for fans of: The Internet, James Blake, Childish Gambino
a poor illustration by me
The only thing that could awaken me from my eight-month writer's block/blogging hibernation was the same cosmic powers that placed Frank Ocean back into public consciousness. Frank's four year hiatus has, along with 'Hotline Bling' and Harambe, provided just enough meme material to last the Internet this long. Thankfully, Frank Is Dead is finally dead as he presents Blonde: possibly the most anticipated album of all time. No pressure then.
Blonde is not a pop album. It's not the euphoric, commercially on-point, occasional sing-a-long Channel Orange that made Frank Ocean a cult icon. Maybe that's why some fans haven't jumped completely on ship... just yet. Blonde is initially faux-avant-garde. It's an exploration, a way for Ocean to find his feet; oozing subtlety and spewing poetry to make Whitman green with envy. The Frank of Channel Orange fame has regenerated, and in his place comes someone every so slightly wary of his musical ambition.
This is mapped out in opening track 'Nikes'. It begins life rich in crispy autotune, interposing lyrics like "R.I.P. Pepsi / R.I.P. Trayvon, that nigga looked just like me" before it meanders into the unmistakable voice that a generation has missed. Much like the rest of Blonde, the noticeable lack of percussion makes it audibly light. Yet, also like Blonde as an entity, the labyrinthine artistry of Ocean weighs rings heavily in the silence.
That's not to say that there aren't parts of Blonde that are dyed orange. Much of the album is gracefully opiated and no longer youthfully hedonistic, yet many of the wistful and dreamy soundscapes wouldn't be far from home with Blonde's predecessor. This rings most true with the first half of the album, particularly with 'Ivy', 'Pink + White' (not to mention that Channel Orange features tracks entitled both 'Pink Matter' and 'White') and 'Skyline To' which excel in the trademark "indie-fied" hip-hop and paradoxically modernly Shakespearean poetry that have secured Ocean's superstardom.
His aforementioned stardom is one quite unlike any other, best exemplified in the album's use of featured artists. Only a musician who humbly commands the kind of respect that Ocean has could score a Beyoncé feature ('Pink + White')... and make her only provide backing vocals. I'm certain even Jay-Z could never get away with such a feat. It's a similar story with 'Skyline To': upon reading "featuring Kendrick Lamar" on the tracklist, the anticipation mounts to hear maybe an 'Alien Girl' or even a 'untitled 07'-esque refrigerated verse. Instead the rap superstar offers merely six odd words, shifting attention away from him and onto the musical landscape that him and Ocean have created. This composition, again like Blonde as a completed body of work, everything is as mis-matched as it is delicately balanced.
Yet, the most unlikely collaboration on Blonde turns out to be the most winning; possibly the most fitting track on the album's audible aesthetic. 'Self Control' features Swedish hip-hop hero Yung Lean, thus perfectly encapsulating the album's power struggle between its own simplicity and complexity. Every way the robotics bend make it sound like an illegal high in a way that's simultaneously out of this world and grounded firmly on earth. Then the strings kick in: it's affirmed that Blonde was worth the wait. It cements its status as a comfort album - an album for blankets and early mornings and awkward comedowns.
Arguably, Blonde wouldn't have been possible without a changing music industry. As digitalisation has more or less taken over the way audiences consume music (bar the vinyl revolution and emphasis on touring to generate revenue where album sales may miss out), artists are drawing attention to their upcoming releases through alternative mediums. While Beyonce twinned her blockbuster album Lemonade with an accompanying short film and Kanye continues to re-release edited and updated versions of The Life of Pablo, Frank Ocean has too selected streaming exclusivity as well as simultaneously releasing a very experimental visual album and a zine featuring the now-infamous McDonald's poem by Kanye (not worth reading, btw. Just adding it for interest.). And people still say they're "disappointed" with Frank. Sheesh, what's a guy gotta do to get some commendation? He cares 'bout y'all.
Whether he's navigating 21st century perceptions of dating and masculinity in the sketch-like 'Good Guy', churning alternative sunshine beats in 'Nights' or purring out odes to "your speckled face" on 'Seigfried', Blonde proves to be not always easy listening, but always a morphed kind of beautiful. Take your time to listen more than once before you fully form your opinion, because there's way more to Blonde than meets the ear. It was a really difficult album to write about - not even taking my writer's block into consideration. Yet, each time I've relistened there's something I haven't heard before and I'm slowly discovering myself feeling every syllable, every reverberated chord. If you've ever read Beckett, you'd know that everything is detailed and each word and punctuation mark is there for a reason. I feel like Blonde is almost an audible version of this experience. It's an album of nuances, and you've got to be open to being responsive to it all.
"Acciomixtape's end of year mixes are always the best. This is a fact." - Kanye West
A soundtrack for 2015.
21. Colors - Halsey
for fans of: Ryn Weaver, Troye Sivan, Banks
2015 was a great year for pop music. It's been a long time coming, but it seems that enjoying pop music is well on its way to becoming something of the mainstream. Critics are warming up to sugary beats, the stars are getting more serious and music snobs are becoming more and more extinct. Halsey, for example, has been hailed as the 'next-big-thing' but I personally think she's run-of-the-mill and a bit embarrassing and unbearable). She's nothing particularly original and seems to have molded her entire persona on a cocky model of Lorde, but this song still strikes a chord. Once the childish first verse dissolves into the bridge, everything supercharges. The sultry alien beats merge with the hue-themed lyrics to create a kaleidoscopic atmosphere, leading into the powerhouse chorus which oozes vulnerable emotion. Perhaps Halsey is so acclaimed is because of moments like her enchanting spoken monologue, the cherry on top of a remarkable pop song: "you were red and you liked me because I was blue / you touched me and suddenly I was a lilac sky / and you decided purple just wasn't for you".
