's reticent twee carries out 's plan to magnetize displaced fans, a task less discouraging than you'd think after hearing the band's affinity for replicating old resurrected by and . Few moments of trebly ennui are too full of themselves, as in the shamelessly Francophilic and the honeyed synths do everything in their power to make most of these songs blush and radiate. , an ex-actress, sings like a torn cardigan while abandoned guitars are tugged and drums are tickled from behind. Occasionally, the same heroin-dilated ghosts that haunted England's or can be heard, which almost makes you forget about the aesthetic politics that started it all. ~ Dean Carlson