Some things are easy to explain. Why Alex Turner appeals to the bar room wit in us all, the
one who defeats the burly bullying braggart with a rapier flash of his tongue. Or why listening to
Interpol fills you will an icy burden of cool, making you wish your suit was just that little
bit more bespoke, your shirt pressed just that little bit more sharply. Or why if a tree falls in
the woods, and it hits Mika, no one would care.
But George Pringle isn't easy to explain. It isn't easy to explain why this well-spoken girl with
her diary entry prose recanted over backing tracks constructed on a computer, has somehow made
something as beguiling as this EP. And it certainly isn't easy to explain how in Carte Postal she
has a track which skims the same ground as Pulp's Common People - funny, perceptive and
strangely danceable. Or how in the glitchy We Could Be Heroes she has something which reminds you
so much of Aphex Twin grabbing Spiller's Groovejet and squeezing it until Sophie Ellis
Bextor's face explodes that you just want to scream.
Maybe it's the fact that she seems so resolutely determined to remain true to the person that she is
that it becomes something with universal appeal. Or maybe it's the chorus of clicks
which introduce Sw10's wintery scenes of apocalyptic discontent like a party of crickets slowly rising
from a night on the piss.
Frankly, there's no point in trying to explain it. I just like it.