Landshapes, the artist(s) formerly known as Lulu & The Lampshades, made a terrific decision to rebrand themselves after a spelling error at a French gig. The London foursome deny inclusion into any formal, traditional genre, instead opting to spread tendrils erratically into a multitude of styles; on Rambutan, their debut, they weld together fragments of folk, pop pylons, psych knick-knacks and a heap of other aural miscellany, including but not limited to: 50s rock'n'roll, Bhangra, lo-fi slackerwave, shoegaze and 80s new wave. You'd think an act with so many different aural pleasures jutting out at obtuse angles would sound sloppy, tangled, heck – awful. Landshapes aren't messy. Their sound is a marbled piece of stone. It's dappled with all different colours and textures, but sanded down and refined so that it's hugely palatable.

Creaking gates and metal echoes are the fanfare for 'Racehorse'. It's a lackadaisical beast, slithering along with sluggish, dreamy beats and hollow toms, with the sombre plod of a walking bassline murmuring underneath. Midnight licks and reverb-slathered riffs pierce shrouds of smoky synth, providing a dark counter-melody to the vocals from Luisa Gerstein and Heloise Tunstall-Behrens. As 'In Limbo' shimmers into being, tousled flecks of sitar-ish plucks are plastered across drumline snares. However, as the chorus draws nearer, all folky aspects are soon devoured by a rollicking post-punk spangle and the dourness of Savages.

Rambutan is an eclectic mix of sounds. The motley noises are assembled like a patchwork quilt, neatly sewn together – though they may not match perfectly (i.e. Cajun americana and dream-pop on 'Blue Tracks') they're put together in such a way that they're still endearing, and still functional. Landshapes demonstrate with relative ease that they are adept at a range of genres, capably smooshing them together like nonchalant matchmakers. In doing all this, they've woven a unique sound unshared even remotely by others – it's kooky, slightly dark and chock full of choons.

'Detour' is home to Venetian/Parisian accordions, washboard percussion and toybox piano. It's sinister in the same way that Bond villains are – there may be grand machinations, but the delivery is melodramatic and not taken entirely seriously; in that respect, it's a tad cabaret-esque. 'Insomniac's Club' rattles with rimshots in the opening bars. Ripples of affected guitar wash over the rhythmic cut – it seems to be primed for quirky tropical dancefloors – which ends up resembling jagged indie-pop. 'Threads' wears twilight bass and early-hours melodics with pride. It's a kicking-out-time song, full of inebriated vocals and solemn urban hooks that conjure visions of streetlight lit concrete and toxic isolation.

Landshape's debut LP isn't exactly what you'd expect from a fledgling artist. It's strong, but from one effort to the next, it's hard to find a common thread (beside the vocals) – if you weren't aware that this was one album, you might be inclined to presume it was an anthology or compilation. As mentioned before, though the tracks themselves work as complex amalgamations, an album is a different format. All the tracks are pretty rad, and are phenomenal taken separately, but as one cohesive product, there are many jarring moments. Aside from the odd wacky surprise, it's formidable debut and provides a truly original take on folk.