This risks sounding catty, but the most appealing thing about Lianne La Havas' debut album is how imperfect it is. She is a work-in-progress, with lots of room to grow. Her lyrics have the raw, repetitive feel of diary entries, which is good in Lost & Found (the chorus, "you broke me and taught me to truly hate myself", is savagely bleak), bad in No Room for Doubt: "I could go solo," she dithers, "would that be the right thing to do?" Her ballads, whose restrained piano or guitar accompaniments never detract from her silken, huskily emotional voice, are elegant but lifeless. But then there's Au Cinema, a wary romance whose flickering guitar casts the eerie glow of a television in a dark room. And Forget, its title shrieked as a banshee war-cry over icy chords and frowning drums. There's also the weirdly tugging guitar line in No Room for Doubt, and the slinky attitude of Age: these are the foundations for brilliance.