Once in a while a singer comes along who reminds us that the foundations of great, long-lasting music are simpler than we’d like to admit. Lucy Rose is just such a person: deeply musical, scarily direct in her writing, free of hipster-ism and scene allegiance in her outlook and in possession of a uniquely poignant voice. As her growing numbers of early adopting fans already know, her music is a pure thing, and a lovely thing and a thing to get you through the times when the world hasn’t gone your way.

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Like a 21st century Dick Whittington, armed with her guitar and a sense of bravado and adventure that can only belong to the very young, an eighteen year old Lucy Rose finished her exams, waved goodbye to the Warwickshire hamlet she had grown up in and headed for the Smoke. She threw herself in at the deep end with a wild abandon: Open-mic nights in east end pubs, busking grimy street corners, tumbling into late night bars, befriending the city’s oddballs, strange encounters on night buses and unearthed misfits all informed her. With her icy blue eyes wide open she took it all in.

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