Black Thought & Danger Mouse: Cheat Codes
MF DOOM’s appearance is a reminder that Tariq Trotter has now reached the age when it’s apparently okay for Black men to die, so I’m pleased to report he’s not only alive and well but intent on enlarging his stature as rap’s most erudite thinker, writer and emcee. Nail-on-head quotables like "Blackness is not a monolith" and "I came to take back that other two-fifths of a man" intersperse knowledge between bravura rhyme schemes that have one eye on expanding the rap lexicon—if you didn’t know, “shooters” rhymes with “jurisprudence”, “students”, and “non-congruent” just as “Julliard” rhymes with “bullion”, “Suleiman” and “moulinyan”. A two-year recording process of slow-burn back-and-forth with producer Brian Burton results in a record of immense listenability. Coated in more layers of dust than a library archive, Burton’s instrumentals think as hard as Trotter’s rhymes. Nothing complicated. The boppers bop. The nodders nod. Sample-heavy beats develop along melodic lines, often into full-blown hooks so rewarding it took me half a dozen listens to note the scarcity of refrains sung, chanted or spoken. That’s deep (which rhymes with “east,” “teeth,” “defeat” and “police.”) A
Cheekface: Too Much To Ask
Too tight for jangle, too melodic for sprech, these west coast wise-asses repeat last year’s plan of attack with the small difference that they’ve improved in every aspect. The Malkmus-sans-self-seriousness vocals (the only way Greg Katz gets away with them) now include shrieks, chants and honest-to-god harmonies. Musically they cast a wider net, too, tinkering with toons they didn’t have the gumption to tackle before. “Featured Singer” is the kind of pastiche Das Racist excelled in. “Noodles” a Moldy Peaches fingerpainting that looks like art to parents, garbage to teachers and both to you. The double-take is “Election Day”, a rock-me-gently Beach Boys confection. They’re so arch you could fit a lorry under them. Or a dumpster, to borrow their favourite image (five separate appearances by my count)—one that reflects their projected image of being throwaway. Except not only do you keep listening, you keep listening. Lyrically speaking, objects may be less ambivalent than they appear. With their therapists on speed dial, they navigate the Age of Blah with more blah and by drawing on scepticism and optimism in all the right places. And because tl;dr, they don’t waste a second. Their foray into geopolitics is over in under four minutes, the one about shrugging off fascists in under three, the whole thing in no more than thirty. A MINUS
Grace Ives: Janky Star
Plastic funk—loose, limber and playful despite the fashionably sad inflections. The hooks are minor, but at least they're there. The absence is vocal colour. And no, different shades of whisper don't count. * (“Loose” “Shelly” “Back in L.A.”)
Ezra Furman: All Of Us Flames
All pre-packed suitcases and underground railroads, this ragged sort-of protest album starts resurgent and ends battle-weary. Though “What do your rainbows do here on the ground?” isn’t a question for me to ask or answer, if the sentiment represents creeping despondency amongst trans activists, I’ll admit it makes me nervous. What makes me hopeful is Furman finding reasons and ways to fight on. Reasons include cruisers Stephen and Troy, the queer girl gang taking the streets of the city and whoever they’ve anointed “the real motherfuckers”. Ways include a gift for finding the adrenal gland on any instrument and vocals forced through a larynx they ought to take better care of. Wonky pianos and up-front synths complete a grimy chamber-pop that lives louder in the memory than through the speakers. Though it never tips into full emotional bloodletting, there’s drama in tales of how being forced into the darkness on the edge of town has schooled Ezra in the art of evasion. After all, how can you catch someone when you don't believe they even exist? A MINUS
The Koreatown Oddity: ISTHISFORREAL?
With its skits centrepieces and its songs interludes, this is the darkest and funniest rap since “Anime, Trauma, Divorce” until it gets lost in its own existential swamp—which probably shouldn’t happen when it’s only twenty-four minutes. ** (“MISOPHONIA LOVE”, “INDIFFERENT”, “ISTHISFORREAL?”)
The Mountain Goats: Bleed Out
The main difference between their fecund lockdown and their best album in a decade is those songs were okay to good and these are good to great. Probable genius John Darnielle lives and dies by his concepts, and this one’s a winner: The Action Flick—which unlike most concepts I don’t feel compelled to caveat with “apparently”. It’s right there from “Training Montage”s "It feels like it takes forever / It's only five minutes on screen" to “Need More Bandages”s “Stockpiles of ammunition in wooden crates / Stencilled with exotic ports of call.” Unable to participate in the macho spectacles that fascinate him (correct me if he’s taken up Muay Thai), what Darnielle can do is unpack his country’s pathological paranoia and corollary taste for a revenge that won’t stop to weigh up the proportionality of pumping that guy’s ass full of lead. From the way we dub violence as daily life heroic (“The strings will keen and the horns will cry") to the glimmers of nuance within that living and dying ("The angles you don't plan for / The things you might have missed / Those things exist") he’s receptive to the emotional resonances of his doomed heroes and the starry-eyed kids who think they’re gonna be just fine. Finishes the only way it could—with seven minutes of tragic fatalism. “I’m gonna make a gigantic mess / But it meant something important I guess.” A
Porridge Radio: Waterslide, Diving Board, Ladder to the Sky
"Cut off my shoes instead of taking them off / Cut off my hands because they're itching so much." Their emotional intensity is matched by brutally frank vocals and an organ-heavy rock that cuts a fine line between dreamy and dreary. Just a single letter's difference, in fact. * (“Flowers” “Trying”)
Sudan Archives: Natural Brown Prom Queen
Musical polymorph and compulsive dabbler Brittney Parks manipulates gooey grooves and freakalized funk like so much playdoh, finding the note she hears in her head and just ad-libbing off that—or so the interlude goes. While that has your ears in a spasm, she advances an unfussy and well-adjusted individuality that’s tough enough to steer her through deceptions and power plays personal and professional, and still has enough id left over for any listener in need of bucking up. A perfect gift for that friend who grouses that nothing new happens in pop. “They gon' quarantine when they hear this shit” might be an overstatement. Her taste is too refined to shock. They’ll probably check for symptoms, though. A MINUS
Superorganism: World Wide Pop
Wryly optimistic bop from London, Australia, South Korea and the US, so no wonder they think they can fulfil the title conceit. Doesn't stop it sounding like "Steal My Sunshine" stretched to album-length though. * (“Teenager” “It's Raining” “Solar System”)
Woah a very strong week this week. Thank you as always for brightening my inbox. Keep fighting the good fight.