Competently done, skillfully played, appallingly monikered, slightly sickening ‘tropical’ acoustic pop straight outta England. A little bit Devandra Banhart, a little bit Lower East Side Soweto, and a little bit inconsequential, currently on tour supporting Florence & The Machine, nice and breezy and easy to listen to in a hippy cafe or in your Mazda on the way to Latitude or whatever. Not inherently terrible, but entirely dependent on your tolerance of shameless cultural colonisation. African guitar melodies ? Check. Whimsical Folky vocals ? Check. Aching love ballads ? Check. It’s like a fucking quango making a pop song. Whatever happened to rock n roll ? Any teenagers caught listening to this inoffensive ad fodder should get bundled into a working mock up of the black hole of Calcutta, blasted with a soundtrack of donk and Norwegian black metal and forced to tattoo pictures of the pope smoking crystal meth onto each others foreheads until they grow some backbone, kill their parents and drive the horrifying scourge of focus group indie from our green and pleasant land.