The Fleet Foxes

Ever since falling under the spell of David Bowie's owl-eyebrowed keening in Labyrinth aged eight, I 've leaned towards the musical genre I like to call eerie baroque. Bloc Party, Antony and the Johnsons and Fleet Foxes might not seem to have much in common, but they share a certain disturbing, driven melodic darkness redolent of damaged dreamers tumbling into oubliettes; they all combine an indulgent sonic sensuality with a jaded, judgemental undertone of lost love that is one part Old Testament to two parts Blake. The Foxes are my favourite February find; the apparently utopian lushness of their melodies are made complex and great by a whiff of something obscene and overgrown, a crown of briars hiding in the flower-garlanded hair. Their fertile folk transports you to the summer of love, sprawling in a cornfield bracken-scented and herb-strewn - until you start to suspect that you're actually lolling in a quietly deviant cult commune.

And catching the Killers live at the O2 this week, I realised that their squidgy electronics and repetitive phrasing can't disguise a sound that is pure e.b.; in the flesh, Brandon Flowers's rich, hollow-edged, haunting voice can be strangely similar to that of our old friend the Goblin king. The band's earlier songs in particular have a kind of urgent, brutal, fallen innocence that is the musical equivalent of Picnic at Hanging Rock, and their music videos are masterworks of the genre's costumed, apocalyptic, gothic style.

I'm giving myself a craving for a bit of Girls Aloud, to be honest.