The Books’ debut is an album of calculated restraint, gyrating with the numerous flows of one day in our culture. It is a singular record that represents the mundane wait for the kettle above more vivid, memorable experiences. The samples are unknowable, bar a Churchill speech, but sprout up between a gliding cello, a picky guitar, or interruptive electronic fuzz sounding oddly resonant. What you hear is obvious and clean. The question of why you hear it requires effort. It takes a couple of songs to figure out what you’re listening to, and when you realise, there’s no need to define it. It’s just life.
A favourite: ‘Read, Eat, Sleep’