The first thing you notice is the structure — or rather, the deliberate sabotage of it. Where most contemporary indie-dance operates on the reassuring logic of build-drop-release, Silver Dawn has produced something that keeps pulling the rug out from beneath your feet. The track glitches and stutters, doubles back on itself, refuses to arrive where you expect it to. It is the musical equivalent of a conversation that keeps getting interrupted by something more important. Whether this is compositional bravery or intuitive chaos hardly matters; the effect is genuinely arresting.

The sonic palette draws from an unlikely but convincing marriage: the skittering, hyperventilating energy of Charli XCX's more experimental impulses crossed with a woozy, half-sedated quality that recalls certain corners of stoner rock — the kind of music made in rooms where the curtains haven't been opened for three days. It should not cohere. It does. The MPC-first production process shows in the best possible way: the beats feel bodily, almost percussive in a tactile sense, before the computer work adds a glassy, synthetic sheen that stops the whole thing from getting too earthy.

Then there is the voice. Silver Dawn has spoken candidly about abandoning heavy processing in favour of something more exposed, and you can hear that decision embedded in every syllable. The vocal sits close — uncomfortably, productively close — stripped of the protective armour that most bedroom producers drape over themselves when they are not yet ready to be heard. It is a significant artistic act, the decision to remove the filter. It changes the stakes entirely.

Lyrically, the track operates on a frequency that British pop has historically been reluctant to occupy: genuinely spiritual without being vague, hedonistic without being hollow. The subject — hook-up culture, the club, the feverish intimacy of strangers in dark rooms — is handled not with irony (that oldest of English defence mechanisms) but with something closer to tenderness. Silver Dawn seems to genuinely believe that even the most fleeting human encounter contains a dimension that transcends its own apparent shallowness. This is not a fashionable position. It is a braver one for that.

The comparisons to Pink Pantheress are earned rather than aspirational. Both artists understand that the most potent pop has always been small — compressed, personal, slightly mysterious — and that the pursuit of bigness is often where music loses its nerve. "One And Only (Just For Now)" never reaches for the stadium. It reaches, instead, for something resembling truth, which is considerably harder to find.

What we have here is a single that announces an artist still becoming, which is the most exciting kind. Silver Dawn is not finished — the rough edges are visible, the ambition occasionally outpacing the execution — but that incompleteness is part of the charge. This is music made by someone who has not yet decided what they cannot do.

Play it loud, somewhere suitably liminal.