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Cards on the table: if you like No Bra, avante-garde noise merchants with melody-allergies, and/or provocative, incendiary figureheads, then chances are, you'll be besotted with 'gay icon' Susanne Oberbeck's second full-length release, Candy. If you're partial to pop hooks and easy-going sounds, then either don a hazmat onesie and dive in anyway, or pirouette 180 and go back the way you came. This is an obstinate, confrontational, controversy-bating . It's like someone taking a dump on the floor of the Tate Modern and sticking a little Union Jack in it - you're not quite sure if it's a practical joke, utterly serious experimental artwork, or the ravings of madman.

Sidebar - If you hadn't noticed (peer up), Candy's got superbly terrible artwork: clip art typography, a skinny naked guy on crutches giving you the People's Eyebrow while a strategically positioned 'parental advisory' label obscures his coy boner. Ever bellicose.

Ultimately, that passion for disruption, for uncooperative behaviour, for 'raging against the machine', is the downfall. While Candy could and should have been a riotous anthology of punk poetry with industrial beats and electronica and rock hallmarks, it's just antagonistic for the sake of being antagonistic. It's not even aggressive, just a bit snide and apathetic. It doesn't feel like there's much to say - or if there is, Oberbeck's not saying it with hearty conviction. Where The Knife used impeccable compositions and flawlessly cutting-edge sounds to bang home their points on society and politics, Oberbeck drawls like a coked-out hikikomori forced to do A Level performing arts amongst improvised guitars. It's a theatre of cruelty draped in bathos.

But, perhaps that's all the point. Maybe it's a huge sardonic prank? The Atacama of dry wit. Maybe it's place in the turd-in-the-Tate analogy isn't deadpan gravitas, but enormous joke. Are we supposed to take this seriously in any respect? Is it a depth-via-humour situation? It's still pretty oblique, and deciphering an over-arcing meaning from the record is probably best left to the individual. Some won't be able to hack its noisy, vacuous pretension, others will bawl hysterically at her GOSH and expeditions into gender. Oberbeck, while making one of the most nonchalantly belligerent records of the year so far, has also created one that's ambiguous as all hell.

It's actually gorgeously roughly hewn - fret buzz, lo-fi production and punk sprechgesang commingle in semi-on-the-hoof ditties. It's jazzy and slinky on cuts like 'Minger', the most lo-fi funk you'll encounter, 'Date With The Devil' is silly: "Did you go to drama school? Well so did I/ it was really bad/ I just didn't know how to play women," Oberbeck clippedly scoffs above a basic 'Smoke On The Water'-y riff. Electroclash ditty 'Magic Cocksucking Fairy' swoons with lilting grace through tick-tock drum machines and glimmering organ-synths; darkwave 'Jhonnhh' waltzes elegantly, a brief respite from her wry outpourings. While she sounds pretty drunk on 'Construction Worker', it's also clear that she's subverting the catcalling and wolf-whistling of the traditional buttcrack-displaying brickies.

Whatever your take No Bra, it probably won't be changed by this record. It's Marmite in extremis. Its main duty is just to bolster whatever opinion you hard before delving into Candy; if you disliked her before, you'll loathe her now; if you liked her before, you'll be enamoured.