An Acute Case: 17 May 2024

I'm not hung like an elephant but I've got a long memory

Aziza Brahim: Mawja
Deft north African blues with Spanish twist and non-guttural vocals makes for uplifting listen when you remember Brahim grew up in Sahrawi refugee camps and a pleasant listen when you don’t. * (“Thajliba” “Metal, madera”)

Jon Langford & The Men Of Gwent: Lost on Land & Sea
Relics of folk-rock pay tribute to relics of Welsh port cities. All bangers (used car variety). * (“Commercial Street” “Honest Ken”)

Low Cut Connie: Art Dealers
Now it’s happened, it seems inevitable that this song and dance man with a reputation for his indefatigable live shows would make a fagged-out album. Besides the combination of pounding energy and beat-down rancour, what makes Adam Weiner’s entry into the sub-genre terrific is how subtly it combines personal crisis with the worldwide pandemic that hit touring musicians like him so hard. That eluded me for half a dozen listens but now I can’t miss it, from the album title to the salvos of aptly-named closer “THE PARTY’S OVER”: “happy fuckin birthday / I hope ya got yourself a little slice / cos the kitchen's closed / there's no more shows / and these things don't happen twice.” Except luckily for Weiner, they might. If he’s gained anything from his temporary scare (besides the New Yorker’s “Pandemic Person of the Year”) it's redoubled expectations of himself and those around him. “I need somebody to punch me in the face,” he demands at his most Zevonian. Also: to run to him, to call out his name, to tell him something he doesn’t know, to sleaze him on, to tell him he’s a real big boy. A MINUS

Maggie Rogers: Don’t Forget Me
Dense and indulgent, lush and engrossing, intense and immediate, but also hurried and antsy in a way that captures the high anxiety many pop singers aim for only to get swallowed by the mush monster. Not Rogers. She sings hot, which doesn’t have to mean sexy, often means breathless, and always means her voice is forced to crack and bend in delightful ways. Writing as smart as she sings, her lyrics are pared back for ease of flow without harming insights that are sharp-and-a-half. Most concern her fear that adult life, and more importantly adult love, are moving too fast to catch. When she finds out her friend Sally’s engaged, she worries she’s not ready for that. “I’m still acting out of habit,” she confesses. Likewise: “I can't behave but I don't want to be alone.” Throughout, she’s candid about tolerating various levels of bullshit to feel loved, held, noticed. Worth nothing, however, that her savviest move is when she alternates pronouns in the chorus of “The Kill”, switching the “I”s and “you”s in “I couldn't fill the shoes you laid down for me from the girls that came before / I was all the way in, you were halfway out the door.” Pretty sure in adult life/love that’s called shared responsibility. So maybe she’s better at it than she thinks. A MINUS

Rosali: Bite Down
‘70s generalist deploys skilled helpers as carefully as she arranges songs to just about makes the jump from acoustic-plus to full band experience. * (“On Tonight” “My Kind”)

Nia Archives: Silence Is Loud
With an attention to detail enhanced rather than supplied by Guildhall dropout Ethan P. Flynn, this is what I wanted from last year’s Sunrise Bang Ur Head Against Tha Wall. It helps that there are eight more songs—extra time to notice how these drums really are different to those. But the mutability of Bradford-born, Leeds-raised Dehaney Nia Lishahn Hunt’s jungle revivalism is as much down to the acoustic textures that soften her breakneck beats. While they underscore the post-teen mood, tighter songcraft puts her post-Britpop vocal mannerisms to best use. If you need a way in, try “I feel so lonely in crowded rooms.” After that, “I’m lost and I don’t wanna be found”, “can’t face my feelings”, “sometimes family ties do not always survive”, “I really wanna vanish”, and “I get so stuck inside my head” cohere in a way that’s more conceptually whole than samey. Conclusion: jungle is still massive, but it can also contain smallness. Nice trick. A MINUS

Serengeti: KDIV
“KD” is Kenny Dennis, the middle-aged ex-rapper-and-telephone repair man lovingly created by David Cohn; “IV” where we’re at in his series, only not really, because for almost 20 years he’s popped up on countless Cohn releases. If you’ve fallen behind, or this is your first time meeting Kenny, no worries; he’s so neurotic you’ll soon learn about obsessions that start with counterespionage film actors and have recently included drop culture (no, you look it up). Kenny on philosophy: “some people think the earth is flat, some think that it’s round”. On cuisine: “it's a shame that New Zealand doesn't have some type of dish / I'm talking kangaroo / I'm talking chops from the didgeridoo.” If you think he sounds like a clown, you’re halfway there. But if you’re familiar with how clowns work, you’ll know the other half is he's tragic. Here, that’s because Jueles—the much-adored wife who cheated on then left him—has actually been missing-presumed-dead since the mid-‘90s, a fact Kenny’s been in denial about for much of his last three decades. A skilled rapper at the tempos afforded by kooky alt-beats from Kenny Segal and co., Cohn makes all this clear in the lyrics. But it’s reinforced in skits handled, improbably, by Sufjan Stevens, who plays a long-lost friend with an irritating uptalk habit who’s come to stay. As with Steely Dan characters, Cohn tells you plenty about Kenny without telling you anything about himself. But his creation says plenty about his capacity for empathy. A MINUS

Kathryn Williams / Withered Hand: Willson Williams
Normally, I’d insist any Dan Willson collaboration should be called Misery and Company, but not only did he use that title up on a song from last years’ How to Love, this is too lovely for the gag to work. It’s pained, naturally; that’s part and parcel of the sincerity he’s been trading in for 15 years, Liverpool-born Williams for even longer. And with all but one of these 11 songs coloured by bereavements suffered by both halves of the duo, there’s no shortage of material for their well-turned lyrics. But as the odd one out is a cover of Cat Steven’s “Sing Out”, pain is only their starting point; some kind of salvation is their goal. If you’re familiar with Willson, you’ll expect that to be expressed through irresistible melodies, which are here accompanied by drums surprisingly loud for music so gentle. But it’s also expressed by the joining of voices—Wilson’s a slight whine, Williams’ just above a whisper—that bring a fortifying warmth to the often-lonely intimations of the folk singer. It’s a rare and special thing. Though humility being something of a prerequisite for folk types, they’d never say so themselves. So take it from me. A MINUS