See pictures of Micachu – which you may well have done repeatedly over recent months – all tightly wound and intense of expression, acoustic guitar clutched intently to her chest, making an Oxfam mannequin look like the main draw at London Fashion Week, you accept that she’s clearly counter-mainstream, maybe pigeonhole her as a punk minstrel, an English Kimya Dawson, that kind of thing. The truth is actually far more disparate and frenetic than you might care to imagine. Her debut album is a wildly creative if densely lo-fi package of clattering dashes and obtuse shapes, a hopscotch through a sprawl of musical detritus where you have to attempt not to cut your feet to shreds. Other odd-pop scatterguns like Esser (his ‘Headlock’ song embodies some of the spirit of Micachu though he is many degrees more traditionally articulated and reeks of investment compared to this), Jamie T (close in tone and resourcefulness, but somehow nowhere near as severe) and MIA (though she moves in much slicker circles, the ambition and belief that creatively you’re a free spirit apply) give a flavour of what to expect, but never hit the nail squarely. She actually makes Scout Niblett’s childlike drum-thwacking and guitar-jabbing post-poetic streams of consciousness look relatively regular. But it’s not all so obscure when you get stuck in; ‘Vulture’ is a Clinic-esque rampage of repetition and pile-driving with lurches every which way to catch you off guard, ‘Lips’ sounds like Gary Glitter’s ‘Leader Of The Gang’ played on elastic bands and ‘Eat Your Heart’ sounds like an Elastica song falling apart at the bottom of a well. It probably shouldn’t work, occasionally it doesn’t, maybe it wasn’t even designed to, but it’s just too insistent, too insatiable, too overflowing with ideas to ignore. It takes some work to love, but the rewards are there even if none of them quite shine like a 18-carat diamond. Jewellery isn’t always about the bling.