HANNAH'S LITTLE SISTER

Like a night out in Blackpool, three drinks in, Hannah’s Little Sister ooze a sort of sleaze-glam hysteria that holds fans in rapture. Whip smart and with a precarious day-before-deadline-disorder, they sound like a kind of romanticised squalor. Slate-grey skies and primary colours. A cheap night out in a leopard print ball gown. Desynchronised, junk-pop for an absent generation. Dress up couture, sketchball storylines and freakadelic press shots single them out as a band making biscuits in the cracker factory. While this belch of Dada expressionism exudes fun, the band themselves also view it as a way of sending up the music industry. In an industry emulsioned in SYCO magnolia, Hannah’s Little Sister are Jackson Pollocking the shit out of proceedings.