Music

We don’t know how you feel about Marmite, but Kate Nash is almost certainly sick to the fucking gills with it by now. The spreadable yeast treat has become the default metaphor for critics looking to be polite about her divisive delivery. Mind you, if you find Nash’s accent grating, you probably have to walk around Nottting Hill with dynamite in your ears.

In case you’re unfamiliar with tthe voice in question, Nash is one of the much-touted post-Lily Allen purveyors of mockney observo-pop, delivered as a melodious stream of consciousness ramble. It’s easy to tell Nash has an acting background from her mannered intonation and the way she switches between singing and speaking .But this theatricality isn’t limited to her vocals. Listening to some of Nash’s wry under-the-kitchen-sink tales of daily life and off-the-peg romance, it’s hard to shake the feeling you’re listening to a Richard Digance’s younger, swearier and at-least-partially funny sister.

While it’s true  that those with a low tolerance threshold for postmodernism will have trouble with this record, Nash’s monologues often work really well, and throw up some interesting images, such as the girl who ‘Got some Pritt Stick and glued her lips together’ in ‘Mariella’. At other times, though, when wading through the train-bunk trivia of (the admittedly sweet)  ‘Birds’, or ticking off the millionth reference to getting drunk, you wish she’d spend a bit less time observing things and a bit more writing choruses.

And there’s the rub with this album: Nash makes pop music the old-fashioned (ie 1980s) way, stitching together an updated Motown blueprint from piano loops, semi-breaks, horn stabs and handclaps. Thus while her tumbling, rambling delivery is good for charming audiences and making her sound loveable, the tunes themselves leave you waiting for  strong hooks which often never materialise, making them more conspicuous by their absence.