Like A-sides and B-sides, EPs only really made sense when vinyl was dominant. Do EPs even exist anymore? It's like those bands who emphasise their new single is a radio edit, when they have no hope of getting playlisted. Not even on student radio. Anway. To Animal Collective:
Critics and the music aficionados who pay attention to them couldn’t get enough of Animal Collective’s 2007 album, the at times difficult yet joyous Strawberry Jam. After all the excitement, it would perhaps be rude of the New York quartet to deny their fans Water Curses, an EP of Strawberry Jam off-cuts and leftovers.
Title track Water Curses burbles through highly strung keyboard buzzes and flute warbles so distorted they could almost be underwater. There is a melody, although it’s difficult to hold onto and gradually unravels into a jittering hullabaloo.
Water Curses is experimental, but underneath the freeform structure and sampling there is a pop song. It is strangely shaped, sometimes noisy and sometimes erratic, but still a pop song. Because it is simultaneously boldly experimental and celebratory, Water Curses is as much fun as the Beach Boys dancing to John Cage.
As for what it’s all about, it’s something to do with ‘I want to be like water’ and to ‘never need a doctor’. That’s just the lyrics you can understand. Who really knows? This is Animal Collective, after all.
Tuesday 29 April 2008
Replica Sun Machine by The Shortwave Set
I have been busy for This is Fake DIY. This time, an album review:
Psychedelic indie poppers The Shortwave Set return from the wilderness of being dropped by their label with their second album, Replica Sun Machine. Although their debut album The Debt Collection (2005) received awed reviews and high star ratings, it did not shift units. The south London trio found without a record deal and back to the hustle of being an unsigned band. Fortunately, one of the few people to buy their debut was neo-funkster Danger Mouse (Gnarls Barkley), who produced their sophomore effort.
Replica Sun Machine could have been unearthed from a time capsule alongside The White Album, as crisp guitars and psychedelic instrumentation support mellifluous vocal lines. Throughout, there is a portentous preoccupation with the sinister machinery of the album’s title. Such pre-apocalyptic conspiracy theorising might be expected on, say, a Kula Shaker album, and here it is no less affected. But it unifies the album with one concept, especially as many of the tracks are mixed together.
This 11-track album opens with sitar-flecked Harmonia, a song so understated it almost urges the listener to go elsewhere. Beyond this, the fun begins. Lead single No Social is the stand out: a sassy brush-off to arrogant scenesters who look down their noses. ‘Everyone knows that a dog dressed in clothes is still a dog,’ muses Ulrika Bjorsne. Elsewhere, Replica Sun Machine includes luscious string arrangements (Yesterday To Come), David Bowie circa Aladdin Sane pomp (Now Til 69) and a round the piano singsong Hey Jude moment about our impending doom (The Downer Song). In an age where Beth Ditto’s raucous bellowing equals emotion, the singing of Andrew Pettitt and Ulrika sounds flat and occasionally androgynous, as their harmonies slide against each other. Of course, this is to keep the band as equals, drawing attention to music overall.
You have to admire the man-hours Danger Mouse has put into arranging and producing Replica Sun Machine, presumably on free afternoons somewhere between his duties with Gnarls Barkley and generally being one of the coolest men in pop. Barely a phrase passes without a delicate tweak of reverb. At times, Replica Sun Machine is a ménage a trois between Mr Mouse, John Cale (experimental pop pioneer formerly of the Velvet Underground, who provides ‘atmospherics’: a catch-all term for the swooshes and added value instrumentation) and Van Dyke Parks (a string arranger notable for his work with the Beach Boys). The imaginations and skill of the three experienced musicians sometimes engulf the Shortwave Set, leading to the question: is this simply a CV boost for Danger Mouse? Short of hiring an orchestra, Replica Sun Machine is near impossible to recreate live. Without all the production, the Shortwave Set are simply two boys and a girl with inventive melodies and an exhaustive knowledge of late 60s psychedelic pop. Probably best to enjoy Replica Sun Machine for what it is: a glorious trip through climate change anxieties and glistening pop.
