There comes an unspecific point in xx when you realize the xx aren’t going to be making enormous strides. It’s somewhere around the sixth or seventh song, but it could easily have surfaced on the fourth one or it could still rattle around as a possibility right before the final note drifts out. It’s not a smack-you-in-the-face realization, more of a gentle, instinctive one, and you smile because of it. Groups are often (and not always unfairly) criticized for taking too few chances and running over the same overworn material ad nauseum over the course of an entire LP, but we leave complete-record artifice as a bruise to anything except for “concept album.” This is not a concept album, at least not a narrowly defined one, but I was delighted that by the last few songs it became almost predictable in mapping out what they had in store for me. With an almost casual austerity, the xx has fashioned a very convincing reason to appreciate the negative space in the music you listen to—and to invest money in a high-grade set of headphones.
Evoking in different ways the post-punk minimalism of Young Marble Giants and the dark, love-starved chamber pop of Belle & Sebastian, the xx are mostly exciting in quiet ways, as aftertaste, or the kind of thrill that crawls up on you so deliberately that it’s the reactive gooseflesh that alarms you of an intruder. The word (and variants of) “subtlety” will no doubt be batted around like a kitten-pawed ball of yarn in all discussions surrounding this disc, so I will drop it from the vocabulary from here on out—luckily, there’s a thesaurus built right into the program I use for typing. But you can’t blame us; how would you describe music that can be appreciated on that first spin but earn a worthy rediscovery the next day on the fourth spin? I told you this stuff is subtle quietly cunning.
But back to that first statement, the one about how the xx aren’t going to be making enormous strides. By that, I mean that they don’t fall victim to the debut album cliché—throwing whatever they have on hand at the audience and sees what sticks. For a first record, xx is remarkably assured and confident, as if it was kismet that these four would come together for the same purpose, know exactly what they wanted, and wasted no time with early singles and EPs to get an idea of how they should evolve their sound (hell, they even self-produced this thing). The lack of strides comes with a minor price—there’s not an immediate, gimmicky song to sell—but with a mighty reward as recompense—flash-in-the-what? Nah, not them.
The xx might be four strong (Romy Madley Croft, Oliver Sim, Baria Qureshi, Jamie Smith), but the music they create is quintessentially spare, built of styles rippling with organic dubstep and echo-reverbed dance, but shrouded in a nocturnal gloom fitting of the album’s striking (and strikingly simple) cover art. The songs tweak their formula but they never abandon it altogether—their lyrical ruminations rarely wander far afield and, aside from a broken beat here and there and ebbing tension between voice and instrument, they all sound like gradients of the same basic composition. That composition aches of the monochromatic glow of low-key IDM as built by a quartet still exploring their goth punk records (Joy Division honed to a pinpoint, sparkling like stars in the night sky). And how simple? The busiest guitar line would have served as a keyboard hook flourish for most of their predecessors (“Shelter”).
Most of xx’s songs work the bedroom mood. A morphine-drip synth wash fills out “Fantasy,” “Wicked Game”-esque guitar chords plug the void on “Infinity,” a rumbling bass drum thump brings you into “Intro.” Elsewhere, little snatches of instrumental vibrancy are fondly noticed and remembered (the twinkling xylophone of “VCR,” the stuttered rhythm of “Heart Skipped a Beat,” Daniel Kessler-esque guitars on both “Night Time” and “Crystalised”), but xx’s biggest draw comes in the form of Croft and Sim’s twin vocals. Hers is breathy, seductive and more traditional; his are reedy, heavy-lidded and low on range. Of course, the pairing allows a compliment that makes one seem sweeter than it is and the other richer than it probably ever could be—duets from the agreeable nearly elevated to extraordinary. That promotion of worth applies to the lyrics as well; taken on their own, lines like, “I am yours now so now I don't ever have to leave,” seem boilerplate, but reduced to the essential of breathless emotion and laid into conversational back-and-forth between both singers, they become (gulp) winsome.
The hype for xx sort of came out of nowhere without trade paper leaks and trendy band stories/gimmicks; in other words, this is the sort of swelling praise that’s trustworthy. With the Peter Hook basslines and the husky sexuality of Croft’s voice, they could have been the next craze. Instead, they decided to concentrate on their first album, plan each insinuating move with methodical precision, and deliver as impressive an entrance as we’ve seen in a few years. Even while they work in restrained shades, individual songs are captured and cherished (favorites: “Islands,” “Shelter,” “VCR,” “Crystalised”), but you won’t be itching to chop it up and sprinkle some gems onto an iPod mix. Instead, you bring the disc with you for lonely late-night drives or put it on in your room for midnight ambiance. The songs may be primarily about the instant gratification of sex, but your relationship to xx should soon blossom into true love.
"XX" is on sale October 6, 2009 from Rough Trade.
