Self-released, self-produced and self-recorded in a studio they built themselves (whether they whittled their own instruments, we do not know), these Leeds newcomers are devout about DIY. That spirit of independence is mirrored in the sound of their debut album: it pings from the sublime to the ridiculous like Dirty Projectors and Tune-Yards ricocheting off the rubber walls of a padded cell, with frontman Harry Burgess's elasticated vocals acting as a well-oiled instrument. But the moments of melody here tend to wriggle off before the groove becomes tangible, as on Hum's crunchy funk breakdown, or Pigeon Skulls' lolloping coo; and while it bears some of the hallmarks of previous indie greats – the scratchy, swerving qualities of early Grizzly Bear; nods to Björk and Sigur Rós – overall it feels cluttered. Perhaps its beauty lies in the feeling that this is young, precocious pop that could grow into something great if geared differently. Impressive – but even genius benefits from a little guidance.