New Kid on the Blog

Four-chord scandipopper shows off the ingénue innocence we Brits crave in our divas; Aurora Aksnes is equipped with the operatic range to soothe and sparkle, a 4pm pick-me-up for the lonely teen, commuter or cubicle worker. Tempos only venture above pedestrian speeds for the bouncy ‘Daydreamer’ and stompy ‘The Seed’, and cliches ‘Lost in a concrete jungle’ keep her radio friendly, though turns of phrase ‘stitch your skin to my skin’ do serve to give her more bite than compatriot Sigrid. The pleasant final track, an unusually ambient finish for such a bold performer, ties things up nicely- only in these final 2 minutes does AURORA give the impression that she’ll be known for something outside of her feature in the 2015 John Lewis christmas ad. The one with the Moon. 

London-born Sudanese-American Ahmed Gallab and his band continue their mission to unite by tuneful protest. Protests at the genocidal dictator Omar al-Bashir, only in April deposed by the military, and protests at the leader of the free world, whose Muslim Ban follows in step with his country’s dangerous perplexion with the Muslim world that saw Gallab’s country hit by the Al-Shifa factory bombings in 1998. Pride in the land of his parents, now since schismatized and torn apart by war. Hope in the people. Faith in his Lord, that these murky waters are part of a master plan. A universal sound, which any westerner would surely pick out as African, though the constant variety of beat, solo and back-ups means it won’t stick to one tribe, nation or region. This means that Gallab’s worldly message stays in the heads of those who conceived it, and not in the mouths of those Sinkane seeks to represent.

Tamed beast Hayden Thorpe, armed with keys and pipes, attempts to carve out himself a second legacy, this time using half the noise and three times the vibrato. His success on this first solo venture are primarily studio-based, often when some beat or synth line gently emerges then disappears to supplement the voice/piano, giving pieces like ‘Anywhen’ a gorgeous ebb and flow. The flaws however, threaten to put off anyone giving it their full attention. Thorpe describes Diviner as a self-help album, and in that regard I hope that its clumsy maxims are useful to him; as a product it provides neither enough whimsy nor tangibility to empathise with, and at the higher registers Thorpe’s carefully amedolic voice becomes an unrecognisable drone. Not that what he’s saying is of particular interest. The fragile intellect of an emoter, responsible in part for the break-up of Wild Beasts, is laid bare for near-truths that sound more poignant than they are, only managing to try hard, trip and fall. “Cold hard affection aggressively kind/ we're living a life of love crime” makes sense I suppose, makes you pause to ponder, but does it make you feel?

This Liverpudlian trio’s third record is yet another spot of saccharine synth-pop, though Lucy, Emily and Rebecca are proficient enough to drown the vocals in economical beats that bounce along woozily. They kindly make the song titles comprise 80% of the memorable lyrics so you won’t try straining to hear them, so Big Wows lives and dies by the tunes instead-- unfortunately only two of which demand enough repeat plays that I’ll bother listening to the words. The shrill ‘Jokin’ Me’ and the tuneful ‘True Colours’ carry the sugar and substance that drag the Sheep along- the former rushes in to love then the latter peels it back- also unsurprising that both tracks maximise the peripatetic potential of a singing trio- like HAIM but danceable! The other tracks on the album are, well, album tracks.

This release serves not only as a laissez-faire counterpart to last year’s grittier Oxnard, but as Paak’s barometer for the years following 2015′s mammoth Malibu- the free jazz and blue-sky thoughts have receded in lieu of woker issues like Black Lives Matter and whether singing ‘bout hoes should fund raising a kid now approaching double digits. So a compromise is reached on the wholesome sex romp ‘Reachin’ 2 Much’ and by Paak praising two sportsmen he knows to look up to, with his real doubts scattered around the headlines: “Cause if I know I can get it, then I’ve already had it” is wisdom sure to come from a man happily married to his second wife. The lack of label interference means that Ventura has weirder guests and fewer peaks than usual, such as the absent chorus required for ‘Jet Black’ to chart, so it gets by on groove and backings alone, a non-issue. It also means that Paak felt he could close on a bizarre duet with the late Nate Dogg, complete with a stitched-together outro that sours the earlier feelgood vibes to invoke the notion that you could be listening to a humble rapper.

