An Acute Case: 17 March 2023

Litigatory lyricists, unpinnable grooves, Eric Barrier voters, and Double Dubliners (with or without Bono)

Billy Nomates: Cacti
With the fat white men perving on petrol station attendants and supermarket shelf-stockers spilling their guts in aisle seven replaced with non-specific disillusionment, she maintains some of her original spikiness with beats you can still dance to. Or just as good, watch her dance to—phenomenally, I might add. * (“balance is gone” “spite” “fawner”)

CMAT: If My Wife New I’d Be Dead
27-year-old Dubliner Ciara Marie-Alice Thompson was born two roads over from Bono but bears no evidence of lasting damage. Now based in Brighton after a stint in Manchester didn’t result in the stardom she craves but did give her a chance to tell Charli XCX she needs better toplining, she’s all fraught interpersonal skills and problematic self-care, with a capacity for self-deprecation that reaches its nadir when she requests a return to the womb. Finding the fullest expression of her late-millennial alienation in a Dolly-inspired artistic persona of outsize femininity, her gorgeous warble is as melodically fetching as her tunes, while her instincts for the more garish fashions in classic pop are as camp as any Charles and Diana memorabilia collector's should be. Her instinct for specificity, meanwhile, is all over the place. Her rollcall includes Anna-Nicole Smith, Marian Keyes, Mae West, Anna Karina, Robbie Williams (her god), and Wolverine (her style icon). She adds “moving to Nashville” to the list of suicide euphemisms, chooses Peter Bogdanovich as a dad-replacement crush, admits having “cotton wool for arms” might get in the way of her cowboy dreams, and pinpoints "where the bitch began” as somewhere between The Passion of the Christ and getting Instagram. At once desperately sad, endlessly catchy, and searingly funny. A

Robert Forster: The Candle and the Flame
Little more than a night in with the instruments out, which isn’t to suggest this comes underdressed. Every one of these 9 songs is wide awake and fizzing with intelligence, but all also have their origin in singalongs at Forster family get-togethers. The significance of those deepens once you know Karin Bäumler—Forster’s wife, mum to Louis (lead guitar) and Loretta (backing guitar), and here on violin and backing vocals—was diagnosed with and undergoing treatment for ovarian cancer at the time. Subsequently beefed up and re-recorded with more fills and finesse, the songs retain their sense of intimate communion and quiet nobility. Written with the exactitude of a litigation, sung like a book of poems, and played like a collection of nursery rhymes, the overall effect combines knowingness with wide-eyed wonderment. Louis’s guitar keeps pace with the inexorable trajectory of his dad’s writing but still slips off the path often enough to double as decoration; Karin’s vocals soften the pursed lips and cocked eyebrow of Forster’s vocal style; while his writing stands as a monument to the well-ordered mind. Making no attempt to beguile you with craft, he relies only on his certainty that the most direct route from here to there is via this and that, and that by studying how he reached this point—from the city where he and Karin met, to an old ticket stub found in a jacket pocket—he can find a reason to live. A

Orla Gartland: Woman on the Internet (’21)
This 28-year-old Dubliner didn’t grow up two streets over from Bono but is also racked by self-doubt, so don't blame him. That's despite having earned a BTS co-writing credit on a song about, um, Pluto, apparently. Back on earth, she's like so many young people—plagued by the endless com-comparison and jealousy, jealousy of life online. Here, she turns her thousand-yard stare through a phone screen into 11 whip-smart and candid songs. “I'm not happy if you're not happy and I swear that you're always sad” is her co-dependency anthem; “God you wear that shirt so well if you’re not perfect I can’t tell” one instance of stinging inferiority among many. Matching depth of feeling with emotional width, she nails an ex for his cakeism and herself for skipping a beat in her bloodline. Though her delivery’s stoic, she sings with a faint quiver that packs serious powers of projection, deploying it most effectively within the quiet-verse-loud-chorus template. A self-producer of impressive craft, she's full of bright dynamic ideas: here, big dumb guitar hooks; there, recordings of tapped doors and pinged spoons manipulated into percussion. So while I appreciate it can't be nice when “everyone hears us but they all seem to ignore us,” with hooks this good I also understand why “everyone else wants us to get right back to the chorus.” A MINUS

Ice Spice: Like..?
Laconic flows, chthonic basslines, and plenty of novel Bronxisms: she’s a baddy; you’re a munch. Possibly also a smoochie. K? *** (“In Ha Mood” “Princess Diana” “Gangsta Boo”)

Kassmasse: Bahil | Weg
If the textured ambience recalls trip- as much as hip-hop, it’s not a trip induced by any illicit substances. Marketing graduate and graffiti artist Fikru Sema draws on Ethiopia’s Tizita style, which deals heavily in nostalgia, and Ambassel scale, common to songs with historical themes—choices that give his music a sumptuous lilt and sway, especially when paired with his tender entreating, elliptical rhythms, and more horns and wind instruments than Anglosphere rap knows what to do with. While the least clumsy Amharic-to-English title translation I managed goes something like “Narratives | Tradition” (so still pretty clumsy) the vibe is steadfastly current and often universal, with snatches of verité dialogue, kiddie choruses, and a Julian Marley feature doing their bit for the latter. A heady groove. A MINUS

King Ayisoba: Work Hard
Ghanaian kologo king and his squeaky hype men rail against the declining usage of tribal languages, stringent border controls, and people who talk too much, with no let-up in energy and just enough rhythmic variation. ** (“Good Things God Knows” “Tribe” “Adinooma”)

Lyrics Born: Vision Board
Claiming the titles of best rapper in the world and funkiest rapper alive, Eric Barrier voter Tom Shimura is full of himself—somewhat ironic given he also brags about losing 60lbs. While self-absorption isn’t the most salutary look, it's been well earned by this Asian-American now celebrating the third decade of his trailblazing career. Never too proud to act the fool, he dishes out primary school metaphors (“Backbone of a stegosaur”) and high school similes (“Cold like a penguin's nose toes and titty nipple") and gives “roody poo rappers” a dad talk and his younger self driving tips. As horny as he’s ever been, he pitches woo salaciously. And specifically—“Lick your pomegranate seed til you operatic scream” is from a song titled “Diamond Door”. Geddit? Assisted by Bay Area scenester Rob Mercurio, the slippery funk is almost as outlandish as Shimura’s rhymes, maintaining the high tempos necessary to pull off 9 songs in under 30 minutes. So add rapper with the best cardiovascular conditioning to his honorifics. A MINUS

Polobi & the Gwo Ka Masters: Abri Cyclonique
Discovered by accident, recorded on purpose (with the addition of some sturdy studio bolt-ons from Liam Farrell—69-year-old Guadalupian Moïse Polobi improvises nature's lambent rhythms in rumba-ish fashion topped with an improvised Creole that’s probably a fair approximation of nature's lambent voice. * (“Mendémélé” “Driv” “Camargo”)