An Acute Case: 20 September 2024

Don't prove I'm right

Sabrina Carpenter: Short n’ Sweet
N’ also a bit mean. But what’s a dirty Disney princess to do when her fame bubble’s filled with nothing but douchebags who don’t know the difference between their/there/they’re and mansplainers who jack off to Leonard Cohen lyrics? They seem to have it coming, which might be because they’re a tad one-dimensional. But this is light entertainment after all, where instant gratification can’t be endangered by depth. Any extra dimensions are the leading lady’s to claim, which she does. When she sings “you don’t have to lie to girls / if they like you they’ll just lie to themselves,” she exceeds her interest in the confessional as an aesthetic only. When she gets so horny she starts fantasising about marriage and babies, it seems possible one of her relationships might actually survive, though you expect she’ll lose interest once the fuzzy pink handcuffs have been tidied away. Her image courts perfection, so the mismatched “Good Graces” and “Bed Chem” stick out more than they would otherwise. But front to back, this is mostly irresistible. And when it isn’t, there’s still no good reason to choose resistance. A

Doechii: Alligator Bites Never Heal
Though she says she's here to stay like the shit in your panties, she’s torn about being on a major label, flitting between mania and depression and sounding angry in either mood. Least convincing claim: “I pledge allegiance to the motherfucking profit.” Most convincing song title: “DENIAL IS A RIVER”. ** (“BOILED PEANUTS” “DENIAL IS A RIVER”)

Sahra Halgan: Hiddo dhawr
Freedom fighting anthems that, as expected, are more powerful live, when Halgan’s holding a Somaliland flag for the entire show and inviting you to approximate the lyrics to the title track with her. ** (“Sharaf” “Hiddo dhawr”)

Heems: VEENA
A lot of music that agrees with his soul, some music that touches my funny bone, and too many fawning voicemails, self-congratulation not being a natural fit for a nerd who chats up girls by saying he’ll treat them like Helen Mirren. *** (“RATATOUILLE” “DAME”)

Mahlathini & The Mahotella Queens: Music Inferno: The Indestructible Tour 1988-89
It took me a year to return to this hour-and-a-half of uninterrupted bliss for reasons I thought I understood, though “arguably the greatest era of the greatest style of the twentieth century can wait till later” looks silly written down. “What can I add?” is probably the real reason. Truthfully, the answer may be nothing. Unimpeded by sound quality clearer than you’d expect from remasters of mixing desk tapes, there's a life force to this music that it doesn’t feel like copping out to say is unquantifiable. As the title says, it’s indestructible. But not impenetrable. The generosity, openness, and expansiveness of the chiming ensemble interplay, primordial groans of Simon Nkabinde, and melodic inspiration of queens Nobesuthu, Hilda, and Mildred are a big part of what makes “m-ba-qan-ga” (helpfully sounded out in Nkabinde’s intro) the dance that never ends. With this record, it just got longer. A

Girl Scout: Real Life Human Garbage / Granny Music
As these sweetly sung and surprisingly complete five-song EPs have been bundled up as a double vinyl, I’m taking my chance to chalk them off together. The second, Granny Music, is slacker and mellower, so I prefer the brighter tunes, sharper edges, and quirkier catches of Real Life Human Garbage. While the writing’s decent on both, only the earlier release has anything as winning as “Do You Remember Sally Moore?” At which point it’s worth mentioning that this youthful quartet is Swedish, so references to James (looked drunk) and Cathy (post-tornado hair) in Sally’s yearbook are likely the product of a strict diet of American pop. Which isn’t to say their authenticity is in doubt—though they’re too young to be claiming "I'm never gonna love like I love you now / and you are never gonna find anyone who loves you like I love you now," I believe that they believe it.
Real Life Human Garbage: B PLUS
Granny Music: *

Gurf Morlix: Caveman
Known to me before now only as the producer Lucinda Williams sacrificed over a dissatisfying first recording of Car Wheels On A Gravel Road, it turns out that since and maybe because of that bust up, 70-ish Austinite Morlix has been releasing his own Americana records—16 in the last 24 years, with 8 since the pandemic that stopped him performing live. He still hasn’t returned to that, which explains both the title and why he's acting weird. Isolation has turned him goofy, so this is chiefly nonsense, with Morlix riffing and rhyming like a gruff Tom Bombadil. Like that recluse, he can get you out of a fix (“Snake Pit”), regale you with folklore (“1959”) or teach you a thing or two about love (“I Dig Your Crazy Brain”). Unlike Tom, his merry-making is occasionally funny. Best joke: “I got a flat tyre / there was a fork in the road.” A MINUS

Ren: Sick Boi
Showcasing the tremendous talent and zero inhibitions of 34-year-old Welsh rapper Ren Eryn Gill. He’s at his showest-offest on the insanely elaborate, six-minute, part a capella “Money Game, Pt. 3”, where a software developing teenager becomes a millionaire who gets elected to the Senedd then shot in in the leg by a Cuban drug cartel before killing himself. Elsewhere, he details the mental and physical effects of his decade-long struggle with a repeatedly misdiagnosed autoimmune disease. In the tradition of rappity white guys, his jittery production is more timbral than bassy, his flow more studied than natural, and his values staunchly old-school. By my count, there are three nursery rhymes references and two variations on “giggedy giggedy” to complete a rhyme scheme. Hook-wise, he’s not quite PJ & Duncan, but he’s not too far off. So yeah, he’s corny—cringe even. But he’s far easier to like than criticise, his energy never wanes, and in a rap landscape where Chief Keef’s half-arsed growlings earn plaudits, a rap record of clarity and imagination is a gift. A MINUS