On her first album with label Sub Pop, Natalie Mering teases at the idea of being in love, but despite the delightful LP cover, on Titanic Rising she never takes the plunge. Unlike her funnier, crueller label-mate Josh Tillman, her vibrato pipes can be said to exude sympathy, even if said sardonically to the simpletons she keeps around in her songs. Mering can hit the notes too, but often lingers in her comfort zone, only breaking through on amour de soi warbler ‘Something to Believe’. And it’s an also-ran kind of story throughout the record, beats trudging under the words whilst the instrumental soundscapers are over before they begin. The whole thing is like a bowl of porridge- too sluggish for the charts, too tame and disjointed to hit any psychedelic highs- so file it away with other such aural niceties as Planetarium (Sufjan Stevens et al.) and go find something wackier for when you next visit Lucy in the sky. 

From one Texan to another: Steve Earle’s sixteenth(?) LP is a celebration of the late Guy Clark, who passed on in 2016, and is whose band Earle played bass in the seventies. Whilst there’s little in the way of innovation on an album of 75% ballads, Earle makes a savvy curator- the glory days’ openers segue gorgeously into two nostalgic ones about the trains that started Clark’s story. Earle is a suitable vessel for transmitting Clark’s vignettes, as distant as they are well-constructed, though for sure the new pretender rocks out a little harder when ‘out in the parking lot’. And yeah, it’s a track or two longer than is necessary, and the middle section needs a bit of oomph. But when summarising the life of an artist, colleague and friend, sometimes you get sentimental- which Earle does, nailing ‘The Randall Knife’ and ending on the most obvious and most appropriate song he could: Old Friends.

Cars, drugs and love are the topics of discussion for California’s Jenny Lewis on what is her fourth album. Whether she’s done half the stuff contained within (rough sex, familial heroin and multiple run-ins with the clergy) is besides the point; these are fables of an adventurer’s spirit negotiating a father’s death and preachy exes whilst staying just high enough to find solace in the confusion. Her revel-in-filth attitude occasionally peels back to reveal a squishier core, but mostly On The Line is an orgy of spite and substance wrapped up in witty couplets. Lewis’ tunes don’t quite have the range of her writing but even her ballads are erudite enough to plod along in a satisfactory kind of way, church bells and all. And unlike the speed freaks of John Darnier, Lewis’ meditations are profoundly physical, approaching personal, so the canniest listeners will find something in the cry to “turn up the stereo’ and ‘get back on your Paxil”, cos sometimes there is nothing you can do but screw.

And please read their interview with Pitchfork. It’s sad and delightful simultaneously.

Small-town Norwegian hits the big time by staying true to herself. Sigrid Raabe is as conventional as her Radio 1 listeners; she sports a T-shirt and jeans, sings about getting over boys in her own time, and with her sister founded a band named after their dead cat. She’s supporting George Ezra on tour for Pete’s sake. Thankfully, I’m already numb to UK-blockbuster single ‘Strangers’ which is as British as a football chant; its sober hopefulness lifted by synth-pop and gently humiliated by a bridge of spoken word. Just don’t bet on this ever crossing the pond, it lacks the talent, shock value or pipe-dreams required to seduce American teens. Elsewhere on Sucker Punch, Sigrid outlines her takes on normal breakups for normal students, the hits hopping and ballads boring. Her super choruses come on the pleasant if-interchangeable ‘Basic’, ‘Sight of You’ and ‘Don’t Feel Like Crying’, the last of which containing the only real stinger: “It hasn’t hit me yet”. Compared to Robyn and ABBA for no more than sharing viking blood, the only real statement made by this confident, cheerful lass is that loving oneself is enough. And while I certainly subscribe to this view, shop-bought A4 tapestries carry similar emotional power.

In the year of Lemonade, Bey’s little sister made considerable headway with the journos- A Seat at the Table brought the fire in its own cool way, even sprouting a single in ‘Cranes in the Sky’- and that made sense. She was the cosmic, jazzy sis who scattered her black power message with family skits and Q-Tip quips, aiming for the cerebral rather than celebrity. Her newest record remains on this course, a manifesto laidback in sound but fierce in meaning, but it’s for precisely this reason that it will remain utterly inaccessible to those not keyed into its lethargy. She’s not aiming at the mainstream sure, nothing this slow can, but by avoiding us philistines, Solange loses all the potency that a smart, activist African-American woman can harness. There’s a reason that simple chants are the ones that catch on, and I just wish she’d stooped to write one dumb enough to enjoy. As intricate as her arrangements are, they’re not what I’d call interesting, harvesting normal neo-soul blips and basslines with a some scat backups to tie it all together. Her singing remains thin, strained even, never reaching the anger or catharsis that her cause so often evokes, the power dissipating in a neat 39 minutes.

