When Caylie Runciman started calling herself Boyhood, it was a nod to childhood nostalgia. Seven years later, the alias – and the beguiling bedroom anthems – are one and the same. Tough-kid guitar grit and deadpan verses give way to whimsical synthlines and delicate harmonies. But like an off-kilter merry-go-round, or a candy shop in a seedy part of town, there’s a shady layer to Runciman’s perfect pop. Her black magic is raw – equal parts ecstasy and heartbreak. And in among the bright colours, there’s the joy and the pain in knowing what it means to grow up.

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