20. Eventually - Tame Impala
for fans of: MGMT, Unknown Mortal Orchestra, Temples
On their strongest album to date, Tame Impala have been more scrupulous with their sound. Their universe is more sonic and immersive as it tackles the kind of 80s electronica that makes you think of permed hairdos being blown about by a wind machine. On Eventually, Kevin Parker whines "I know that I'll be happier / and I know you will too" in, what has become, a hugely reflective heartbreak anthem. The sticky bass reverberates through crashing synths as musical moments are left to run wild before abruptly being reined back in. Psych music has found its place in the 21st century with Tame Impala.
19. Loud Places (feat. Romy) - Jamie xx
for fans of: James Blake, Disclosure, SBTRKT
Part of Jamie xx's Mercury Prize nominated In Colour spectrum, Loud Places is gorgeous. Two thirds of The xx feature on this track, with one of the world's most knowing producers handing vocal duties to bandmate Romy Croft. The results are bewitching. Romy's hushed whispering vocals pull you in and make you listen closely - they're effortless and minimalistic yet introspective, complementing Jamie xx's downbeat production. The pulse of London's clubbing scene (that's the cool East London haunts, not Tiger Tiger Croydon) runs through the veins of Loud Places, making me think of blurry eyed drops and the luminosity of night buses. Soon the chorus builds spectacularly and you're lost in electric gospel where everything is alive and wonderful.
18. Know Yourself - Drake
for fans of: A$AP Rocky, Future, Post Malone
The king of the meme released a boundless stream of hits this year, starting with his surprise album, If You're Reading This It's Too Late, lighting fires with the Meek Mill diss track Back To Back, and finishing with worldwide phenomenon Hotline Bling. Whatever Drake touches seems to turn to gold, and the hurricane thrill of Know Yourself is no exception. Being the only person to ever refer to his hometown of Toronto as 'The Six' is a minor detail to the Canadian rapper - he can do whatever the fuck he wants. This time around he illustrates his demons racing through the city with him on top of the glistening neon beat that so comfortably glides along beneath him. It's classic Drake - "I'm the realist, but I'm also emotionally unstable". If only hip-hop superstars could be emos too.
17. Ladybird - Beach Baby
for fans of: Alvvays, Beach House, Gengahr
Deep in the grooves among the lyrical nonsense of Beach Baby's debut single ("I wanna be your brother / take a bite of the apple and just spit it out / I wanna be your mother / raise you up and fuck you right up" like...okay...) there seems to be a momentum. There is a growth in the song's melioration from stubborn acoustic twangs into wide-eyed indie rock - and it's a little bit magical. Everything is layered - the alternating lead vocals, swirling percussion, hazy backing vocals, ceaseless guitars - to create a dreamy musical landscape. Understated beauty at its best.
16. Baby Blue (feat. Chance The Rapper) - Action Bronson
for fans of: Joey Bada$$, Childish Gambino
There are a lot of rappers way more meaningful and necessary than Action Bronson, but few have an audible charisma like his. Baby Blue is a scathing curse to an ex-lover that still manages to be endearing and fanciful. Bronson's raspy, soulful delivery is somber and unapologetic, whereas Chicago superstar Chance The Rapper is rogue enough to distribute a very sincere 'fuck you' to whoever deserves it. This is braided into jazz and funk inspiration, which become less abstract once you know the track has been produced by Mark Ronson, drawing unlikely comparisons to the attitude of someone like Lily Allen. Spiteful and petty, but the mid-tempo bounce adds humour, not hatred, to both rapper's use of ingenious wordplay.
15. Mess Around - Cage The Elephant
for fans of: The Strokes, Palma Violets, Spring King
Kentucky rockers Cage The Elephant seem to have almost completely ditched the teenage angst of their first two albums, first evident in 2013's Melophobia which was rife with a new kind of maturity. Though they haven't returned to the jumpy anxiety of their early years, they've shaken off this sophistication in favour of a regression into cheeky adolescent rock - and this is a good thing. Produced by god almighty Dan Auerbach of The Black Keys, it's an entirely eccentric take on crooked and gnarly blues sounds. Self-proclaimed OutKast influences are evident in the mischief of Matt Schultz's delivery, resulting in a playful and vintage-tinged yet full-sounding rock record that paves the way to a reckless fourth album.
14. Can't Feel My Face - The Weeknd
for fans of: Miguel, Frank Ocean, Trey Songz
Who would've thought that the guy with the filthy lyrics and the poodle on his head could turn around and make one of the world's most astronomical hit records? Beauty Behind The Madness spawned a superabundance of polished hits, but none were as polished as his Michael Jackson moment Can't Feel My Face. To say this track is smooth is an overwhelming understatement - it's so damn smooth you could spread it on toast. The extraterrestrial production pulls you in from the minute it drops and your feet are left itching until the very end. With basslines that wouldn't be out of place on the Drive soundtrack and lyrics so absurd they almost make sense (he can't feel his face when he's with her? Well okay, I'll roll with that), Can't Feel My Face revels in its own simplicity. What The Weeknd lacks in vowels, he makes up for in universal appeal.
13. One Great Song And I Could Change The World - Swim Deep
for fans of: Peace, The 1975, Splashh
"Have I said why I love the sunrise? It's cause it's only gonna get lighter / feels different than paradise, is this love?" lead singer Austin Williams murmurs into the static on the opening track of Swim Deep's second album Mothers. Optimistically and epically titled, One Great Song And I Could Change The World has the kind of futuristic orchestral arrangements you may expect to find in a space movie soundtrack. Having ditched the drippy indie rock, Swim Deep have found bliss in the euphoric psychedelia evident in songs like this. Everything sounds deeper, snappier and magnified, lost in the acidic twilight of fizzy synths. One dizzy spoken monologue later and Swim Deep have a great song on their hands, but can it change the world?
