Hands

Rather then shy away behind tricksy, overtly difficult melodies or instrumentation, Little Boots has created a pop record in the truest sense of the word; not only does it fizz by in no time at all, it also doesn't alienate or discriminate.

It’s the type of near-perfect, swooning synth-pop rush that Oakey was riding with the Human League in the ’80s.

Sure, there are special treats like a guest vocal from Phil Oakey (the Human League), but overall, if you like Little Boots, you will love Hands. And not liking Little Boots is like not liking fun.

For an album with crowded electro-pop instrumentation, the music isn't overbearing, and Little Boots' cheeky lyrics never lose any of their dry attitude.

The directness and consistency of the album's production, vocals, and stylistic approach leave a great deal of the focus on the songs themselves, which is good, because songs are arguably Hands greatest asset.

A shimmering collection of sonic treats that delights even the slightest of spectators, England-import Little Boots has exhibited her augur ability through song with a wonderous debut LP. [Winter 2010, p.103]

Hesketh can write a damn good pop song, and whether that’s what caused the initial buzz, it's something hard to deny when presented with the cold, hard proof of Hands.

Perfect pop is not something you can design; it’s an alchemical accident resulting from a freakish alignment of melody, words and rhythm that unifies all who hear it, an H1N1 strain of music. That Little Boots so nearly achieves the ultimate chart-slaying, cerebral-cortex tickling, Bradford-hen-party-and-Shoreditch-rave-soundtracking album is, frankly, amazing.

Hands is both exciting and inconsistent, an uncertain step in very much the right direction.

The vintage futurism that drapes Hesketh's songs has stayed in vogue, and there's fun to be had here.

Hands sees the 24-year-old blossom into a throughly modern chart contender, but at the expense of some of that quirkiness. [Jul 2009, p.95]

While her first full-length album, Hands, smacks of trying too hard (Hesketh skittishly rotated through several different producers, and the sound is all over the map), most of the songs are imminently playable on their own terms.

Little Boots emerges with a debut album that is disappointingly similar to the sound of 2001 or 2005. [Jul 2009, p.91]

What the Brit singer does have is a bunch of shiny, propulsive electro-pop songs.

Despite radio-ready production and commercial hooks that tell us we're hearing pop, it can take some hours of intense listening before most of these tunes ever stick in the head, and there's little to no emotional investment.

Utilitarian sensibilities typically create better, catchier results, but Little Boots’s producers can’t help flaunting their knob-twiddling abilities, justifying their paychecks while counterintuitively making Hesketh’s music sound all the more amateurish.

It’s too flabby to listen to as a whole, and unless the label decides to re-release 'Stuck On Repeat' (which isn’t a bad idea actually) there’s nothing here strong enough to force a mainstream breakthrough.

Little Boots’ problem may be that there’s little left to add to her genre: The synth-pop revival has nearly exhausted itself, and Hands ends up sounding like a B-sides collection cherry-picked from the catalogs of Kylie Minogue and Girls Aloud.