Troumaca - The Grace

There’s a real danger that Troumaca could, at any moment, divert into torrential territory. Debut ‘The Grace’ tows a fine line. Dub elements simmer in the background of ultimately chilled-out ‘jams’. It’d be easy for these tracks to fall into some Bob Marley-ode of a slumber, like a kid at uni who’s trying to impress his new mates with pot-endorsed wall posters.

Somehow Troumaca defy everything, all these downbeat expectations that crop up at the mere mention of ‘dub’ and ‘reggae’. If anything the Birmingham group far closer sport a clever Peaking Lights-style balancing act, where these terms are anything but dirty words. Their songs are electronic-rooted, casting aside notions that they’re a weak link in B-town’s guitar fuzz brigade. Mates with Peace and Swim Deep they might be, but Troumaca’s zone is entirely theirs to inhabit.

‘The Grace’ is defined by frontman Sam Baylis’ proud pronouncements. He bellows every word out like it’s a mission statement. Often these lyrical nuggets are repeated over and over again, as if forming into some kind of trance. Sometimes it works brilliantly, like on ‘Lady Colour’, which spins the group’s Caribbean roots (they’re named after an island in the region) into something immediate and bright-eyed. On ‘Gold Women & Wine’ the repetitions run out of steam, but declare this an anomaly within the whole debut.

‘Layou’ dips its feet in the warm Atlantic Ocean, spliced with foggy synths and flickering bongo patterns. It’s a holiday resort compressed into a four minute pop song, escape in its most refined form. No wonder they landed a deal on Gilles Peterson’s Brownswood label. ‘The Grace’ is the first of many steps, you’d suspect; a boat paddle making its first splash; a deserted island showing hints of its wild climate.