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UncutThe combination of vaulting pop glory and damaged, fractured insecurity has seldom been done better since the early days of Sinead O'Connor. [Apr 2009, p.87]
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English songbird Polly Scattergood entrances, disturbs and impresses with her debut self-titled album.
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At her best, like on the slow-burn opener 'I Hate the Way,' the lovelorn Xanax and sambuca anthem 'Other Too Endless,' and the rousing single 'Nitrogen Pink,' she successfully bridges the gap between teen pop and adult alternative rock, but when she gets stuck in the confessional too long, the results are more indulgent than powerful.
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A bit melodramatic, but undeniably compelling, Scattergood’s work has already drawn comparisons to Tori Amos and Kate Bush.
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While it sometimes does become a bit too overwrought, those people who found Tori Amos' vignettes so compelling will find much to love here. It helps as well that there's a light pop touch on many of the tracks.
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Performed alone at the piano, Scattergood's debut would be nearly unbearable, but the widescreen production of soundtrack specialist Simon Fisher Turner goes a long way towards taking the edge off her sixth-form Plathisms and dignifying her emotional melodrama.
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MojoNot an easy listen, but a brave, bold debut. [Apr 2009, p.99]
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Q MagazineWhat she lacks in lyrical maturity, she makes up for in heartful conviction, channelled through a voice that's by turns sweet, savage and gut-wrenchingly vulnerable. [Apr 2009, p.110]
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Beyond threatening suicide and playing coy with whispered vocals, Scattergood fidgets with the bad girl/innocent child dynamic, the juxtaposition of which is just tired enough to bear obvious, but still creepy, dividends.
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Overall, though, this open-hearted and engaging record boasts enough memorable moments to suggest that Scattergood has a promising future ahead of her.
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For the moment, cherry-pick the highlights from this album, and cross your fingers for her sophomore release.
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It's a well-made, well-polished piece of material. But she ruins it by painting a wacky overcoat over something that was probably fine in the first place.
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Scattergood’s voice is the star, but it can be utterly distracting, a vessel for an expressive, prolific writer who may be too afraid of the revision process.
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The occasional slow track turned power ballad and the single quirky pop tune are not nearly enough to rescue this record from the depths of the depressing ditch it dug itself into.