British music fans have an insatiable appetite for cosmic indie pop. Broadcast, Stereolab and the Beta Band infused it with rich sociopolitical ideas and sharp songwriting almost 30 years ago. But what was radical then has since been boiled down into pastiche (exemplified by the indulgently gimmicky Public Service Broadcasting) and only periodically shocked back to life by innovative songwriters with a wide lens.
On their second album, the Orielles earn a toehold in the latter category, expanding the sound of their winsome but somewhat conventional debut by abandoning traditional song structures and voyaging into new textures. At their best, the Halifax trio land somewhere that feels entirely new: Bobbi’s Second World splices cheeky vocal interplay (the assumed internal monologue of a band member’s cat) with playful organ-driven funk and sparkly sample bricolage that harks back to the spirit of early hip-hop. Come Down on Jupiter unspools like a slalom down a particularly picturesque hill, taking hairpin turns through lysergic bliss to waltzing reveries and choruses laced with Kenickie’s taunting charm. One is sharp, the other is soft, but they both leave a visceral and unexpected impression.
Disco Volador could do with more moments like them. The Orielles are inclined towards warped atmospherics – shuffling organs, woozy guitar, shimmy-shimmy hand percussion, sway-inducing vocal refrains – that are absorbing and full of charm but start to feel like a boilerplate mode across an entire album. The density of the production occasionally subsumes their appealing vocal melodies and fails to mask a lack of emotional punch that lyrical anxieties about the planet’s future can’t provide.
