Rowan Martin, in this picture anyway, looks like when you walk into a dodgy pub because you need a piss or it's raining and there are odd framed photos hanging on the walls and you know that everyone in them has killed before. Then his music, which is equal part g-funk synth squeal and Prince-lite bass, mixed with white, suburban London croon dreaming of limos in Las Vegas will probably come on on the jukebox, and some man of indeterminable age will lean across the bar and inform you that he wrote this song and for a while he was almost a big popstar and tell you about the affair he had with Carey Mulligan.

Gabriel Bruce is, anachronistically, equal parts crooner, in fashion as old as time, and utterly, beguilingly, modern. His inspirations are worn on his sleeve; mixing the sentimentality of Leonard Cohen with Nick Cave's ferocity. Yet for all the po faced sentiment, Bruce shines a little light of humour into his work, not the droll, drier than the desert kind, but the quite silly, slightly ridiculous kind; dancing on Beacy Head and singing about the weather.

The Invisible occupy a weird, singular place in the British guitar-band spectrum. For a start, they aren't that pretty, which in a world of youthful swagger, is unfortunately noticeable. The main thing to shine through though, is the enviable amount of talent at the band's disposal. As well as getting a Mercury nomination for their debut record, they've since been working on Jessie Ware's (also Mercury nominated) and Adele world conquering '21' (also Mercury nominated).

Their second album as The Invisible, 'Rispah', has been getting the kind of attention that a hugely talented and interesting album deserves, but so often, doesn't get.