Cathy Davey + Two Door Cinema Club

With pre­dictable unpre­dictabil­i­ty, this year’s Choice Music Prize went to Two Door Cin­e­ma Club. Their Tourist His­to­ry is exact­ly the sort of thing you’d expect from a trio a respectable teenagers. One of them has even insist­ed on grow­ing a beard. That’s how young they are.

Basi­cal­ly, they’re Hot Chip lite. Which is fine, but it does mean that they are omi­nous­ly radio friend­ly. Hope­ful­ly I’m wrong, and they will still be around in five years’ time. But a cer­tain part of their anato­my needs to drop if they’re to inject any spunk into those tunes they so effort­less­ly pro­duce. There needs to be a bit more indie in their tron­i­ca and a lot less pop if they’re to avoid end­ing up as this year’s D:Ream.

The best album of those nom­i­nat­ed was com­fort­ably Cathy Davey’s The Name­less. It’s only her third album, but there’s a sense of sub­stance to it that only time can give you. Extra­or­di­nar­i­ly con­fi­dent melod­i­cal­ly, you nev­er­the­less have the occa­sion­al sus­pi­cion that any moment now, it’s about to slip into twee­ness, which isn’t helped by the knowl­edge that she’s cur­rent­ly see­ing Neil Han­non (if you know of a more grat­ing­ly fey album than The Duck­worth Lewis Method, kind­ly keep it to yourself.)

Hap­pi­ly though, it glides instead into the ter­rain orig­i­nal­ly fash­ioned by Jacques Brel and Scott Walk­er and cur­rent­ly occu­pied by Pink Mar­ti­ni, and what might have been mere­ly a col­lec­tion of bril­liant songs is giv­en a time­less sense of per­ma­nence. The Touch espe­cial­ly evokes the seedy deca­dence of an Ams­ter­dam broth­el in the 1970s, where Serge Gains­bourg is being ser­viced by a nymphette who looks like she might be at school with his daughter.

Made by and for grown-ups, and unlike any of the oth­er nom­i­nees, The Name­less will still be lis­tened to in at least five years’ time. And ulti­mate­ly, it’s time not prizes that we’re judged by.

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