Blonde Review

The absence is the design. Take away the drums and a song has to hold itself up with words and harmony, and these do. Nikes opens with his voice raised into something inhuman, listing dead friends and fake diamonds, then drops into his own register for the last minute like a mask coming off. Ivy is the best song here, a guitar and a memory of being seventeen that ends with him screaming into the reverb.

Self Control layers three versions of him singing over each other and turns a lost summer into something physical. Nights splits in half at the exact centre of the album and the tempo change alone is worth the entrance fee. Solo, Seigfried and White Ferrari move without any obvious structure and never lose you. The mothers' voicemails and the interludes work. It is diffuse, demanding and completely uncompromising, and it gets better for a decade.