Psychedelic indie poppers The Shortwave Set return from the wilderness of being dropped by their label with their second album, Replica Sun Machine. Although their debut album The Debt Collection (2005) received awed reviews and high star ratings, it did not shift units. The south London trio found without a record deal and back to the hustle of being an unsigned band. Fortunately, one of the few people to buy their debut was neo-funkster Danger Mouse (Gnarls Barkley), who produced their sophomore effort.
Replica Sun Machine could have been unearthed from a time capsule alongside The White Album, as crisp guitars and psychedelic instrumentation support mellifluous vocal lines. Throughout, there is a portentous preoccupation with the sinister machinery of the album’s title. Such pre-apocalyptic conspiracy theorising might be expected on, say, a Kula Shaker album, and here it is no less affected. But it unifies the album with one concept, especially as many of the tracks are mixed together.
This 11-track album opens with sitar-flecked Harmonia, a song so understated it almost urges the listener to go elsewhere. Beyond this, the fun begins. Lead single No Social is the stand out: a sassy brush-off to arrogant scenesters who look down their noses. ‘Everyone knows that a dog dressed in clothes is still a dog,’ muses Ulrika Bjorsne. Elsewhere, Replica Sun Machine includes luscious string arrangements (Yesterday To Come), David Bowie circa Aladdin Sane pomp (Now Til 69) and a round the piano singsong Hey Jude moment about our impending doom (The Downer Song). In an age where Beth Ditto’s raucous bellowing equals emotion, the singing of Andrew Pettitt and Ulrika sounds flat and occasionally androgynous, as their harmonies slide against each other. Of course, this is to keep the band as equals, drawing attention to music overall.
You have to admire the man-hours Danger Mouse has put into arranging and producing Replica Sun Machine, presumably on free afternoons somewhere between his duties with Gnarls Barkley and generally being one of the coolest men in pop. Barely a phrase passes without a delicate tweak of reverb. At times, Replica Sun Machine is a ménage a trois between Mr Mouse, John Cale (experimental pop pioneer formerly of the Velvet Underground, who provides ‘atmospherics’: a catch-all term for the swooshes and added value instrumentation) and Van Dyke Parks (a string arranger notable for his work with the Beach Boys). The imaginations and skill of the three experienced musicians sometimes engulf the Shortwave Set, leading to the question: is this simply a CV boost for Danger Mouse? Short of hiring an orchestra, Replica Sun Machine is near impossible to recreate live. Without all the production, the Shortwave Set are simply two boys and a girl with inventive melodies and an exhaustive knowledge of late 60s psychedelic pop. Probably best to enjoy Replica Sun Machine for what it is: a glorious trip through climate change anxieties and glistening pop.
Monday 28 April 2008
Poor Boy by School of Language
Another track review for This Is Fake DIY. I gave it 3.5 out of 5, but I'd give myself 2.5. Feel like I just relied on cliched constructions and so on, because there's only so many ways you can say 'this is QUITE GOOD, yeah?'. Here it is:
A side project of Field Music that has become a main project, School of Language is written and recorded entirely by David Brewis. This is a one man and his laptop affair, but it manages to sound like a laptop with a drummer, guitarist and keyboard player willingly trapped inside. New single Poor Boy is easily the most accessible track from his debut album, Sea From Shore.
Poor Boy is a fuzz of American college rock guitars and falsetto harmonies, approaching a geeked-up Queens of the Stone Age. Who knew Sunderland could produce such sunny melodies and squelchy bass? Like Weezer in their cuter moments, it slots together deceptively simple melodies and crisp guitar riffs. A bit like Tetris. But it’s not all brightly coloured shapes, as David slyly observes in the chorus: ‘and you’re tired of being everybody’s lover’.At four minutes, Poor Boy hangs around for about a minute too long. Many good things can happen in one minute, but Poor Boy’s repetition is not one of them. Had the duplicate choruses been chopped out, it could have been a sparky little pop nugget ready to enliven indie discos. Unfortunately, it just keeps going. And going. And going.
A side project of Field Music that has become a main project, School of Language is written and recorded entirely by David Brewis. This is a one man and his laptop affair, but it manages to sound like a laptop with a drummer, guitarist and keyboard player willingly trapped inside. New single Poor Boy is easily the most accessible track from his debut album, Sea From Shore.
