This, the second solo album proper from elusive Londoner Dean Blunt, is a work of strange dichotomies. It is fractured, offbeat, at times grating, yet contains some of the most achingly beautiful music recorded this year. It opens on a bizarrely conventional note, with jangly guitars and lush strings, then unravels over 53 minutes. The first half is slow, reflective, folky almost, then the bass drops and we’re in a murky, glitchy dancehall record. There are longueurs, and snippets of loveliness that drift away too soon, but Blunt’s music – perverse, beguiling – creeps up on you and doesn’t let go.
