En ce 13 juillet, Ntombi Ndaba se produit Ă nouveau sur scĂšne au Sucre, avec le live-band de Esa, aprĂšs 30 ans dâabsence⊠inutile donc de dire que cette date est immanquable.
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Death And Vanilla reveal new single âLooking Glassâ from upcoming album âFlickerâ
Presenting their unique pop music that defies categorization, Death And Vanilla today release new single âLooking Glassâ from their new album Flicker set for release on 17th March on Fire Records.
New track âLooking Glassâ unzips with a slow paced intro, itâs organic, a grower that goes modal and multi-layered behind Marleen Nilssonâs evocative vocals; like a fevered Fleetwood Mac dream, lingering in the sub conscious with luscious melodies from the post-future.
Housed in a beautifully austere post-ironic de-constructed sleeve, âFlickerâ is a modern reflection on these difficult times. World crises and lockdowns notwithstanding, Death And Vanilla return reborn, re-arranged and revitalised after assimilating dub reggae, the motorik spirals of Can, the modal meander of Philip Glass and The Cureâs dreamier pop sounds; plus the twice removed symphonic ambience of Spiritualized and Talking Heads under heavy manners from Brian Eno. By osmosis their period of transition since 2019âs much darker âAre You A Dreamer?â has hatched new eclectic electronica anthems riddled with melody lines, and layered for lush love.
Itâs been ten years since Death And Vanilla formed in Malmö, Sweden, Marleen Nilsson, Anders Hansson and Magnus Bodin â fashioned by the cityâs austere
Lauren Duffusâ music is a lesson in exploding gracefully
Lauren attributes her musical inspiration to two principal sources: American trio Salem, and her old Yamaha keyboardâs classical build-ins.
Listening to her productions, itâs clear that the uncanniness of these inspirations is right on brand. Tangible are the bad-dream atmospherics, chopped ânâ screwed beats and irreverent tone which paint the witch house genre (grey); as well as the cinematic drill instrumentals typified by Chicago rapper, Chief Keef. But far from the codeineâd quality of Salemâs quasi-noise productions, the antagonism in Duffusâ music is often appeased with blithe glimmers, sometimes even choral singing. Her musicâs equal proclivity for both caustic indignation and moments of tenderness justify previous comparisons to the likes of aya and Loraine James, both of which extend to her fusion of prismatic club beats and soft melodics.
âFrom a very young age I was always drawn to sad or scary musicâ, Lauren reflects. âI remember loving the soundtrack for the fairytale, Peter and the Wolf. I love all genres though from black metal to pop but I will almost always only enjoy the songs that have a moving element. Thatâs why I love Chief Keef, his instrumentals almost always feel really sad to meâ.
For Lauren, making music is a form of therapy, and satisfaction only comes with a production process informed by hardship. Her self-proclaimed inflexibility when it comes to making music solely informed by her own selfish inclinations doesnât stop her hoping that people will share in the emotion she pours into its creation. Nonetheless, she finds less comfort in doing so herself. âAfter making something and putting it out I very rarely listen to it. Either I really donât enjoy it and it tends to upset meâ.
Pain is palpable in Duffusâ music. After boredom led her to download a free trial of Logic in the height of 2020âs lockdown, tracks quietly began to surface on her Soundcloud page, such as âStir Fryâ which would later resemble one third of her debut EP âSULKâ. The snideness of SULKâs title matches its tone. Unequivocal though it may be â this is an expression of pain â it is resolutely not an attempt at self-indulgence. Despite its melancholy (âSoho Roadâ is subtitled âCrying Songâ and is mainly composed of gut-wrenching sobs), Laurenâs music almost seems to laugh at itself, deftly conveying the coexistence of both devastation and self deprecation in depressive episodes.
Whilst Stir Fryâs choral singing, chipmunk vocals and dancehall-indebted rhythms bare stark resemblance to Sinjin Hawkeâs symphonic âFirst Opusâ LP, the self-released âAnxietyâ is distinctly cold, with brittle percussion and a playtime 173 seconds, as if not meriting anything more.
