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.