Semifinalists Semifinalists

London trio Adriana Alba, Chris Steele Nicholson and Ferry Gouw met at film school after a period of "hopping seas and jobs and lives". They claim to have bonded in the hope of creating a "punk as" noise devoid of "winks and nudges", valuing conviction over post-modernity. This is all fair enough, but I'm not sure if it means much in the context of this eponymous debut. I can feel certain in stating that Semifinalists contains lush, strawberry cup cake worthy moments of pop beauty. It's possibly the closest thing we'll get to a Brit-centric Funeral, and capable of attracting a similar studied adulation.

Characterized by bursts of love, or at least loveliness in a seeping world of ordinary life, this is possibly the most adaptable record of the year. Rather than reacting, it rolls with the punches and wins most of the time. When the going is average, it's still evocative. The opening Origin Song builds a flickering mosaic around a three word mantra and proclamations on nature. Then we're presented with cold-shouldered brilliance. Show the Way adds futurist ambience to chamber pop-cum power rock, rivalling anything in the Delgados cannon. This pattern is consistent. The Chemicals That Wait is lush, Soft Bulletin meandering. Lets Kill This charms like NASA mood-music. Then You Said rivals Neighborhood 1(Tunnels) in the anthem stakes and This Life for coffee taste(less?) addiction. It hits home that there are few bands I'd rather be in.

There might seem to be a contradiction in heralding marked normalcy, but it's intrinsic to the trio's success. They make adequacy a cause for celebration. Hwy. 101 turns out like a believable good relationship. Alba reads a laundry list of directions against a choppy bass, before astounding with hushed honesty as a keyboard makes its bid for transcendence. Throughout the band's music, each member contributes fairly evenly across the vocal and instrumental background, and their first album sounds like a complete, collaborative effort. Its closedown is called From Several to Many, a mammoth, shining anthem where all parties chant "my favourite number you". In this case, substance comes inside style.