Just because Honey Moon are the lesser-known act on this list, it doesn't mean they need be overlooked. Ellie, the first track from their self-titled and independently released EP, is a pensive catapult back into the sounds of childhood. Listening to this track feels like watching a home video VHS tape. Whimsical and romantic, Ellie is shrouded in heavenly harmonies and shimmering instrumentals. The atmosphere created is of nothing but luscious and self-indulgent summer laziness and the innocent gaiety of first love.
11. Different Angle - The Cribs
for fans of: The Courteeners, Arctic Monkeys, The Libertines
This year, The Cribs released their seventh studio album For All My Sisters - arguably their best to date. It boasted pop-tinged garage with tough punk edges. While the lead single Burning For No One tingled with disco vibes, Different Angle blusters potent rock and roll that reaks of classic status. As the song makes its way through each verse, chorus and bridge, the melodies beef up and the band's dynamics flourish. Lacking no luster on the Jarman brothers' behalves, the slippery guitars make for riotous festival rock for the ages. Drenched in harmless fun and characterised by shout-a-long chourses, it will have Cribs fans old and new toe-tapping for years to come.
for fans of: Public Access TV, Twin Peaks, Circa Waves
Kickstarting the top ten is Jasmine - a diamond in the rough from new kids on the block The Magic Gang. Hotly tipped for 2016, the Brighton band offer an airy approach to sprightly indie rock. It's refreshing to see a band from this genre not taking themselves too seriously and embracing their uncoolness. Their upbeat nerd rock is most conspicuous in Jasmine: modest yet tender and heartfelt, built around coquettish riffs and buoyant hand claps. Woozy and summery, The Magic Gang have captured the kitschness of a certain 50s barber quartet feeling for the modern age.
9. You're A Germ - Wolf Alice
for fans of: Drenge, Alabama Shakes, Superfood
This year Wolf Alice released one of the best debut albums to come out of the UK music scene in many years. My Love Is Cool won the hearts and souls of music fans and critics alike with their unique brand of glitter grunge. The album had a fair sprinkle of cheery indie sweetness (Bros, Freazy) but was most daring when the London quartet dabbled in bold, slaughtering rock. You're A Germ is the best of a very, very good bunch. Beginning quiet and unassuming (oh, how you've underestimated Wolf Alice), the track abruptly, and heroically, dives headfirst into brash noise. It's a fearless track, characterised by tenacity and screaming countdowns, but, of course, it's bloody and shameless and ticks all the right boxes. Long live Wolf Alice.
8. Jealous - Nick Jonas
for fans of: Justin Timberlake, Selena Gomez, Ariana Grande
As a feminist I should hate this song - it's possessive, portrays women as solely purposed to be the object of the male gaze, and its lyrical content encourages women to relinquish control of their own sexuality even though many live performances of the song feature scantily clad women dancing behind Jonas. However, I am only human and I have a weakness for boppy pop classics. Maybe it's the surprising and new-found slinky confidence of the baby Jonas brother or the glorious falsetto hook that make this song truly irresistible. The slick R&B infused production and aeronautical singalong chorus are a recipe for chart success. Huge props to Nick J: in early 2015, when this fuckboy anthem was unleashed in the UK, Jealous was well on its way to being the pop song of the year. However, that was until What Do You Mean hit the airwaves and pissed all over it (that said, Sorry soon ran away with that crown).
Kendrick Lamar is important. Really important. Not only are modern day legends clamoring for a piece of the Kendrick effect (David Bowie has claimed that he was influenced by the US rapper on his forthcoming album), but music fans across the universe are all nodding simultaneously and praising his sophomore effort To Pimp A Butterfly as the album of the year (this fan is wholeheartedly in agreement). There are a plethora of tracks to choose from as the best from the album, but there's something special about Hood Politics. As ever, Kendrick's flow is smart, but it's sharper here - teasing aggression instead of respiring it like he does in The Blacker The Berry. There's a certain cheek in charting his journey "from Compton / to Congress" that he seems very self-aware of, highlighted by the mellow and sophisticated beats that boil under his spits. Lamar has been instrumental in promoting the #BlackLivesMatter movement and is taking no liberties in accentuating its prominence both socially and politically, calling out the "Democrips and Rebloodicans" in a fusion of a critique of 'real' politics and the politics of hip-hop. When the offbeat synthetic drums drop out and he pipes "Obama say what it do", Hood Politics falls far into soul-influenced glory and reminds us of Kendrick's genius.
6. Shutdown - Skepta
for fans of: Wiley, JME, Stormzy
Grime superstar Skepta has arguably had the biggest breakout year of them all. Skepta went from the guy who London school kids used to talk about on Formspring (that didn't happen to you? Where were you?) to the favourite of your upper middle class white friends who live on country estates in Suffolk. Everyone's had his name tattooed on them, from kids who belong on Sun, Sex and Suspicious Parents to actual Drake (kind of), proving that, bar Adele's Hello, Shutdown is probably the most iconic song to come out of 2015. It has topped best track lists complied by everyone from The Guardian to NME, and is way more important than anyone gives credit to the North London MC for. It's catchy, has a bombastic brass intro, and is entirely tongue-in-cheek as it basks in its own brilliance. The king of counterculture is a true trailblazer with fire under his Adidas.
5. Bitch Better Have My Money - Rihanna
for fans of: Beyoncé, Azealia Banks, Nicki Minaj
Rihanna courted controversy this year (does she ever shy away from it?) upon premiering the accompanying video of 2015's coolest club hit, Bitch Better Have My Money. Was there a feminist message behind the gory violence? Or was it entirely misogynistic and reductive? Were there important representations of race intertwined in the narrative? Or was it all simply self-indulgent and ridiculous? In short, the video split opinion and distracted from how kind of brilliant the song itself is, suggesting we're all a bit too wrapped up in the fickle Madonna-Miley shock factor. Executively produced by Kanye West (who else), Rihanna shakes off her R&B royalty in favor of taking her rightful place as the commanding and reigning empress of hip-hop. Melodically, the track is monotone but the metallic beat drips with a wholly lovable breed of arrogance. The OG trap queen is back, this time evolved as a sassy garage gangster, and she doesn't show any signs of slowing down.
