If it’s sex, scandal and sordidness you’re after, then look no further. Heavenly signings Hooton Tennis Club not only take their name from a road sign for a tennis court in north-west Cheshire, they’ve also made an album on which even the most mundane detail is considered newsworthy, from changing the wallpaper on their iPhones to tackling the crossword. On occasion, its literal lyrics can sound like a Lonely Island parody of Pavement, such as the stream of consciousness found on Kathleen (“Even if you’re lonely we can go for a walk in the park or – maybe go swimming?”). Such nonexistent social lives breed pretty beautiful music, however – such as on Jasper, as mellifluous and meandering as slacker rock gets – and much like Real Estate’s endless suburban summer of boredom, here too is a provincial, balmy afternoon-ready record.
