oliverwilde

To contextualise the sound of the first release by Bristolian Oliver Wilde, the sonic spectres of Mark Linkous, Elliott Smith and Daniel Johnston are summoned to the reckoning. Into that pot I’d throw Steve Mason, a more insouciant Arab Strap and the earliest (and best) Badly Drawn Boy EPs. Shared above all is the sensation that what sounds deceptively simple and laid back is probably the product of years of bedroom noodling.

Wilde has a rangy palette of noises at his disposal and the record is less a collection of songs, more a pervasive, beguiling atmosphere. His voice, which sounds throughout like it’s playing off an antique tape deck, sits at the back of acoustic wash, hazy flute and perfectly used glitch and electronic stabs. Things ramp up for the more upbeat ‘Marleahs Cadence’ but you’re never pulled far from a holistic feeling of balmy summer daze. Basically, it’s the perfect debut album; pleasingly unpolished and leaving you totally curious to know what he’ll do next.

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