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Going with the Flo

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The first I heard about Florence and the Machine was an article in the Guardian Guide last year by Sylvia Patterson, who is very good at puff pieces which don't sound like puff pieces. It portrayed Florence Welch as the sort of flighty, bohemian, behold-my-quirkiness type who would completely get on my tits within five minutes of meeting them. This coupled with hearty endorsements from Johnny Borrell and her rather wanky nom de plume did not leave me awaiting her album with drooling anticipation. Lo and behold, it turns out that Lungs is a rather fine piece of work. Although she's been lumped in with the current crop of 80s-worshipping Next Big Things and covers You've GotThe Love, Florence makes a far more progressive, soul-influenced sound that doesn't slavishly ape the past like, say, La Roux. Welch also has a voice that just when you think it's in danger of becoming one-dimensional will veer off in pleasing new directions. Subjects tackled in the lyrics include...
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Disney Will Eat Itself

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