Poor Boy is a fuzz of American college rock guitars and falsetto harmonies, approaching a geeked-up Queens of the Stone Age. Who knew Sunderland could produce such sunny melodies and squelchy bass? Like Weezer in their cuter moments, it slots together deceptively simple melodies and crisp guitar riffs. A bit like Tetris. But it’s not all brightly coloured shapes, as David slyly observes in the chorus: ‘and you’re tired of being everybody’s lover’.At four minutes, Poor Boy hangs around for about a minute too long. Many good things can happen in one minute, but Poor Boy’s repetition is not one of them. Had the duplicate choruses been chopped out, it could have been a sparky little pop nugget ready to enliven indie discos. Unfortunately, it just keeps going. And going. And going.
Breaking Standing by Forward Russia
Here's a track review for This Is Fake DIY. I'm never sure whether to persist with the band's artistic vision and type iForward, Russia! but, to be honest, I think it's a little unnecessary. Instead, I'll go straight and keep bands on a level typographic playing field.
Leeds cottage industrialists Forward Russia have DIY artrock credentials and an interesting approach to typography. Yes, they’ve ditched the numbers and started using proper song titles. With words and all that. As titles go, Breaking Standing is a curious mixture of two continuous present verbs that is either a striking, poetic image or a pretentious nothing.
Lead single from sophomore album Life Processes, Breaking Standing is a muted fanfare to announce the band’s new material. Emerging from an icy expanse of juddering guitars, it sounds more like their Soviet-influenced contemporaries Bloc Party than ever before. Produced by Seattle-based Matt Bayles (who has previously worked with grunge deities Pearl Jam and Soundgarden), there is a near dehumanised gloss to the recording similar to Gang of Four. Perhaps, like their Leeds predecessors, this is another device to emphasise the artifice of the creative process.
For this new, sleeker direction, Forward Russia are focusing on the human body. ‘The bruises on the inside of your face, those pummelled blanches showed through your translucent skin’ coos singer Tom Woodhead. Yes, coos. He spent much of the band’s 2006 debut Give Me a Wall in a yelping hissy fit, but his vocal histrionics have been calmed.Overall, Breaking Standing is a recognisable yet more rational Forward Russia. It is not until the three and a half minute mark that Breaking Standing reaches a brief climactic barrage of angular guitars then swiftly disappears with Tom’s sighed ‘forever…’ Forward Russia have ordered their chaos, and sound all the wiser for doing so.
Leeds cottage industrialists Forward Russia have DIY artrock credentials and an interesting approach to typography. Yes, they’ve ditched the numbers and started using proper song titles. With words and all that. As titles go, Breaking Standing is a curious mixture of two continuous present verbs that is either a striking, poetic image or a pretentious nothing.
Lead single from sophomore album Life Processes, Breaking Standing is a muted fanfare to announce the band’s new material. Emerging from an icy expanse of juddering guitars, it sounds more like their Soviet-influenced contemporaries Bloc Party than ever before. Produced by Seattle-based Matt Bayles (who has previously worked with grunge deities Pearl Jam and Soundgarden), there is a near dehumanised gloss to the recording similar to Gang of Four. Perhaps, like their Leeds predecessors, this is another device to emphasise the artifice of the creative process.
For this new, sleeker direction, Forward Russia are focusing on the human body. ‘The bruises on the inside of your face, those pummelled blanches showed through your translucent skin’ coos singer Tom Woodhead. Yes, coos. He spent much of the band’s 2006 debut Give Me a Wall in a yelping hissy fit, but his vocal histrionics have been calmed.Overall, Breaking Standing is a recognisable yet more rational Forward Russia. It is not until the three and a half minute mark that Breaking Standing reaches a brief climactic barrage of angular guitars then swiftly disappears with Tom’s sighed ‘forever…’ Forward Russia have ordered their chaos, and sound all the wiser for doing so.
I Believe in Karma by Paul Hawkins & Thee Awkward Silences
Here's a track review I wrote for This Is Fake DIY:
I Believe in Karma is the messy and bloodied remains of a sordid late-night knife fight between Billy Childish and Sergeant Buzfuz. Paul Hawkins attempts to cast himself as the marginal outsider, sticking it to The Man through his scuzzy anti-folk.
