In this instance, I know nothing about No Ceremony whatsoever.
My hunch is that they’re from Manchester, but they could reside in Magaluf for all I know. They might not be a ‘they’ at all.
The main, bowel-churning concern in these situations is that such songs are actually a marketing trick by a hideously uncool pop artist who will later reveal their true selves with a flourish of, “A-ha! You liked that, so why don’t you like my usual drab, soul-destroying MOR Rock?!”
What I’m trying to say is: brace yourselves – this could be a Keane side-project.
But it’s a Friday, and Hurtlove is an end-of-the-night, golden-hued, epic-comedown song, so perhaps those considerations have been flattened by the desire to get on it.
A grey gothic fog lingers over Hurtlove, and it’s almost as if the drums ‘n’ bassline are present through stubbornness alone.
Imagine your favourite house classic re-recorded backwards onto a C90 cassette at half speed, then reversed, and sped up again. It might sound like this. But not as unsettling, or intriguing.