Cinematic is, I believe, the first word what sprung to The Mind De Duke when first attempting to fling an adjective or two in the direction of the debut release by Hope Of The States. Cinematic. Sprawling. Like it was probably recorded in Widescreen. Or IMAX, even.
It's an odd description, and yet one what gets flung at expansive, sweeping records any time there's the merest hint of a cello. Cinematic as in Spielberg? Cinematic as in Coppola? As in Rabid Grannies? Just what in the hell are we saying here?
What The Duke would suggest, is that The Lost Riots, being the name of said debut album, is cinematic as in some epic litany etched on the screen by Sergio Leone at his cinematographic apex.
Opening track, The Black Amnesias, is like a mini-concept album in its own right, albeit an instrumental one, the most wretched of all conceptual "works". It starts with nothing more adventurous than a delicately plucked acoustic guitar, but four and a half minutes worth of ever-expanding orchestral constructions later, you're thinking about shit, man, these fella's better not be flinging any more damn violins or whatever on there, since most likely the stereo will be blown asunder under the weight of it all.
This colossal level of ambition carries on throughout much of the record's running time, and yet, for some mysterious reason, the whole affair feels incredibly intimate.
Following the bombast of The Black Amnesias, we get our first chance to revel in Sam Herlihy's endearingly raw vocals. A pleasant melding of a young Lou Reed, Richard Ashcroft, a dash of Ian Brown and a hint of prime Gallagher sneer, Herlihy's is one of those bizarre yelps what sounds curiously American and yet distinctly British at the same time. Like Tony Blair, in fact.
There have been comparisons to both Radiohead and The Verve, and at certain moments The Lost Riots does indeed sound like the folks in charge were having a good old listen to The Bends or Urban Hymns during the recording. It doesn't sound derivative, though.
It's also rather hard to categorise. The single The Red, The White, The Black, The Blue is four minutes of perfect indie poppery, but 66 Sleepers To Summer is a haunting, almost Americana-esque moment of mournful contemplation.
There's also, alas, a sense of tragedy hanging loosely over much of the albums first half, at least. James Lawrence, the band's guitarist, committed suicide earlier this year, prior to the UK release of this record. As such, it's hard to not to feel a little lumpy around the throat during, say, the achingly-beautiful piano ballad, Don't Go To Pieces.
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