Hands clapping to the robotic beat. The incessant precision of the drum machine. The swirling imprecision of the farfisa as a counterpoint. The disconnected voice of Liz Godoy. All this and more is The Tablets and this, their self-titled album, is the proof of that.
You could, if you were inclined towards the obvious, call the songs on this album indie pop or, more precisely, indie pop with European synth pop undertones, without being jailed for perjury. The truth, however, is that The Tablets are a band of back projection and loft apartment habitation. They are of the art-house and that is no bad thing. A bleak outlook on the challenges of life pervades both words and music with the cold precision of those collected chords coalescing with the laconic indifference of Ms Godoy’s voice. You can call it an affectation or you can call it style but the nihilistic appeal of “I Love You In Your Tragic Beauty” or the entrancing ennui of “Sugar Coated” is there for all to see.
Once more we have a band that draws more from the past than the present. Now that’s a crime committed by many but should it be regarded as a capital offence? Not in this case as The Tablets, in their near submissive acceptance of reality, actually prove inspiring.