The Crookes arrive, fully formed, apparently from nowhere. This is both deliriously romantic and melancholic.

Excellent pop songs – Bloodshot Days, Godless Girl and Carnabetian Charms – drip with bittersweet, literate lyrics, suffused with irresistible hooks and finger-popping choruses.

But The Crookes haven’t just emerged overnight from the chrysalis of Eighties guitar indie; since adopting the name of the Sheffield district where they met as students, they’ve taken two years to hone tales of lost love, adolescent yearning, sensuality and street-fighting into the debut album of the year so far.

Already they are being compared to The Libertines, The Smiths, even The Cure at their lo-fi, whimsical best.

Fair comment, but that only scrapes the surface. These lovelorn troubadours are as likely to reference Evelyn Waugh or DH Lawrence, and to do it all with the nonchalant charm, confidence and swagger of a 1930s Parisian boulevardier. Something great is happening here.