âIâm still on the journey of learning how to deal with my emotions in a way thatâs not destructiveâ, she responds when I ask about the description written underneath her AD 93 release âDubplate 07â. âExploding gracefully just means pouring that energy outwards as opposed to bottling it up and destroying myselfâ.
She admits the difficulty sheâs found in compromising her own release schedules in favour of working with labels. âI want to share as soon as I finish a skeleton of a song because thereâs so much pent up energy Ive just put into it and I feel like itâs squirming in my laptop needing to be let outâ.
Lauren also struggles with attempts to categorise her music, admitting she sometimes gives into labelling tracks such as âPermanenceâ as âambientâ given their pulselessness, despite the term not resonating fully. Her dual inspiration of both drill and classical music reaches its most prominent form on her third most listened-to SoundCloud upload: a monasterial remix of âInner City Pressureâ â the experimental grime track by London producer, Cold.
When I asked whether she detected a sense of place in her own music â whether she considered London to be its natural home â she reflected that, despite the dancehall sounds she grew up surrounded by, that actually âthe fact that I exclusively create in my childhood home which holds a lot of painful memories is more of a factor than the city Iâm in. I can be a bit crap socially so I really donât feel like any immediate community influences my soundâ.
When we discuss her fusion of hard-hitting, industrial electronics with ornate choral arrangements, she meditates on classical musicâs liberating tendencies. âIt inspires me to not be rigid and have no rules â that probably sounds stupid because its seen as such a rigid, traditional genre filled with rules â but I like the constant tempo changes, the expression, and the movement within the songs that tell a story. Itâs so fluid. I enjoy challenging myself to turn off the metronome and just play stuff expressivelyâ.
Laurenâs penchant for story-telling translates into a desire to take up film scoring, so much so that she recently partook in an online course. âI just love the freedom it gives you in terms of structure and the challenge of not sticking to a tempo or traditional structureâ, she tells me. âIt was so much fun writing music with a visual prompt and hit points etc it was the most creative Iâve feltâ.
Having only been producing for a matter of months when she created âStir Fryâ â now her most notable release â itâs clear that world-building is something innate in Laurenâs musical inclination. Itâs rare to find an artist whose music engulfs you in such a way as hers, and warrants comparisons to the enchanting immersion of Björk or the cinematic allure of Enya. At once appearing to bare all yet be fiercely guarded, itâs a deeply complex treatise on lifeâs hard times.
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Coby Sey might be familiar as a crucial collaborator to Mica Levi and Tirzah, but his full-length debut reveals an entirely singular character. Conduit is a sonic outlier that sits on the fringes of grime, dub and jazz, wherein darkness and claustrophobia are often placed alongside moments of transcendence by a wunderkind producer. It is a bold contortion of its constituent parts, diverse and fresh from the very first confrontational vocal loop to the albumâs piano-laden anti-ending.Â
Seyâs vocals â free-flowing passages of spoken word â guide his compositions, but the focus here is very much on the textural passages that envelop them. An imperious producer, the Lewisham native has constructed eight singular passages across the record, ranging from deconstructed grime and nocturnal ambient cityscapes to sprawling eldritch jazz. âNight Rideâ is a bioluminescent adventure in dub-techno, all TV static and 404 error codes, whilst opener âEtymâ begins with brazen bars â isolated vocals â before Seyâs voice is engulfed by a technicolour wall of glitching sound.Â
The best moment comes on âResponseâ, a ten-minute sprawl at the back end of the album. The unheimlich squalls of maltreated saxophones create an atmosphere of eeriness, which only builds as reverb-laden beats and distant strings bleed into the fray. âActive⊠active⊠ACTIVE,â Sey growls at the trackâs peak, which is like Twin Peaks S3E8 made audio. This darkness, however, is quickly alleviated by the next track, misty-eyed closer âEve (AnwummerÉ)â, a sparse, infinite piano meditation, coloured with the calming sensations of rainfall. Perhaps, these two pieces are âConduitâ in microcosm â claustrophobia bubbles away throughout, but beauty and transcendence is never far away.