The Marika Hackman of I’m Not Your Man is almost unrecognisable from the spectral, tangling folk of her unsettling debut, We Slept at Last. Replacing her is a direct, comparatively feral version, favouring an arsenal of seductive grunge guitars, prowling sultriness and a Wolf Alice-like brand of constricting noise. Like the latter’s debut LP, I’m Not Your Man is the musical equivalent of a wolf pup: sweet, adorable and fluffy with an insatiable desire to rip your throat out. Her vocal delivery still dazzles with its sweet, piercing drawl, but the sulking guitar tones create a beautiful juxtaposition. The only real bridge from the Hackman of two years ago is the acoustic tangle of Cigarette – a razor-sharp tongued ode that creates a stripped-back but incisive moment in the album, but throughout, I’m Not Your Man is a meandering undercurrent of predatory slyness, advancing with a slack but completely controlled swagger.
FIRST PUBLISHED ON NO RIPCORD