JANA HORN

IT seems simple enough on the surface. “Baby, there ain’t no clouds,” Jana Horn sings blithely on the title track of her debut album, voice as clear as a mountain stream. “Baby, there. However, for all of the promise of blue skies, sunshine and one-word answers, there’s something profoundly inscrutable about , a curious deep-fake ‘folk’ record which smacks of Broadcast, hippy Donovan, Julia Holter, Syd Barrett and the more wistful bits of The Cure while retaining an odd, metallic taste entirely of its own. By the time you’ve realised that her pond has no bottom, it’s already too late.