4. Sooth Lady Wine - Matt Corby
for fans of: Jeff Buckley, Chet Faker, Ben Howard
Following a hiatus that has lasted for over two years, Australian singer-songwriter (and real-life Jesus) Matt Corby declared on his Facebook page "I recorded an album two years ago that I didn't like". This was the sound of the rumbling folk-rock of his international smash hits Brother and Resolution, however his latest single, Sooth Lady Wine, could not be further away from the genre he made his name in. As the honey-soaked production ripples through the instrumental, Corby croons "you sold me out to the man to the man to the man with the nuclear plant", bringing hippy 70s vibes into context, taking listeners on a delirious acid trip. There is a timelessness in the song's swooning psychedelia; its syrupy riffs and jazzy percussion are delicious. Corby has found himself knee-deep in a new, drippy kind of genre and, by the sound of things. he has already mastered it.
3. Sorry - Justin Bieber
for fans of: music in general
2015 was the year everyone became a Belieber: the critics, your nan, the roadmen on your Snapchat, and the ones who were always fans but concealed their love for fear of public ridicule. His comeback blockbuster Purpose is loaded with enough ammunition to set the world alight, but it is Sorry which is the masterpiece. Sorry is his Starry Night, his Weeping Woman, his Mona Lisa. The Skrillex produced track takes audiences worldwide on a whirlwind trip into ecstasy with contagious verses and lofty choruses (even though the opening makes me think of a seal). It's impossible not to be dazzled by the bubbling beats and tropical bops. There's even something very emotive in his utterances...deep down...somewhere. Regardless, the world is going through a Bieber renaissance: Where Are Ü Now caught our attention, What Do You Mean sustained it, but it was Sorry which made us Belieb. The only thing Justin should be apologising for now is for not warning the public before releasing such an unprecedented set of bangers.
for fans of: Father John Misty, Max Jury, Paul McCartney
Heartbreak ballads don't come more devastating than Without You. Piano man Tobias Jesso Jr. is the balladeering answer to Drake; both Canadian giants (Drake is one of the biggest rappers in the world, Tobias is a ginormous 6ft7) have you nostalgically philosophising over loves you never lost and exes you don't miss. His debut album Goon, produced by The Black Keys' Patrick Carney, is full of gems, but Without You stands out head and shoulders above the rest (as Tobias does, the freakin' giant). From the first trembling murmur of "why can't you just love me?", you're drowning with him until, by the track's conclusion, you're literally drowning in a puddle of your own tears and screaming "WHY IS THIS HAPPENING TO ME?" (this has never happened to me). And you're not alone in this: the Haim sisters are superfans (Danielle plays drums on the track) and Adele has declared him one of her favourite people and snapped him up to co-write that low-selling underground album of hers, 25. Without You works so damn beautifully because it's simple; there are no gimmicks, nothing to sell himself with. - just a piano and his broken heart.
for fans of: The Maccabees, Bombay Bicycle Club, Arcade Fire
British rock music climbed to new peaks following the release of a brand spanking new Foals record this August. What Went Down trampled new ground while staying true to what it is to be Foals - their sounds, their visions that they so uniquely possess. Everything Foals have done since Antidotes has felt very naturally inspired and elemental - both aesthetically and audibly. While the trance-rock of Total Life Forever dealt with oceanic bodies of water and Holy Fire rumbled with fiesty guitar thrashing, What Went Down married the peaceful with the epic and was truly mountainous. It can only be right that the true highlight from the Oxford band's latest gem was Mountain At My Gates: an anthem for the ages. It is the vocals of lead singer Yannis Phillipakis' vocals that seize the listener and are an artform to behold; beginning tamed and graceful, they soon break free as his roars are catapulted to soaring heights before crashing back down into a breathless ending that lingers onto the rest of the record. Each beat builds and builds into the zenith where a culmination of those incredible Phillipakis vocals, thunderous percussion and ricocheting riffs manically result in the finest climax of any song of the past 12 months. I hope you're festival-ready for 2016, because Foals are coming at ya.
for fans of: The Maccabees, Bombay Bicycle Club, Everything Everything, Bloc Party
In selecting a name, Foals did themselves an injustice. Such as namesake suggests that they are meek and mild baby horses waiting to graze on success, yet, in reality, they are stallions galloping to the forefront of British music. To an extent, this is achieved through beautifully cogitated albums that mediate between geeky wackiness and swooping trance rock, however it is their live shows which set them far apart from their modern contemporaries.
Although they're set to sell out arenas throughout the UK in 2016 (and probably headline a few festivals while they're at it), Foals' most recent tour saw them territorising intimate venues across the country - including the University of Bristol's Student Union (like, is this real life? Foals are playing at my uni?!???). It was a weekend of epic proportions for the SU, with their Anson Rooms hosting two of the country's hottest live acts - Slaves shut it down on Saturday with Foals following suit on Sunday.
The tour is in support of their fourth studio album What Went Down - their most emphatic to date. Part of Foals' brilliance is their ability to craft four albums that, on the surface, are noticeably very different yet are all distinctly very Foals - they have their own intricately woven narratives, their own quirks, their own variation on sounds, yet it's easy to exclaim "yes! That's Foals!" in each respective era. It's been a gradual progression from the irrepressible vitality of 2008's Antidotes to the blizzardly intensity of their latest effort that have enabled Foals to shapeshift into one of the world's most intoxicating live acts.
