Hearts-on-sleeves thriftshoppers The Sequins are from Coventry and are, as befits the Smiths fans they proudly proclaim themselves to be, a bit forlorn. Their indie-pop romance is jingly, stuttering, uncertain and heartfelt, all betrayal and heartache with the odd tinge of blunt bitterness. It’s lightweight, summery stuff – but an old-fashioned summer of traditional courtship rituals whose betrayals are signified by wilted bouquets of roses lying abandoned amidst the sticky pornography and used condoms in a public litterbin. False promises and broken hearts are set to gently arrhythmic, clattering tunes of the kind which make as much of the space behind the notes as they do the melodies themselves.

Far be it from me to decry the righteous place that hopeless romantics clutching dogeared photographs of lost loves hold in the history of rock’n’roll, but this is a little too drippy for me. Still, worthy sentiments and all that… and those who’re a little more misty-eyed about love and lust than I may well find no small worth in this stumblingly sincere indie-boy jangle. You never know; they might even clutch it to their trembling bosoms. Or possibly their bulging groins – after all, this is the eyelinered, androgyny-rife indie scene we’re talking about here…