The fluorescent doyenne has fine tuned every string to her illustrious bow in this bronzed burst of dreamy indie-pop.
Stop whatever you’re doing and get acquainted with Genevieve Miles. The long golden locks draped over her seafoam Fender Jaguar. That wry welcoming smile that you feel like you’ve seen before. Not to mention a sagacious voice that assumes the voice of reason. It’s all enough to leave an enduring impression, but beyond the scuffed Converse and flower-child aesthetic, her luminous sonority is the facet that resonates above all else.
Rosy-cheeked and bright-eyed. Two hyphenated phrases that perfectly encapsulate the shimmering radiance of her latest chanson d’amour. Sporting a painting smock, ‘Storm Before’ is Miles’ sonic salute to the purity of hindsight, portrayed from her overflowing palette of crepuscular rays that scatter themselves generously through the mix. Among flashes of psychedelia, there harbours a galvanizing cordial, equivalent to the invigorating properties of a well made mojito: deftly sweet, perennially fresh and underlyingly zestful.
This song is a special one, it really sounds like my soul. First off, it’s a love song, but looking back at it now I’m also talking about the long cyclical process of healing. “This rain could not compare to the storm that came before last summer”: healing and growth never end and when pain randomly comes up again, even though it’s hard each time, maybe it’s a little different, a little better than the time before, cause you’ve learnt so much since then, you have so many new tools to work with and look after yourself.
With enough chorus to send Mac Demarco back to the drawing board, the infectious top-line bursts like a germinating violet, populating the mix with jazz-fueled markers and a quivering Rhodes that sweeps into the fore with its silvery incantations. As tranquilisers go, this one is pretty damn good.
Reminiscent of modernized folk, Miles has stayed true to herself and to what sets her aside. For each piece of this animated jigsaw comes a stylistic choice that only a vehemently creative touch could dispense. Comparable to the footprint of recent Brit Winner Arlo Parks, matter-of-fact is a winning recipe and the order of the day; but if Miles was anymore down to earth, she’d be subterranean.