Great, super, you-have-to-have-it music from The XX. Sculptural, spare and perfect. Play and listen and let it grow on you. Read the review from The New Yorker.
Where The xx may be even better than their elders is in the severity of their arrangements. Big, washy keyboards? Not here, pal. More than one guitar string at a time? Those poufy lush things called chords? Highly indulgent. It’s even more surprising how ascetic and disciplined the band is when it comes to presenting information. In the album’s most active song, “Crystalised,” all we have is Sim and Madley Croft trading vocals over a bass line and a clicking stick. When the other members enter, with a drumbeat, it feels like an extraordinary blooming, even though it’s how most bands run through all the songs in a set. (There may even be a chord involved at this point.) You don’t think of people this young being masters of restraint, but the album works like a visit to the optometrist, with instruments dropping in and out every four or eight bars: Is that clearer? How about that? How about now?
Get it now. (iTunes link)