Poise, personality, intelligence and individuality are impressive qualities to possess at any age. Discovering them in a bunch of teenagers and young twentysomethings — well, that shoots way beyond impressive and makes a beeline for gobsmacking. But that’s as good an adjective as any to describe South London quartet Goat Girl and their self-titled full-length. Though dark, striking, witchy, scuzzy, unsettling and cool would also serve quite handily. Reportedly taking their name from the Bill Hicks character Goat Boy (which, if it’s actually true, is a point in their favour all by itself), these four young women rock their own pseudonyms: The singer calls herself Clottie Cream, the guitarist answers to LED, the bassist goes by Naima Jelly and the drummer responds to Rosy Bones. Their musical approach is equally mischievous, nonchalantly navigating a musical netherworld that bounces between indie-rock, garage-punk and gothic alt-country. And while it’s not hard to imagine the influence of forebears from PJ Harvey and Kim Gordon to Geraldine Fibbers and Exene on their sound, it’s just as simple to pinpoint their singular qualities: Clottie’s world-weary deadpan and misanthropy. The band’s anything-goes song structures. The pointed lyrics about Brexit, public-transit perverts and men with no heart or brains. The noisy squiggles, reverberating textures and instrumental vignettes that decorate and separate these cuts. “I don’t care,” they claim on not one but two songs. But they do. As will you.
