There’s plenty to like on The Hundred In The Hands’ self-titled album; shimmery electronic yearnings, winsome beat girl vocals and chunks of spiky guitar here and there add up to a cute summer disco pop record. It’s all very pleasant, but it’s not exactly earth-shattering. The Brooklyn duo (of Eleanore Everdell and Jason Friedman) describe their sound as ‘avant-pop’. Maybe in New York this stuff is the ultimate in outré, but here in the UK we’ve grown up with Xenomania’s cutting-edge pure pop productions in the Top 40 every week. It’s not avant-pop darlings, just pop. Of course, ‘just pop’ is no bad thing. Although The Hundred In Hands’ sound never quite lives up to its influences, often coming across more Republica than Moroder, more Ellis-Bextor than St Etienne. There are a few lovely ‘just pop’ moments which make it worthwhile. At the beginning of ‘Lovesick (Once Again)’, Everdell gives a tiny sighing breath which is just gorgeous. ‘Killing It’ has a charming almost Gamelan-like bell sound rippling below its surface and the final track, ‘The Beach’ is a beautiful Broadcast-like mood piece with a wistful Mai 1968/Factory Records referencing lyric (‘You were looking for the beach under the paving stones’) and shards of gleaming phasey bits that feel like a feather tickling your skin. However, although the record is undoubtedly melodic, the songs are more clod-hopping than the quicksilver this album needs. They plod rather than swoop. And despite the moments of transcendence mentioned above, as a whole, the album feels a tad shallow and slight. They sound a bit like Robyn, but they haven’t written a ‘With Every Heartbeat’. Yet. TC