And at its best, anti-folk combines the urgency of guitar-driven punk-pop with rousing narratives of protest songs.
However, at its worst, it sounds like Thee Awkward Silences. The line-up (including performance poet Niall Spooner Harvey, Death in Vegas guitarist Ian Button and Buzfuz violinist Kate Arnold) sounds like a drearily liberal dinner party, where barefoot guests discuss Independent on Sunday arts reviews.
Lyrically, I Believe in Karma has no social or political comment; it’s just Paul Hawkins whinging about the woes of being a nice guy – one who holds open doors – unable to find a nice girl. ‘I believe in karma,’ he squalls throughout, ‘where’s my reward?’ A long way off, if you carry on like that.The main problem is how eerily similar it all sounds to Thee Headcoats, the most prolific of Billy Childish’s musical outfits. The excitement of said band is in their barely contained rage at society’s ills and how, even on record, it could all collapse in a whisky-sodden heap at any second. I Believe in Karma scrapes through trying to be charmingly shambolic, but sounds like a mundane, bad parody.
I Believe in Karma is the messy and bloodied remains of a sordid late-night knife fight between Billy Childish and Sergeant Buzfuz. Paul Hawkins attempts to cast himself as the marginal outsider, sticking it to The Man through his scuzzy anti-folk.
And at its best, anti-folk combines the urgency of guitar-driven punk-pop with rousing narratives of protest songs.
However, at its worst, it sounds like Thee Awkward Silences. The line-up (including performance poet Niall Spooner Harvey, Death in Vegas guitarist Ian Button and Buzfuz violinist Kate Arnold) sounds like a drearily liberal dinner party, where barefoot guests discuss Independent on Sunday arts reviews.
Lyrically, I Believe in Karma has no social or political comment; it’s just Paul Hawkins whinging about the woes of being a nice guy – one who holds open doors – unable to find a nice girl. ‘I believe in karma,’ he squalls throughout, ‘where’s my reward?’ A long way off, if you carry on like that.The main problem is how eerily similar it all sounds to Thee Headcoats, the most prolific of Billy Childish’s musical outfits. The excitement of said band is in their barely contained rage at society’s ills and how, even on record, it could all collapse in a whisky-sodden heap at any second. I Believe in Karma scrapes through trying to be charmingly shambolic, but sounds like a mundane, bad parody.
Monday 21 April 2008
Current obsession - Yelle
Today, I adore Je Veux Te Voir by Yelle. It's an energetic hollaback at the misogynistic output of French rapper Cuizinier, and makes me feels that all those French lessons I had were worthwhile. There's something disarming about such a sweet-faced girl half singing, half MCing through lyrics such as 'on voulait voir des pectoraux, des mecs montés comme des taureaux.'
The video is almost embarrassingly hip and fashion-forward, especially as she's in clothes straight from a Jean-Charles de Castelbajac catwalk. (FYI, the blue and white frock is my favourite.) But she also released a cover of cheese anthem A Cause des Garcons and featured alongside comedy duo Fatal Bazooka on Parle A Ma Main, so it's all swings and roundabouts for the fledgling fashionista.
The lyrics are crude, but lots of hip hop has been objectifying women for years (not ALL hip hop, of course). But the video features Yelle cavorting in a gym like an American Apparel model, presumably for the viewing pleasure of an implied male gaze. Is this post-feminist empowerment? Is this post-ironic? Is it post-anything, or just a bit phwooaaaar? I don't know. She looks more like a cute girl trying to be sexy.
There's also an earlier cut of the video taking up space on the internet where Yelle resembles Jayne Middlemiss presenting The O Zone. It's true!
The video is almost embarrassingly hip and fashion-forward, especially as she's in clothes straight from a Jean-Charles de Castelbajac catwalk. (FYI, the blue and white frock is my favourite.) But she also released a cover of cheese anthem A Cause des Garcons and featured alongside comedy duo Fatal Bazooka on Parle A Ma Main, so it's all swings and roundabouts for the fledgling fashionista.