It was of little surprise that the Bristol leg of their tour was nothing short of a spectacle. However, from the strike of the first chord of Snake Oil, things look initially unpromising. While the band instantly got into their element among the robotic guitars and febrile percussion, the crowd's response was lukewarm. A swell of panic swallowed the room - is this really what the show would be like? While Foals trotted thunderously onstage, the audience would just... bop? Luckily, as Snake Oil trickled into the emblematic opening of indie anthem Mountain At My Gates the tables turned and the circus was in town. The surge in enthusiasm created one of the most elated moments in the set and it became clear that, although they cherish the recent gems from What Went Down, Foals fans love one thing: familiarity.
Throughout the gig, the Anson Rooms perspired with sweat and passion in equal measure, exuding from both the stage and those who worshiped beneath it. From the disco bop of My Number; to the trance-inspired, shoulder-climbing rock of Spanish Sahara; and the fiery outbursts from frontman Yannis Phillipakis, booming "FUCK THE TORIES" to an explosion of cheers - anything thrown out there by the Oxford band was met with ardor. Foals fans experience something along the lines of idoltary for this band and their unique stream of thrashing guitar magnetism.
In a triumphant encore, Foals reentered the stage to deafening applause - which could've been way rowdier if not for the fatigue and breathlessness deep in the pits. They begun their final juncture onstage with delicate ballad London Thunder. Expressing the band's ambidexterity for the gracefully tender and the roaring epic, they launched into the incitement of their new era - What Went Down, whose blustering guitar rock could've caved the roof in, as limbs flew wall to wall and shoes soared off of feet. Terminating the hysteria with Two Steps, Twice, Phillipakis dives into the bodies and fully immerses himself in the success and undying devotion that the group have worked so hard to cement. Here's to another year of triumph for them.
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for fans of: The Courteeners, The Enemy, The Libertines
the cribs at glasto earlier this year (photo creds: nme)
Despite playing to a noticeably under-capacity venue, Wakefield trio The Cribs luxuriated their place on the Bristol stage. Constantly telling the sweating bodies of the O2 Academy that this was the best show they've ever played in the city, they failed to crack a smile, but nonetheless succeeded in delivering their trademark dynamic garage rock. What the Jarman brothers - Gary, Ross and Ryan, complete with their Beatles-inspired drum skin - lacked in crowd connection and a special kind of onstage charisma, they made up for in a cavorting catalogue of classics.
It may have been a Sunday night, but The Cribs' show made for a wayward night of unforgettable throwbacks; the loom of a new week was pushed to the back of the mind. Though they are currently touring on behalf of their sixth album For All My Sisters, which reached the UK top 10 earlier this year, their set seemed to be a non-stop barrage of the tracks that have cemented their 11 year career thus far. Perhaps this is why the audience was almost entirely made up of riotous, balding 30+ males in chinos and one distinctly older gentleman who just had to crowd surf.
Though The Cribs have achieved relatively little mainstream commercial success, they have garnered what can only be described as a cult following. Legions of dedicated fans, such as those at the Bristol leg of their tour, respond tremendously to anything the band throws at them. A 21-strong song setlist is a difficult thing for any musician to pull off (unless you're, like, The Rolling Stones or something) - to inhibit an audience's attention from wavering elsewhere is a craft that The Cribs have (almost) perfected. It's true that new single Summer Of Chances failed to inspire much passion, yet this instance was very much an anomaly.
From their sprawling collection of hits, it's likely that The Cribs would have played your favourite song (EXCEPT there was a horrible omission of the early 00s masterpiece You Were Always The One, which I found to be seriously upsetting). Opening with Ancient History and making their way through classics - both new and old - such as Moving Pictures and super-charged self-confessional I'm A Realist, there were a million moments to shout along to: Hey Scenesters!, the haunting thrills of Be Safe, and, of course, Men's Needs all immediately come to mind. The true diamond of the set (yes, it's one of my favourite songs ever so, yes, I can be shamelessly biased about it all) was You're Gonna Lose Us - the infectiously delusional, essentially Northern 2005 b-side. All anyone wanted to do was roar the chorus back to them: When I'm drunk I can be an arsehole / But that don't mean I've got no class though. Truer words have never been spoken (but I guess the claim that I have class, especially when drunk, is a much debatable one).
It is a rare occasion to leave a venue so satisfied with the artist's choice of showcased material as I did post The Cribs' Sunday night disco.
keep an eye out for our upcoming interview with swim deep on burst radio! i've also been working on pieces for the student newspaper, coming very soooooooon x
for fans of: Unknown Mortal Orchestra, DIIV, The War On Drugs
from a festival performance earlier this year (photo creds: fame images)
Crossing the bridge at Camden Locke, it began. First they were in small quantities then, like a plague of locus, they multiplied and were everywhere. Walking down the street sporting cans of Red Stripe, they were greeted with more of their kind congregated on the grassy slope outside Camden Morrison's or lingering outside bars (which they probably hadn't even been into) on Chalk Farm Road smoking roll-ups. Then, Mecca is reached. And there are, what seems like, millions of them. The Mac Demarco clone squad is out in full force.
It was almost like a convention; the annual meeting for all who seek to emulate the style and aesthetic of Mr Demarco from head to toe. This was no exaggeration: a good 85% (an extremely mathematical estimation) of those who flocked to the Roundhouse to witness their idol in the flesh were living breathing cliches. The majority were clad in baggy t-shirts/sweatshirts/button-ups, jeans with the cuffs rolled up, sport socks pulled up to their ankles and any of the stereotypical footwear deemed acceptable to such a crowd. Many even went as far as to complete their look with the staple Mac accessory: the 80s flat cap (exemplified on 3/4 of his album covers thus far). It was fair to say that my second-hand embarrassment had seldom been so fierce. But at least no one had tried to imitate his iconic tooth gap: get the Demarco look.
