Maybe its because I’m sitting illuminated by the ghostly glow of my trusted and near expiring laptop at exactly 2.03 in the morning, all is still outside, not a sound, even the breeze that has for the best part of the day chilled the warming effect of the Autumnal sun has retired to slumber, indeed maybe it’s that aforementioned stillness, the solitude and the quiet that’s affected my appreciation of Wall’s spectral like ’Magazine’ and caused me to hit the repeat button on more than one occasion in the last 15 minutes for through that solemn silence the spell is broken and softly beguiling our ear space is the murmuring yearn of the mysterious London based songstress Walls who armed with the merest electronic accompaniment whittles out the most effectually disarming and beautifully bruised sweetheart you’ll hear in a long time.
Agreed its almost non existent a bit like a whisper carried on a gentle night breeze neglected and dinked in fading hope, but it’s the minimalist application, its frail and fragile persona that breathes a fulsome warmth upon its hollowing and sparse framing as it crackles and fizzes that ensures its alluring ambition. Of course revealed in the cruel hustle and bustle of the daylight sun you fear for its tender tremble being crushed under foot. Incidentally its out via black cab sessions.