The lyrics are crude, but lots of hip hop has been objectifying women for years (not ALL hip hop, of course). But the video features Yelle cavorting in a gym like an American Apparel model, presumably for the viewing pleasure of an implied male gaze. Is this post-feminist empowerment? Is this post-ironic? Is it post-anything, or just a bit phwooaaaar? I don't know. She looks more like a cute girl trying to be sexy.
There's also an earlier cut of the video taking up space on the internet where Yelle resembles Jayne Middlemiss presenting The O Zone. It's true!
Sunday 20 April 2008
Pre-Eurovision jitters
Every year, I foolishly allow myself to get excited about Eurovision. I always hope it will be a wondrous evening of Europe uniting through song. Look at the logo: there's a heart in the middle. It's like we're all coming together to hold hands, sing the New Seekers and dance barefoot.
ESC 2008 (as we fans call it) has become such a Wagnerian affair that the 43 participants have been split into two semi-finals. Five automatically qualify for the final (last year's winners Serbia, and the Big financial Four - France, Germany, Spain and the UK), leaving the remainder to compete for a slot on the Big Night. Although ESC has a liberal attitude to political boundaries and allows participation from countries including Tunisia and Egypt, there are some notable absences from the large line-up. Surely Italy could have called in Carla Bruni-Sarkozy for some sexpot acoustic strumming? San Marino and Andorra get a look in, but where are the Vatican?
The majority of entries are either forgettable ballads fronted by Disney princesses, or forgettable Euro dance-pop. Life is too short to listen to all 43 entries, but after a quick squint at YouTube I have decided that the following raise themselves above the mediocrity:
France: Divine by Sebastian Tellier
OMG! This is an actual proper pop song! Sebastien has released 3 albums of lo-fi electronic loveliness, toured with Air and featured on the Lost in Translation soundtrack. France sensibly chose Divine without a public primetime TV contest, which is why they're represented by a cheeky slice of Gallic electro-pop. It manages to be kitsch without being all 'postmodern' (eg a bit sneering), and is produced by half of Daft Punk. There was some kerfuffle over the English lyrics, but Sebastian will be Frenching it up for the final. So we can all breathe a Francophile sigh of relief over that.
Ireland: Irlande Douze Pointe by Dustin The Turkey
Oh, now this is just inexcusably bad and offensive. Puppet turkey Dustin is a 'big star' in his native Ireland, but in England he's less famous than his former colleagues, Zig and Zag. Yes, Zig and bloody Zag. Dustin shouts poorly scanned gibberish over a ludicrous dance beat about 'Eastern Europe we love you, do you like Irish stew? Or goulash as it is to you?' Some morons probably think this is satire. It's not. It's is taking novelty too far and it's actually mocking Eurovision by waving a poor quality puppet in its face while blowing a raspberry. Ireland: you should be ashamed. Dustin & Co: go and stand outside in the corridor.
Russia: Believe by Dima Bilan
Heart-throb balladeer Dima is wildly popular in Russia, and represented his country in ESC 2006. Dima is hungry for an international career, and has paid up the dollars for pop maestro Timbaland to produce this. And it sounds like it come from Ryan Tedder's wastebasket. Oddly, Greece's Kalomoira Saranti manages to sound more like Timbaland than Timbaland. Her Secret Combination is a clunky reworking of Timbaland's uber-hit, Give It To Me and features a heavy-handed metaphor for virginity.
Ukraine: Shady Lady by Ani Lorak
Many of the Euro dance entries sound like DJ Sash never went out of fashion, and this is my favourite. It's about 70% chorus, 20% aggressively commercial house production and 10% sequins. The big, big chorus and clubland strings pummel you into submission and although it's cheesy, isn't this an accurate representation of Ukrainian pop music? People can snigger that this sounds like 1993, but Ukraine is still in transition from the Soviet Union to independence. Ukrainians probably want their pop to be big, uncomplicated and pounding. And this is as pounding as they come.
Belgium: O Julissi by Isthar
This is a folk ditty in a made-up language. It's a bit naff, but somehow adorable. And amongst all the heavily produced entries, it seems revolutionary to have a few people singing over some instruments. And there's a flute solo, which Eurovision has been missing for some time.
