Her second album, Lucy Rose promised earlier this year, would “sort a few things out. Who I am. What I do.” Indeed it does: who she is turns out to be another singer-songwriter so pleasant and nondescript as to be almost entirely devoid of musical personality. And what she does turns out to be supplying the kind of music that fails to make an impression down the phone line while you’re waiting for the customer service operative to get to your call. This is an album so frictionless, so determined to be inoffensive, that no matter how many times you listen to it, none of it exerts any grip on the memory, let alone the emotions. It’s hard to see what attracted the Manic Street Preachers and Bombay Bicycle Club enough to bring her in to sing with them; presumably she’s a delightful person. But this album is the blandest of aural wallpaper. Doubtless it will be huge.