Inside the venue itself, the atmosphere of the unmistakably try-hard crowd tiptoed into hysteria. Through the mist of marijuana (yes, people really did stoop to those depths to emphasise their "ultra-hip youthful rebellion") Demarco emerged to a vehement roar. It's clear from the get-go that these fans worship the holy ground he walks on.
Brooklyn's zaniest export has ascended from relative obscurity to against-the-tide hero status. His music is generally gentle soft rock slurs with the occasional doo-wop or quirk - intimate vanilla tunes that, remarkably, are able to keep themselves far away from bland territory - so what is it that's been able to charm the masses?
Mac during saucier times (photo creds: tumblr)
I believe there to be a sort of illusion surrounding Mac Demarco. Because he engages in two-minute-long screams onstage in between songs and because it appears he has minimal responsibilities offstage, many consider him a pinnacle of hedonistic eccentricity. Often photographed surrounded by his beloved Marlboros or wearing a silly billy facial expression, it's easy to see why some perceive him as a bizarre nutjob. In reality, I judge him to be pretty normal. His antics are nothing short of happy-go-lucky banter. He's like a lad, except he's actually funny (e.g. when he strikes a multitude of poses while chanting "John" in honour of one of his new band members) and seems to be suffering from a bit of an identity crisis.
September 9th marked the second of Demarco's sold out shows at Camden's Roundhouse where he demonstrated a set heavy in his latest material from his newly-released mini album Another One. While songs like title-track Another One and The Way You'd Love Her created an aura of magnetism, others such as A Heart Like Hers fell onto deaf ears. His showmanship, however, was not the cause of this, but rather the crowd's bawdy restlessness.
Pictures of Mac Demarco gigs have always shown them to be artistic interpretations of feeding time at the zoo. Honestly, the pits are actual mad ting considering the nature of the music. From fists in faces to the current pulling fans under, it was clear that the mellow slacker smoothness in Demarco's catalogue was unmatched for the fans. The lawlessness reached its peak early in the set as soon as Demarco croaked the lines "As I'm getting older..." and everyone in the crowd screamed the entire song (which is, of course, the lazy boy anthem Salad Days from the 2014 album of the same name) back to him.
While the crowd's energy seemed to die somewhere along the halfway point, Demarco and his band steamrolled through the set like Duracell bunnies until the very end. Every song was the same classic that everyone had heard again and again while their Mac Demarco Spotify sessions played on loop, except live they're beefier and better. With an almost nitty gritty edge to his easy breezy freshness, he incited anarchy with favourites Freaking Out The Neighbourhood and Cooking Up Something Good. Perhaps the more rugged sound emanated from the Roundhouse's hideous sound system which meant hearing any spoken word from anyone onstage was literally impossible. Nonetheless, Demarco and his band seemed to slip into the spotlight of their biggest British stage to date with comfortable ease.
Mac and his Vans crowd surfing last year while they were stiiiiiillll tooooogeeetttthhherrrrr (photo creds: NME)
In his grand finale, Demarco ended with his cozy love serenade to long-time girlfriend Kiera (who he's waking at the end of the studio version - he's not calling over a cat as I originally thought). Still Together's shrill but in-tune wailing has a kind of Lion King-esque vibe going down and the live version has real gusto. While the band members onstage engage in an indulgent instrumental, what else can we expect from Demarco except for him to dive head first into the crowd only to emerge five minutes later utterly battered and bruised. Hobbling back onstage in a Sonic Youth shirt now ripped to shreds and unsalvageable, he mildly threatens to beat up whoever stole one of his red Vans before completing the howls of "stiiiiiillll tooooogethhherrrrrr". Apparently he was so pissed off at this that he refused to encore his usual Metallica cover. A bit of an ironic reaction considering he was detained by police mid-performance last year in Santa Barbara, CA for climbing the venue's scaffolding. I guess there's one thing you can learn from these experiences, Mac: don't feed the hipsters.
...dissecting the politics of the music industry and championing underrated bands one step at a time...
(photo creds: Pooneh Ghana)
Twin Peaks are the generation-defining band that most of the generation hasn't heard of...yet. The cheeky chaps from Chicago (I already regret that alliterative combination) are set to do what The Strokes did for riotous indie rock in the previous decade - shatter any previous misconceptions and spearhead it into a a new, restored direction.
My gripe with modern 'indie' (besides the fact it is a truly awful world that should be used only to - ironically, of course - describe twatty teenagers) is that it fails to live up to its namesake. Indie is, in the classical sense of the word, associated with independent labels that traditionally churned out the kind of music of which this genre originates. However, could this also be translated into a more independent movement of music; one that nudges boundaries, challenge its peers to do better and gets audiences excited just because they can be. Transecendal electronica from Jamie xx and FKA Twigs and underground grime from JME and Skepta are doing this. Apart from the few exceptions, indie rock is not.
As I believe I've mentioned in previous blog entries, I feel that most of modern indie tends to mesh into one. Of course big sing-along choruses are fun, and boppy riffs act as ammunition for festival mosh pits, but what separates decent bands from those of potential heroic status? Indie seems to have lost its roots along the way and it's time that Twin Peaks brought it out of the woods.
Returning to The Strokes comparison; both bands capture rock music in its purest form - (seemingly) unfussed about delicacies, unsubtly advertising a passion for noise and pledging allegiance to their art. This Is It is a landmark in music history, so it should be noted that Twin Peaks' ascent into rock and roll fame won't be as quick as their apparent counterparts. However, who's to say that this quartet can't be as equally meteoric? It could be suggested that The Strokes achieved success so early in their career because they are associated with prominent labels and don't look like they play fight on an hourly basis. On the other hand, Twin Peaks are messy, marijuana obsessed teens, yet the latter's releases are significantly and seriously overlooked which is certainly not down to the quality of their first two projects.