Bulgaria - DJ Take Me Away by Deep Zone & Balthazar
A throbbing mix of turntablism, breakdancing and rave synths, this three-minute marvel is interesting because somebody forgot to write a song. An enchanting damsel in a nightie sings a two-line vocal hook, and little more. Yes, they're entering the Eurovision Song Contest - without a song.
ESC 2008 (as we fans call it) has become such a Wagnerian affair that the 43 participants have been split into two semi-finals. Five automatically qualify for the final (last year's winners Serbia, and the Big financial Four - France, Germany, Spain and the UK), leaving the remainder to compete for a slot on the Big Night. Although ESC has a liberal attitude to political boundaries and allows participation from countries including Tunisia and Egypt, there are some notable absences from the large line-up. Surely Italy could have called in Carla Bruni-Sarkozy for some sexpot acoustic strumming? San Marino and Andorra get a look in, but where are the Vatican?
The majority of entries are either forgettable ballads fronted by Disney princesses, or forgettable Euro dance-pop. Life is too short to listen to all 43 entries, but after a quick squint at YouTube I have decided that the following raise themselves above the mediocrity:
France: Divine by Sebastian Tellier
OMG! This is an actual proper pop song! Sebastien has released 3 albums of lo-fi electronic loveliness, toured with Air and featured on the Lost in Translation soundtrack. France sensibly chose Divine without a public primetime TV contest, which is why they're represented by a cheeky slice of Gallic electro-pop. It manages to be kitsch without being all 'postmodern' (eg a bit sneering), and is produced by half of Daft Punk. There was some kerfuffle over the English lyrics, but Sebastian will be Frenching it up for the final. So we can all breathe a Francophile sigh of relief over that.
Ireland: Irlande Douze Pointe by Dustin The Turkey
Oh, now this is just inexcusably bad and offensive. Puppet turkey Dustin is a 'big star' in his native Ireland, but in England he's less famous than his former colleagues, Zig and Zag. Yes, Zig and bloody Zag. Dustin shouts poorly scanned gibberish over a ludicrous dance beat about 'Eastern Europe we love you, do you like Irish stew? Or goulash as it is to you?' Some morons probably think this is satire. It's not. It's is taking novelty too far and it's actually mocking Eurovision by waving a poor quality puppet in its face while blowing a raspberry. Ireland: you should be ashamed. Dustin & Co: go and stand outside in the corridor.
Russia: Believe by Dima Bilan
Heart-throb balladeer Dima is wildly popular in Russia, and represented his country in ESC 2006. Dima is hungry for an international career, and has paid up the dollars for pop maestro Timbaland to produce this. And it sounds like it come from Ryan Tedder's wastebasket. Oddly, Greece's Kalomoira Saranti manages to sound more like Timbaland than Timbaland. Her Secret Combination is a clunky reworking of Timbaland's uber-hit, Give It To Me and features a heavy-handed metaphor for virginity.
Ukraine: Shady Lady by Ani Lorak
Many of the Euro dance entries sound like DJ Sash never went out of fashion, and this is my favourite. It's about 70% chorus, 20% aggressively commercial house production and 10% sequins. The big, big chorus and clubland strings pummel you into submission and although it's cheesy, isn't this an accurate representation of Ukrainian pop music? People can snigger that this sounds like 1993, but Ukraine is still in transition from the Soviet Union to independence. Ukrainians probably want their pop to be big, uncomplicated and pounding. And this is as pounding as they come.
Belgium: O Julissi by Isthar
This is a folk ditty in a made-up language. It's a bit naff, but somehow adorable. And amongst all the heavily produced entries, it seems revolutionary to have a few people singing over some instruments. And there's a flute solo, which Eurovision has been missing for some time.
Bulgaria - DJ Take Me Away by Deep Zone & Balthazar
A throbbing mix of turntablism, breakdancing and rave synths, this three-minute marvel is interesting because somebody forgot to write a song. An enchanting damsel in a nightie sings a two-line vocal hook, and little more. Yes, they're entering the Eurovision Song Contest - without a song.
