Ah, the magical, sacred Dean Blunt continuum – here it opens once again. Hazy art-folk, melancholic echoes of guitars, hinted-at melodies, white flashes in the greyest of greys. Jemima hail – correctly – from South London. And of course that fits. Because what resonates here is a time when this place still stood for indie avant-garde: music that recalls the days when the gentrification of Peckham and beyond was just beginning, and Tumblr still had aesthetic authority.
The ghosts have all gathered for Even The Dog Knows. And so, the fragmentary nature of the tracks doesn’t feel like a gimmick but rather gives shape to fleeting moments remembered only as atmospheres. Awkward flirtations at gigs in off-spaces, Molly hangover afternoons in bed, that very tangible yet not fully conscious sense of being suspended in a very short moment in time – in a strange transitional phase where the 2000s are finally ending and something new is emerging, something that quietly unsettles everyone, even while the belief still lingers that art schools might just hold the answer to the question of what comes next.
Even The Dog Knows
