Polly Scattergood - and what a name that is - is that rare talent, a musician and songwriter who can make the disturbing sound delightful. She might sing on her eagerly anticipated debut album about suicidal tendencies, sadness in the air, spitting on her French knickers and being called a whore, but she does so in such an idiosyncratically alluring, soft little-girl voice, one of ravaged innocence, and she places her startling images in such pretty pop contexts, that you can't help being seduced.