Wednesday 16 April 2008
Current obsession - Robyn
Today I just want to gobble down Robyn's fifth (and surely final from the album) UK single, Who's That Girl. Because not only is this pop triumph warbled by Robyn, it's produced by The Knife. The Knife! A Swedish duo so good they deserve an exclamation mark - and I'm not just saying that because Pitchfork told me to.
Who's That Girl has been around since 'Robyn' was released in Sweden in 2005, but it still sounds like the future. Between the cardboard box drums and spaceship synths it feels like 2011, at the very least. The synth lines and beat would fit comfortably onto The Knife's 'Silent Shout', but where many of that album's tracks span out sexually adrogynous swooshes and swirls, Robyn's lyrics tame the production into a concise four minutes. She plays out her frustrations with the feminine ideal, concluding that the ideal doesn't exist in reality and she'll do what she wants, on her terms (sample: 'good girls are sexy like everyday / I'm only sexy when I say it's ok').
Robyn's yelping and white girl rap (please see Konichiwa Bitches) may not be to everyone's taste, but I'm glad she's tearing down those boring old ideas that young women in pop should be sexually available, permanently glossy and passive. Bravo Robyn, for her awkward beauty.
Who's That Girl has been around since 'Robyn' was released in Sweden in 2005, but it still sounds like the future. Between the cardboard box drums and spaceship synths it feels like 2011, at the very least. The synth lines and beat would fit comfortably onto The Knife's 'Silent Shout', but where many of that album's tracks span out sexually adrogynous swooshes and swirls, Robyn's lyrics tame the production into a concise four minutes. She plays out her frustrations with the feminine ideal, concluding that the ideal doesn't exist in reality and she'll do what she wants, on her terms (sample: 'good girls are sexy like everyday / I'm only sexy when I say it's ok').
Robyn's yelping and white girl rap (please see Konichiwa Bitches) may not be to everyone's taste, but I'm glad she's tearing down those boring old ideas that young women in pop should be sexually available, permanently glossy and passive. Bravo Robyn, for her awkward beauty.
Monday 14 April 2008
Wonky pop
On Saturday night I had a riotous chuckle when Popjustice's Wonky Pop tour bounced into Korova. I missed out on Frankmusik because I was eating my dinner. Food has to come before bands. Sorry.
Leon Jean Marie was splendidly funktastic, while Danish pop scamps Alphabeat headlined. Ah, Alphabeat: so smiley, so youthful and so lovely. I could just cuddle them all night. From 10,000 Nights of Thunder to Fascination, they shimmied through adorable camp pop. Yes, you need to be predisposed to like "that" sort of "thing", but I do and most of the sweaty punters appeared to agree. It's not an average night in the haircut-filled Korova when people are waving camera phone towards the stage and shouting 'WHOO!!!' and 'YEAH!!!'
It was also a joy to bop around to some pop tunes, such as Sebastien Tellier's French Eurovision entry (it is, quite literally, Divine).
There was even a special VIP area, separated with some seating and this sign:
Leon Jean Marie was splendidly funktastic, while Danish pop scamps Alphabeat headlined. Ah, Alphabeat: so smiley, so youthful and so lovely. I could just cuddle them all night. From 10,000 Nights of Thunder to Fascination, they shimmied through adorable camp pop. Yes, you need to be predisposed to like "that" sort of "thing", but I do and most of the sweaty punters appeared to agree. It's not an average night in the haircut-filled Korova when people are waving camera phone towards the stage and shouting 'WHOO!!!' and 'YEAH!!!'
It was also a joy to bop around to some pop tunes, such as Sebastien Tellier's French Eurovision entry (it is, quite literally, Divine).
There was even a special VIP area, separated with some seating and this sign:
Just Passin' Through by The Mouth
Another track review for This Is Fake DIY:
Post-Oasis Britrock has crowds of laddish rock band swaggering for centre stage: The Fratellis, Reverend and the Makers, The Twang… and now, hidden somewhere behind a drum riser and John McClure’s ego, The Mouth. Apparently, they’re from West London, although there’s nothing in the Kooks jangle, Enemy bravado and Ian Brown oration to indicate this.
