto which the merest rubbing of Mansun-esque motifs merge) while the psychotropic ’out’ bears more than a passing nod to the much missed Jesus Jones though here sedated in Eastern vibes. For us though nothing quite comes close to the mercurial tonalities of the teasingly brief ’Gasuli’ and ‘that’s the sky’ – the former upon which whose sepia shrouded framing is sat a spectral noir grandeur hollowed in melancholia that summons to its torn tapestry elements of Serge, Pulp and Rialto while the latter traverses the kind of outsider environs that only the Crimea dare visit.

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