Birmingham's Pram craft fairytales from concrete reality. The second city's spin cycle of perpetual renovation, from the slum clearances to its current cosmetic upgrade, is etched in Pram's restless groove, an endearing and gently refusenik mix encircling early Rough Trade innovators The Raincoats, astro jazz, sci-fi soundtracks, creepy Victoriana, tropical analogue and tumbledown funk.
Born of an aesthetic universe where the senses are excited equally by the dust encrusted revolutions of antique lounge LPs as the wild and wonderful facts packing the yellowed pages of musty encyclopaedias, where a nostalgia for the future meets a fascination for a past that never was, Pram are drawn to the fantastic and exotic ends of the ordinary world. Like the grain and atmosphere of pre-digital animation, Pram's music has an otherworldliness that's both comforting and mysterious. Their ability to arrange a diaspora of instruments around Rosie Cuckson's siren voice results in a new kind of fragile handiwork - somewhere between cartography and prospecting for gold down a rickety mine shaft. Their canon conjures evocative locations like the Sargasso Sea, The North Pole Radio Stations, The Museum Of Imaginary Animals, out-of-bounds places to where imagination has been exiled, lying in wait for souls hardy enough to attempt the hazardous expedition. With Pram as your guide, armchair adventuring has never been so mysterious, beguiling or enticing.
To say Pram have always ploughed their own furrow is to underestimate the breadth and scale of their music. To listen to this record is to hear a group who have learned to play together whilst teaching each other a new language. The Moving Frontier is Pram at their most widescreen, they've created a mysterious and wonderful landscape that's sky-wide open.