And so New Yorks obsession with late-70s/80s Manchester indie continues: as Interpol and The Rapture are to Joy Division and The Mondays, so fey, bookish types The Isles are the bastard children conceived under a derelict iron bridge in one of Morrisseys dreams about Johnny Marr. Their debut is not immediate, not least because singer Andrew Geller breezily croons his deceptively dark tales of unrequited love like a gently stoned Moz. Instead, it slowly seeps in condensation on the walls of a Manchester bedsit. At the height of the heatwave, the Marrsian jangle of Eve of the Battle and Our Kitchen Test sound hazily summery. Keep listening til winter, though, and theyll take on a more menacing tone. Perfumed Lands then: a slow-burn album for all seasons.
-NME