(Bronzerat Records)

16 shots with a twist of lime. Stir vigourously.

Whether it’s beehive haircuts, endless vibrato vocals or giant swing band orchestras that tour RSLs and resurrect careers of mouldy rockers, the popularity of Caucasian neo-soul has ebbed and flowed in this millennium but will ultimately endure as long as inner-city dinner parties need background music and parents need non-threatening favourite performers. The 1950s are so hot right now. Well, not all of it, not the post-war depression, the civil unrest, the domestic servitude and whooping cough, just the cool parts like the pencil ties and drinking scotch for breakfast. Which makes Gemma Ray’s third album in as many years an odd choice, a departure from the sensual, spacious retro of 2008’s The Leader and Lights Out Zoltar froom 2009. On this latest album – the pun in the title being mere inches away from being awful, rescued because The Lemonheads are just obscure enough – Ray tears away the layers of cinematic orchestration, leaving only her crackly guitar, multi-tracked harmonies and some rudimentary percussion for 16 covers. Some songs are part of popular music’s double helix, others have a few more cobwebs, but all are strengthened by Ray’s emerging arrangement talents. Turning Lee Hazlewood’s I’d Rather Be Your Enemy into a lo-fi punk singalong of flipping Buddy Holly’s Everyday into a minor chord takes some vision, and Gemma Ray’s got it in spades. You can almost see the cigarette smoke tangling with the dust and spotlight of a decrepit alleyway bar. You’d barely acknowledge the bartender as he pours another drink, but you’d freeze in your seat for that brief moment Ray makes eye contact. For a moment, things aren’t so hopeless. It’s A Shame About Gemma Ray does that 16 times, can you handle it?

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MITCH ALEXANDER

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