He’s a mysterious figure – a dancefloor silhouette – and his melodies predominantly evade the instant gratification of catchy, romantic declaration in favour of weaving, syncopated metaphor; delightful strings of chords twirl me in their arms, organically, unexpectedly, carrying me away and tugging me gently in again. And yet, in spite of its seductive enigma, Cheap Love is undoubtedly a bedroom record. Everything is small in scale, and while its aspirations may daydream into woozy, hot pink cocktail bars, there is an essence of isolation that dips the album’s romantic proficiency in longing, or an intangible fantasy – Knight is forbidden from the nightlife of Lionel Richie by the crimson fog of Cocteau Twins, whispering sweet nothings to a binary wall that never whispers it back.

— Jack Chuter