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Jamaican Queens do write downers. Utterly fascinating downers, diverse and strange sounding pop downers with playful hooks that'll stick in your ears; a sublime and schizoid fusing of baroque and electronica.

The instrumental blends (acoustic and sparse electric guitar riffs over exuberant gurgle-bursts of synthesized bass and bumper-rattling beats), minor chord progressions and eerie voice modulations, as well as the lyrics, poetically graphic at points, can combine to stir up some pretty visceral emotions (and visuals).

The Detroit quartet had shown a keen sensibility for crafting the anti-love song with 2013's wormfood: shoulder-checking the prototypical break-up song down into the ditch to instead paint darker, blunter portraits of pre-break-up disenchantments, existential in their way, questioning the logic of love and the takeaway of turnt-up behaviours at the club.

That they combined tableaus of trap, techno and groovy indie-pop, only to darken its shades with a stormy dissonance, haunted haute, if you will, effectively evoked a sense of dread upon the dancefloor; that these were legitimately catchy, even danceable rap/folk hybrids, made their darker sides that much more profound. So, those are the kinds of "downers" they write.

Their second full length is a fuller, better focused piece, while also attaining an even wider range of vibes, from the opener's traipsing, sundowner folk to the disco-splashed euro-pop of 'Emo and Poor', to the effervescent flash of Smithsian shambling strums on 'Jamie, Don't Call Me Up' and the curious hints of reggae found in 'Bored + Lazy' and 'If You Really Love Me'.

A mean bass riff and malevolent beats trundle to a furious rhythmic trance to open 'Joe', a bait and switch, really, since its fiery entry simmers into a more pensive piece with this enticing piano-centric dénouement. 'Cold Babe,' meanwhile, imbues a dreamlike circus vibe with its cherubic chimes and chugging mock organ-grinder. Every song, however playful, can always turn on a dime; like some montage from a David Lynch film where the sunshine is suddenly, wrenchingly blocked out by something demonic.

When 'Love Is Impossible' opens, it's just a subdued acoustic guitar lilting over retro-sounding synth beats, a few bars of spacey minimalism, only to erupt at the choruses with knocking snares and throbbing bass under looping orchestral-sounding strings. From that point, 'Love Is Impossible' only blossoms into a greater complexity, with an awesomely '80s-sounding guitar riffing its overzealous roar through the bridge as intricate layers of hand-claps start to swell. In this way, this song demonstrates the more adventurous spirit of the album, steadily adding to the sonic sculpting with stranger timbres and tones but meticulous in its moulding to achieve a consistent flow and carried - it sounds - with even more confidence than their previous album.

Maybe confidence isn't the right word. You're clutching (but missing entirely) at something more spot-on if you just say that it sounds as though the band's settling into the sound they've heretofore been searching for... It's not that. What it is, if anything... call it confidence if you want, but I'll call it perception. The band has grown that much more perceptive, not just of themselves as musicians, but in their outlook upon life.

And that's what you'll hear in these Downers; the dudes who may be right in the mix of it, who may even be DJ-ing your party, but who know that there's so much being said, in all that's unsaid, with all the stumbling dance-steps of love. It's a crowded dancefloor, sometimes, but there's always room for honesty, however scary or strange. You call em downers, I'll call em perceptive. And, sometimes, catchy as hell.

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