Sunken - their debut mini-album - bursts with feverish colour. Erupting with serious DIY garage rock, it's over quicker than you can bat an eyelid. From the musty vocals to the explosive stifle of the percussion, there is little time for pause in a record that runs for less than twenty minutes: it's lo-fi scuzzy rock and roll in its most natural form.
The urgent immediacy in Sunken is endearing; almost every track fades into one another, giving it a more vintage touch and making it perfect for vinyl (apologies for the pretentiousness but I own it, and it's honestly amazing). There's also something strangely wistful about their lyrics (a la Natural Villain and Ocean Blue) even if they still spiced with youthful slang (particularly my favourite Stand In The Sand - an ode to their holy grail).
Clay of Twin Peaks (photo creds: unknown)
The boyish essence Twin Peaks captured on Sunken lingered into 2014 when they released their sophomore effort Wild Onion. While Sunken trembled with a this-is-an-extended-jam-session vibe, they truly wore their influences on their sleeve during the recording of Wild Onion (perhaps somewhat of a modern masterpiece, but that's just my opinion). These roots of inspiration lay the foundations for a great record and are most obvious in the album's title and artwork which mimic The Beach Boys' Wild Honey. Not only is the title of Twin Peaks' second record a nod to the 1967 album (both compromising untamed vegetation of some kind), but there are also similarities to be found in the fonts and positioning of the two album titles as well as the floral aesthetics - undoubtedly a homage on Twin Peaks' behalf. However, this is not where the Wild Honey influences come to a halt. Throughout Wild Honey there is a hedonistic thrill and buoyancy, particularly in Darlin' and the album's title track, that can be found to be so tightly intertwined in Wild Onion. Though the latter may be without the prominence of keyboards and organs to add that punky edge, the lazy carelessness of each respective band's vocals are uncanny.
i spy the similarities?
The Beach Boys aren't the only sixties/seventies swingers that Twin Peaks emulate. Particularly on Wild Onion, a lot of the tracks have a definite Rolling Stones air to them. From the Mick Jagger-esque yelps of Making Breakfast to the Stones style climaxes of I Found A New Way, it's blatantly obvious that Twin Peaks had Sticky Fingers on rotation whilst recording. The entire album works as a juxtaposition of the forceful garage gnarl (Flavour, No Way Out) with the delicate soft rock (Mirror Of Time and the ambrosial stoner daze of Ordinary People), something akin to The Kinks spectrum. Where Wild Onion truly succeeds is the harmonious balance of both, in tracks such as the uptempo euphoria of stand-out Telephone.
Where Twin Peaks triumph and other bands falter is the way they've coined their inspirations. Their body of work is less of a recycle of what we've heard in the past but more of a leasing of new life into the ways of the old classics. Through wicked live performances and songwriting that's beyond their years, it's clear their ethos is modernisation instead of imitation - and this is why they will reign supreme.
Some may say her power lies in her ability to single-handedly make the largest cooperation in the world redesign their business plan (we're looking at you, Apple). Others in her ability to reduce relatively emotionally stable people of all ages into a fit of tears. Although, it's most prevalent (and, perhaps, most overlooked) in her ability to sell out Hyde Park (that's 65,000+ tickets, I'll have you know). Out of all the other headliners of the British Summertime Festival, the only other act who was able to draw identical numbers were The Who. Neither Britpop heroes Blur nor the founders of modern indie rock The Strokes could achieve such numbers. Hence, Taylor Swift is a musician completely on par with rock legends celebrating their golden anniversary. And she proves it in her biggest UK headline show to date in the company of her London crowd.
The day-long event was opened fittingly by an array of genre-crossing acts. Rae Morris was charming and euphoric; Vance Joy's cotton candy acoustics were impressive and dynamic; though he can't dance for piss and tried (and failed spectacularly) to get an audience who wasn't there for him to sing-a-long to his unknown tracks, John Newman gave his all; and Ellie Goulding went above and beyond, pumping up the crowd with a cluster of electronica fire-starters. Surprisingly, it all made the excruciating seven hour wait from doors opening to Miss Swift's set a little less painful.
For someone who once claimed she couldn't dance and is infamous for her problematic award show moves, the love letter to her beloved new home and show opener Welcome To New York was the first of many performances to boast high-precision body pops and locks. It also set the bar for an ornately camp extravaganza. Almost every sugar-tinted synth was accompanied by high kicks in even higher waisted garments and the most incredible (for lack of a better term) slut drops the eyes have ever seen. Behind the superstar herself was an army of truly exquisite backing dancers to accentuate the big top show. (Collectively, we decided we loved Mason Cutler the most.)
Each beat which burst from the Great Oak Stage was bedazzled to perfection; whether they were a blazing inferno as in her 2013 worldwide smash-hit I Knew You Were Trouble or silky smooth under Style. During the latter - a slinky, seductive instant classic glossed with immaculate hooks and retro riffs - she paraded members of her ever-growing girl squad of beautiful people - Kendall Jenner, Gigi Hadid (I literally died), Serena Williams, Martha Hunt, Karlie Kloss, and Cara Delevingne - to the adoring crowd.
Prior to attending, I was initially a bit ambivalent towards the set list as, for a Swift-till-death personality like myself, it was too 1989-heavy for my liking, particularly due to the inclusion of This Love (which was a bit of a snore and could definitely done with being replaced by a masterpiece like Last Kiss or All Too Well) and You Are In Love. After attending, I still harbour these feelings. However, one of the most bewitching moments of the show was Taylor being suspended above the crowd against a background of sallow oranges as the sun was in mid-set as she acoustically (and unforgettably) sang You Are In Love.
love story at sunset
Yet, her set was not shy of her previous catalogue. Though it did not include any full version of her songs from the greatest album of all time (2010's multi-platinum Speak Now), the songs she did incorporate showed her remarkable talent for reinvention. It's not just the fact that 1989 transformed her from pop princess to the biggest superstar on the planet, but her tour has given her the artistic opportunity to inject fresh energies into her archive. During her platform suspension over the crowd, she played the song that catapulted a then-18 year old Taylor Swift into international music fame: Love Story. Tinkering at her keyboard, she turned the country crossover smash into an 80's tinged ballad. Later in the set, she electrified the crowd with an amazing beefed-up version of one of her dryer tracks We Are Never Getting Back Together, shredding guitar and whipping like it was nobody's business. Her final surprise was a mash up of one of my most favourite T Swizzle songs Enchanted (circa 2010) and brooding ballad Wildest Dreams. Living up to its namesake, it was enchanting. Beginning as a soft piano solo and evolving into a momentous serenade to the beauty and delicacy of love. It was certainly a set highlight.
