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Like their name, it’s deceptively difficult to trace the inscrutable sound of Buckley back to its source. Deviance and derivation, vivacity and everyday tragedy; its all there. For a year and a half, Jimmy Allen and his bande à part have been plotting their vision – an aural semblance of life and listlessness in the city. Instrumentally and stylistically versatile, Buckley is a musical chameleon. They sweep you up in the reckless joy of blood-pumping indie pop, stop you in your tracks with eloquent lyrics that catch in your throat, and give your senses a good hard slap with jungle beats you can feel in your nethers, without a whiff of the stovepipe’d pretender. A hunter gatherer, opportunistic and always evolving writing and recording process has invested their music with an artless head and heart duplicity, and just a little bit of mandolin. Buckley is a band absorbing their musical landscape, giving it a talking to, and spitting out a sound that makes you feel at home, in a place