‘Lingering’ is not a word you would ever use to describe Danish
neo-psychedelic group Pinkunoizu.

Aside from their comprehensive range of international ties – the
pseudo-Japanese naming, the Copenhagen-via-Berlin residences
– their sound is something that evokes strident spontaneity without
being overtly out of control.

It’s frantic; never deliberating nor pausing for breath and their second
album follows this conviction unapologetically, quite literally
when you learn that it was only recorded in a week.

Its hazy allure greets you like an old friend, yet simultaneously it’s as if the tracks themselves have no idea where they are headed. Pinkunoizu

They ooze cosmic sass, but never hang around long enough to repeat themselves, unless you count the stuttering interlude of ‘The Swollen Map’, or the bolshie, convulsive riff on ‘Tin Can Valley’, which I don’t

Alas, AlunaGeorge’s veil of contemporary superiority then disintegrates, mainly due to their slightly sickly formula being overworked to gagging point. ‘Superstar’’s incessant, whirring refrain could taunt in even the d rkest nightmare; “I’ll be his number one fan,”

Francis buoyantly coos, like a pre-teen mimicking her Essential R&B CD down one of those colourful, toy shop echo mics. ‘Just A Touch’, meanwhile, opens with a sound not unlike a dawn chorus, if the songbird was gargling
poison; a lyrical hook interjects, but it’s hardly a reprieve, clumsily providing a lobotomised Lily Allen of a melody.

After the equally irritating ‘Friends toLovers’ allows ‘Body Music’ to finally kick back, supine and grab some shut eye, it seems that this particular noughties pastiche could become draining very quickly.

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