Irish/American supergroup continue their dominance of traditional-sounding fiddling that us non-Celts don’t know enough not to lap up. Previous albums showcased their knack for enlarging simple motifs into swirling dances, with a penchant for lyrics of a slow and stuttered nature, very earthy. Unfortunately, this newest venture is more of the same, though with the brightness and intrigue discarded. Sure ‘The Lobster’ and ‘Doctor O’Neill’ have the pulse of 2′s ‘The Booley House’, but neither contain enough spark or idiosyncrasy to warrant 7 and 10 minute run-times respectively. The lyrics are darker without insight, too many tales of dead spouses won’t resonate like the warmth of small-village life. Maybe Hayes, Cahill and co. ran out of ideas? More likely they became a little too ensnared by their craft, forgot its humble beginnings and forged into deeper waters. Not that that’s a bad thing, it’s just a path that takes both vision and talent.

The coasts of England don’t have quite the same notoriety as their american counterparts, but that does not mean we can’t have Falmouth surf rock. Lead by the nervous Sam Stacpoole and profound drummer Katja Rackin, Holiday Ghosts’ second outing is a teen rock bouillabaisse of Brexit-era worries; exerts of relationships, conforming to the crowd and running from the mob play out over a distinctly anodyne light rock that gets boogier the harder the subject matter is. The 14 tracks appear as fragments of teenage psyche, never settling but with a consistent feel that lies between exaggerated agoraphobia and confusion- even on the love song they don’t drop the act. That being said, West Bay Playroom is certainly a pleasant listen, in ways good and bad, though perhaps the band’s ambition will grow once they’re back in a real studio. The Ghosts allow but a few guitar solos to slip through this decidedly taut record, so the most liberating parts are the two mantras: Stacpoole’s dodging ‘quarter to one/ four forty-five’ and Katja’s ‘stay blind to the crime till the memory fades’, which stay true to their music personas whilst giving an inkling about the couple’s personal lives.

‘Jazzier’ and having a ‘more soulful feel’ is how the Guardian’s Dave Simpson described the latest from this L.A. freak folker, though it’s unbeknown to me exactly how Dave managed to make out any semblance of form or genre from the sleepy swirl. I am still unable to review it after a generous six listens as I am yet to decipher Pratt’s childlike singing, which might have more symbolic power if the tracks didn’t have names like ‘Fare Thee Well’ and ‘This Time Around’. Looking at the lyrics sheet provided more confusion, as it bore little resemblance to what was leaving the speakers. That said, there were definitely rhythms and melodies under all the humming, pleasant ones at that, and perhaps Pratt’s woozy aesthetic makes sense if you play it backwards or underwater or something- I’m open to suggestions. Until then, the only use I can see for this album is as an emergency Temazepam substitute.

And be sure to check out Abderrahmane Sissako’s Timbuktu, a moving realisation of life there under Ansar Din, while the film is still on iPlayer. Amongst the atrocities committed by the insurgents, perhaps the most inhumane was the ban on music, which ironically served to embolden Bassekou and his compatriots.

Lead singer Oli Sykes’ recent divorce hangs heavy over amo, but this only partially justifies the air of smugness which he twins with ugly self-pity. Also, I feel it shouldn’t be down to me to point out that for a metal band they’re not very visceral; a single Boucher chant puts Sykes’ horror in its place as merely paranoia gone arena rock. Which to be fair, he does eventually hammer home- lots of choking and breaking down and cursing and there are a few riffs to get the feet tapping- but where heart and fury should be, a charting record resides.

Composing an album of love songs is made easier by the beau in question, the very deserving and formidable actress Jameela Jamil. Her position of idol, provider and lover- well, sometimes- is explored with indebted honesty, but it is very much James Blake’s view of her that is celebrated, rather than Jamil herself. And with a few poppy touches, he could’ve been on to a truly accessible album about love; instead Blake stumbles back into his insecurities, which are well-put but ultimately tangential to the whole wuvvy duvvy thing. Prettiest lines are ‘We flow, we flow, we flow, we flow, Can't believe the way we flow’ and the wondrous ‘she can get ahead of herself, I had already be there’ which almost reaches catharsis. The subject brings much-needed focus to a talented experimenter, giving meaning to his trademark slew of funny background noises that normally lull you to sleep. Except Blake has that covered as well, finishing on a track for his insomniac so that he may share her blurry morning. While his voice still puts me off, I’ll tolerate it if his inner monologue really is that stop-start warble, to which he melds in guest rappers so well I almost missed the love guru himself Travis Scott proclaiming that Kylie’s ‘ass fatter than a peach’. Not exactly romantic, so it fits in nicely.