Just Passin’ Through is a song infused with rowdy nights out, success with the birds and standing up for your mates. And probably has a permanent smug gurn plastered on its chops and triumphant fist held aloft (cf Robbie Williams circa Millennium or Rock DJ). While dressed in a football shirt. On a stag weekend in Dublin. For all it lacks in subtlety, Just Passin’ Through almost makes it up with shout-along ‘ah ah ah’ refrains (or gurgle along, depending on how many cans of weak lager has been consumed) and lengthy guitar solo of unself-conscious machismo. Almost. Just Passin’ Through, unfortunately, is no greater than the sum of its lad-rock parts.
Post-Oasis Britrock has crowds of laddish rock band swaggering for centre stage: The Fratellis, Reverend and the Makers, The Twang… and now, hidden somewhere behind a drum riser and John McClure’s ego, The Mouth. Apparently, they’re from West London, although there’s nothing in the Kooks jangle, Enemy bravado and Ian Brown oration to indicate this.
Just Passin’ Through is a song infused with rowdy nights out, success with the birds and standing up for your mates. And probably has a permanent smug gurn plastered on its chops and triumphant fist held aloft (cf Robbie Williams circa Millennium or Rock DJ). While dressed in a football shirt. On a stag weekend in Dublin. For all it lacks in subtlety, Just Passin’ Through almost makes it up with shout-along ‘ah ah ah’ refrains (or gurgle along, depending on how many cans of weak lager has been consumed) and lengthy guitar solo of unself-conscious machismo. Almost. Just Passin’ Through, unfortunately, is no greater than the sum of its lad-rock parts.
Lucky Jack/Build Around Me by I Concur
Seven-inch single review I scribbled for This Is Fake DIY (well, not so much scribbled as lovingly composed):
Leaving the snug surroundings of Dance to the Radio compilations, Leeds-based quartet I Concur go it alone with debut double A-side Lucky Jack / Build Around Me.
And it’s a shoegaze romp of guitars churning away like Explosions in the Sky, or any bearded post-rock Canadian band you wish to name. Both (very similar) songs tread the well-trodden shoegazer path of opening in a rumble of quietly portentous guitars, then it goes all loud and exciting followed by another chin-stroking quiet bit. Finally, it goes really LOUD. With a barrage of cymbals pummelling away to confirm that yes, you have reached the climax. So far, so above average anger-driven, vaguely intellectual rock. But this is Jesus & Mary Chain without any issues. This is My Bloody Valentine renting a city centre flat with laminate flooring. It wants to be angry, really it does, but it doesn’t have anything to be angry about. In Lucky Jack, singer Tim Hann shrugs off vague lyrical metaphors about cannons, sunrise and stalkers. On Build Around Me he murmurs ‘there’s no negotiation or debate, just build around me,’ defeated in the face of progressing luxury flats. A shame that I Concur sound crushed by the growth of urban regeneration and inherent alienation, as there is a deliciously ominous roar to some of their reverberating guitar work.
Leaving the snug surroundings of Dance to the Radio compilations, Leeds-based quartet I Concur go it alone with debut double A-side Lucky Jack / Build Around Me.
And it’s a shoegaze romp of guitars churning away like Explosions in the Sky, or any bearded post-rock Canadian band you wish to name. Both (very similar) songs tread the well-trodden shoegazer path of opening in a rumble of quietly portentous guitars, then it goes all loud and exciting followed by another chin-stroking quiet bit. Finally, it goes really LOUD. With a barrage of cymbals pummelling away to confirm that yes, you have reached the climax. So far, so above average anger-driven, vaguely intellectual rock. But this is Jesus & Mary Chain without any issues. This is My Bloody Valentine renting a city centre flat with laminate flooring. It wants to be angry, really it does, but it doesn’t have anything to be angry about. In Lucky Jack, singer Tim Hann shrugs off vague lyrical metaphors about cannons, sunrise and stalkers. On Build Around Me he murmurs ‘there’s no negotiation or debate, just build around me,’ defeated in the face of progressing luxury flats. A shame that I Concur sound crushed by the growth of urban regeneration and inherent alienation, as there is a deliciously ominous roar to some of their reverberating guitar work.
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