It is a well-known fact that Taylor is not a one-trick pony. Not only is she, possibly, the most famous singer-songwriter of the 21st century, accomplished multi-instrumentalist, philanthropist and the dictionary definition of 'goals', but she can add 'agony aunt' and 'potential Noble Prize speech writer' to her CV. Before Clean, her severely underrated track about finding yourself in the midst of stormy heartbreak, she gave a speech that wetted the cheeks of many. She preached about the importance of self-love and how we are not "damaged goods", before launching into a graceful melody that captured the crowd.
It is indisputable that Taylor Swift is some kind of phenomenon. She brings the bangers through some of this year's biggest songs - Shake It Off, Blank Space, Bad Blood (the tour version is, unfortunately, minus the explosive Kendrick Lamar appearance) - and lifts them to new, dazzling heights. She has flowered into a bonafide music icon. May the reign of Taylor Swift continue.
With a Letterman appearance across the pond, a sold out UK tour and a top 20 album under their belt, Drenge have got it going on. The London leg of the Undertow tour was held at Camden's famous Electric Ballroom - a mini-Brixton type venue with a dodgy paint job, known to house rising rock and punk acts.
For their sophomore effort Undertow, Drenge departed from dry wit and towards something as close to maturity as you can get while being a member of a rock band who gets cups of overpriced beer thrown at you every night. Undertow was written with a new voice; a new perspective on old themes of death, weapons, and vehement melancholy. While songs like The Snake rumble with vicious biblical undertones and Favourite Son dreams of bloodthirsty sex, they've made a grittier statement than their eponymous debut did. Luckily, their signature meditated fury is easily brought to the stage.
The Loveless brothers (plus one) emerged into a room pumping with testosterone. Sweating adolescent males with rubbery torsos mimicked the boiling angst of Drenge's stone cold grunge. Violent mosh pits broke out from the moment the first echoed chord of album stand-out Running Wild was strung.
The addition of a bassist means Drenge's sound is sonically expansive but lacks niche. They've been replaced with the likes of Slaves and Royal Blood - the latter of which's success they may not achieve as it's unlikely that this Sheffield-born band whose lyrics consist of themes similar to "make you piss your pants / I wanna break you in half" could get the backing of the clean-cut, viewer-hungry BRIT Awards. Regardless, the fever of their live presence really proves that they can do what they want and their fans will follow like a pack of salivating dogs.
What they lack in on-stage charisma, Drenge (Danish for 'boys') make up for in monstrous sound. Lead singer and guitarist Eoin Loveless showcased their new, flavourful riffs in Never Awake - complete with howling crowd wail-a-longs - and old-school grunge favourites like Gun Crazy, where the mosh pits relished Loveless as he growled "woah, oh oh, my baby, oh my baby's gonna mess me around". The fantastic energy of their debut is still present in their sweatiest of new hits - We Can Do What We Want - where the atmosphere transformed into one of a collective acid trip.
Before unusual (i.e. dull; i.e. where is I Don't Want To Make Love To You?) set-closer Let's Pretend, the crowd - sounding like 60 year old heavy smokers - chant along to fan favourite Fuckabout. A few bruises and dislocated shoulders later, Drenge's set ends and proves that total anarchy will forever be in their favour.
The Sebright Arms is an awkward venue. Deep in a pub basement, it attracts clusters of shouty people who are either transfixed or completely unengaged with the music.
What was even more awkward was the joke made by Honey Moon about how they've come all the way from London. No one in the basement of Shoreditch pub laughs, but I thought it was kind of funny. Clad in Mac Demarco flat hats and baggy shirts along with a member who resembles Reid from Criminal Minds, the opening set from this foetal (i.e. they formed in 2015) band is finished in a flash. In all fairness, they probably performed the only four songs they've written: songs about girls and the weather. Yet what they showcase is truly excellent: crafted hippy licks and dips and psychedelic melodies performed not entirely like amateurs but with a whimsical sort of air. Unfortunately, Honey Moon performed for about 20-30 people in the 150+ capacity venue but they are seriously ones to keep on your radar.
Between sets, the crowd grew steadily as a seemingly seamless string of people fed into the crowd. Soon the Sebright Arms was even more awkward - packed and stuffy, drawing in an odd mix of people, and not a bar of phone service in sight.
When Goldsmith University's Beach Baby took to the stage, they were met with a surprising amount of adoration - an unforeseen reaction because they've only released two songs... out of the five or six they already have. Nonetheless, either they have exceedingly impassioned fans, intensely proud family members or, the more likely scenario seeing as this is Britain, everyone was a jolly drunk - everything Beach Baby did was met with rapturous applause.
Fresh off Jungle's European tour and splashing into their first ever London headline show, Beach Baby are a bit of a mix-match - nothing quite fits yet. Blissful percussion beats were met with shredding guitars, and complimentary vocals from two lead singers with questionable fashion choices (like, board shorts????). The traditionally subtle debut single Ladybird was excitingly brash and fierce - totally different to the studio recording. Long gone were acoustic rumblings and vocal mumblings; in it's place were frantic guitars and exasperated vocals. If the crowd was young enough, there might have even been a mosh pit.
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