An Acute Case: 28 June 2024

Guitars as magic wands, hammers as microphones

Bob Vylan: Humble As The Sun
I hope one day this duo finds the controversy they’re courting even if it doesn’t bring the awards they feel cheated of. I like to think beats worthy of the message will earn both. *** (“Hunger Games” “He’s A Man”)

Charley Crockett: $10 Cowboy
Good value for the music, which makes nothing particularly new out of old materials. The voice, however, is a million bucks. * (“$10 Cowboy" “Nothing Left To Lose”)

Girl and Girl: Call A Doctor
On the one hand, this concept album doesn’t help itself. It starts with the narrator version of long-suffering hypochondriac Kai James introducing the character version of long-suffering hypochondriac Kai James standing on his gorgeous shrink’s sofa in the east wing of the Wesley Hospital and demanding his doctors feed him to the local sea life. It’s a level of directorial detail that can’t be sustained, even when James ends up doom scrolling the Wiki page for “Anthropocene” after accidentally running over his dog. On the other hand, the concept of his long-suffered hypochondria belongs as much to performance as plot. Namely, James's theatrical warble, which denotes both mental breakdown and emo musical while undercutting both. If the ambition isn’t matched by musical range, the former buys much good will for the latter. As does the humour, which is buoyed by the good time vibes of the driving rhythms (aunty Lissy), clean bass lines (brother Coby), chiming guitars (non-relation Jayden Williams), and chant-along choruses. Whether it works as an outlet for mental pain is for James to say. I hope so. For non-long-suffering hypochondriacs, it’s a rousing, sweet, witty, and surprisingly upbeat inlet. A MINUS

Les Savy Fav: OUI, LSF
Maybe it's because I wasn’t tuned into this NY quintet’s ‘00s heyday that I don’t understand why their first album in 14 years is pegged as post-punk. The few times that genre rears its angular head, it’s a small part of a much broader art rock melange, which is here tasked with pounding, pumping, and gouging out a response to the grievances of middle age. Subtly dexterous and unconventionally tuneful, that response is sometimes assuaging, often cantankerous, and always astute. The opener—basically a coda stretched to song length—renders their malaise thus: “I’m looking for some kind of saviour / but no one’s coming around.” Come the finale and they’ve taken a different tack: "with any luck we'll be peaking / just in time for them to hear us speaking / ‘we were there when the world got great / we helped to make it that way.’" Between those two poles are a glut of quotables to provoke validation, indignation, inspiration, or maybe just amusement: “there's a stairway to heaven but they′ll let you slide to hell”; “ashes to ashes, dust to dust / get off your asses cause somebody needs a hug”; “one million bucks, one condition / you wanna spend a penny, gotta ask permission”; “loving you's like getting fucked by a cat.” A MINUS

Willie Nelson: The Border
It took me half a dozen listens to realise this might be about mortality and a couple more to remember Nelson’s no deader than you or me. So while I like to think the title track’s about him patrolling of the final crossing, the rest undoubtedly have more to do with life than death. The twinkle hasn’t left his voice yet, and it’s all over Buddy Cannon’s understated arrangements, amidst which Nelson’s guitar has never sounded more like a magic wand. His voice has all the warmth of 91 loving years. As do the songs that have always spoken for him. Not just the ones he wrote with Cannon (77), but those gifted by Allen Shamblin (65), Rodney Crowell (73), Larry Cordle (75), Erin Enderlin (?), Will Jennings (79), Bobby Tomberlin (?), Monty Holmes (63), Shawn Camp (57), and Mike Reid (79). Of course, age doesn’t always equal wisdom. But here it does. The kind that teaches that sometimes words won’t suffice, so “just kiss me when you’re through.” Or to be grateful that “something only you can see / saves the broken fool in me / for the love that's known to very few." A

Ngwaka Son Systéme: Iboto Ngenge
Like Lady Aicha & Pisko Crane's Original Fulu Miziki of Kinshasa, this Congolese eight-piece is a bulked-up version of an existing band, in this case electro duo KOKOKO!, playing instruments made from literal rubbish—plastic bottles, glass bottles, paint cans, saucepans… in one video, someone uses a hammer as a microphone. But unlike Lady Aicha et al., their sound is less fraught and more danceable, with a pleasing thud and thwang. Bom’s Bomolo’s soukous guitar lines slot nicely into the rough and tumble rhythms, while his co(coco)-founder Love Lokombe’s strangled shout is smoothed out by the vocalists/chanters/MCs who respond to his calls. The lyrics (unusually available) are along the lines of “there is no money”, which makes sense for a group whose interpretation of MC Hammer is literal. Whether you’re buying or streaming, head to Bandcamp, where extra song “Lakala” gives a better representation of what they can do with electronics than “Dondwa” or the Latin dub of “Zanga Mbongo”, which I still struggle to distinguish from the original while feeling certain isn't as good. A MINUS

Shaboozey: Where I've Been, Isn't Where I'm Going
Autocrooned country-rap seemingly composed entirely of thigh slaps and high noon whistles that could yet unseat Morgan Wallen. The drinking songs are already better. Come to think of, that's 90% of the battle. *** (“A Bar Song (Tipsy)” “Drink Don’t Need No Mix”)

Vince Staples: Dark Times
For every “ridin with the stick like witchcraft / findin beauty in the darkness like Rembrandt”, there’s a “gotta keep this shit ignant.” For every “somethin about the gutter that make us hate each other”, there’s a “the ghetto will trap you but I love it.” For every “I long for lovin and affection”, there’s a “these hoes ain't what I need.” In other words, contradictions that mean candidly flawed Staples is exactly where he left off on RAMONA PARK BROKE MY HEART: stuck. Which is pretty much where he’s been his whole career. Even if you’re not a lyrics person, that’s evident from his PTSD flow, non-event album presentation, and terse little beats. Those are goosed by pretty piano figures, but it’s the kind of prettiness you might remark on about an empty room. Lonerism remains his survival strategy. And though it’s got him this far, it probably won't lead to the intimacy he craves. But while he keeps pulling in that direction, he’ll remain of interest. A MINUS