Polly Scattergood is a rare talent, a musician who can make the disturbing sound delightful. She might sing on her critically acclaimed debut album about suicidal tendencies, sadness in the air, spitting on her French knickers and being called a whore, but she does so in such an idiosyncratically alluring, soft little-girl voice, one of ravaged innocence, and she places her startling images in such pretty pop contexts, that you can’t help being seduced.
