Slow Club, a folk-pop duo from Sheffield, England, write great songs for mixtapes. Specifically, the popular ideal of mix-making, i.e., the kind you make to express yourself to another person. As such, their songs tend to be kinda cutesy and obsessed with love and relationships. The world is one in which people are constantly falling in and out of love, and even when their lyrics stray into cynicism and self-deprecation, it's obvious they are true believers in old-school romance. Most of their songs come across like a young person putting up a jaded front to defend their wounded, open heart. It's very sweet stuff, but usually just shy of cloying. Their technique is mature and refined, yet loose and free-wheeling. More than anything, they're wholesome. That could be a damning term for some listeners, but if you're the type of person who does not reflexively recoil at reading the word "cuddle," you're probably going to find something to like in their music.
Rebecca Taylor and Charles Watson co-write their songs, and in most cases, sing the songs together. Their voices complement each other nicely but are distinct in tone and personality. Most often, Taylor and Watson sing in unison, and generally avoid making it seem as though they are singing to one another. Whereas many male-female vocal pairings have a communicative quality and/or an apparent subtext of sexual tension, Slow Club have a more neutral dynamic. It's not sexless, but there's seldom an implication that Watson and Taylor are pining for each other. The major exception is the nearly-saccharine opening track "When I Go", which has them making a series of pacts to get married if they're both still alone at various ages. Perhaps putting that song at the top of the running order is in some way meant to have us question their relationship in the subsequent songs.
Though Watson has a pleasant tenor voice, Taylor is generally a better singer, and the songs come alive when her more expressive voice is highlighted in the arrangement, as when she takes the lead on the chorus of "Giving Up on Love" or the during climax of the jangly travelogue "Trophy Room". She gets a few spotlight songs, and the best of them is in an unlisted song on the same track as the finale "Our Most Brilliant Friends". It's the simplest, saddest song on the album, gently building up to their most heartbreaking lyric: "You say 'baby' a lot in your songs/ It takes all my courage not to sing along." It's a fragile moment, but it's not oversold or delivered with an ironic grin. It's almost unbearably earnest, actually, but sometimes that is precisely what you need. Slow Club nail these precious, vulnerable feelings without getting mawkish or melodramatic. Everything, from their cheery optimism to their crestfallen lovesickness is life-sized and lived-in, resulting in a crop of tiny, good-natured tunes that invite the intense identification of young romantics.
