An Acute Case: 31 March 2023

Pop five ways: hyper, country, queer, art, normie

100 gecs: 10,000 gecs
For all the too much-ness of their stochastic hijinks, mad geniuses Dylan Brady and Laura Les adhere to the long-standing pop tenets of ecumenicism and accessibility. All they want is to communicate their love for these oft-derided nu-metal, EDM, autotune, and ska sounds; and to make sure you join them in their delight, they take each one at what I would call its absolute peak, only then they dial it up another quantum. If that’s the same trick they pulled 9,000 gecs ago, they’ve got better at it. The riffs are crunchier, the jokes zanier, the songs shapelier—with that last development giving fuller expression to their sincerity. If that surprises you, note their concern for the frog who turns up in their basement (“I heard that he was telling croaks at the party” har har), or their agony over the tooth one of them got removed. Like Paul Westerberg recounting Tommy’s tonsillectomy, or Kimya Dawson enacting a conversation between talking ernest and talking pee-wee, both are events of genuine emotion and well worth recording. As are their feelings about money. They’ve got more of it now, and it makes them uncomfortable. “Money comin from my mouth / Money comin from my eyes / And I keep on losing count / I'm the dumbest girl alive” is from the opener. “I’m going crazy / Little tiny Hollywood baby / Brand new Mercedes” from the lead single. “One Million Dollars” (repeated 39 times in 120 seconds) from the one called “One million dollars.” A

Miley Cyrus: Endless Summer Vacation
While Plastic Hearts’ mullet rock was too received to be the maturation point Cyrus hoped for, this might do. Her progress is catalysed by two industry norms: a break-up and a hook-up—the latter with Harry’s House stylists Kid Harpoon and Tyler Johnson; the former with no, I don’t want to go there either. Harpoon/Johnson are only credited on half the songs, but their billowy synths give the album its sonic identity, with strings laced through the thumping “Flowers”, a sax solo from someone else’s daydream interrupting “Rose Colored Lenses”, and Brandi Carlisle’s country influence reduced to a Fisher-Price harmonica. A devotee of clubby basslines and vocal raunch, Cyrus lacks Styles’ nuance, though displays an occasional talent for his montage lyricism. What gets her material over are the various positions she adopts towards her blighted romance: born-again self-belief turns to admissions of culpability before a foul-mouthed kiss off; wistful remembrance gives way to lapsed resolve; and specific plans to exercise her lust melt into sexual surrealism. Her two most mature songs come at the end. The first expresses post-separation confusion with a nifty couplet (“Am I stranded on an island / Or have I landed in paradise?”) while the closing ballad—about a “Wonder Woman” who’s perfected her ability to mask pain—is equal parts celebration and lament. Now she’s growing up, let’s assume that one isn’t just about her. B PLUS

Iris Dement: Workin’ On A Dream
Only the strong-willed could resist the urge to retitle this 62-year-old’s first album of original material in 11 years Woke-in’ On A Dream. Which isn’t to suggest the result is tedious—just straight-shooting liberal orthodoxy. Dement admits she doesn't have all the answers to the problems of the day early on, but as she rattles those problems off over the ensuing hour, she comes up with a few useful ideas. Between calling warmongers, demagogues, and Jeff Bezos to account, she preaches “mag-na-nim-i-ty”, sanctifies the present, and bears witness to the “warriors of love” who’ve forced inflection points of various, um, bendiness: John Lewis crossing the Pettus bridge; The Chicks denouncing Bush; Rachel Corrie facing down a bulldozer; Colin Kaepernick taking a knee. Elsewhere, she recapitulates the major plot points of The Cherry Orchard and testifies to the enduring power of Mahalia Jackson’s voice. Though she's too humble to remark on the healing power of her own instrument, it’s still a gift—weathered but not withered. It reportedly took stepdaughter Pieta Brown to convince Dement she had an album’s worth of material, and though some less imaginative arrangements on the second half explain her reservations, that’s only in comparison to a first half of almost back-to-back knockouts. Throughout, the full pop regalia provides sufficient moral and spiritual fortification. A MINUS

Marlowe: Marlowe 3
Super slick Solemn Brigham’s raps lack the erudition of L'Orange’s seasoned production, though lines like “Facts could never do me harm” suggest he’s got it in him. ** (“My People” “Hold The Crown” “Light Trip”)

Moonlight Benjamin: Wayo
Meat and potatoes headbangers from a literal Haitian voodoo priestess of orotund voice who’s found catharsis in blues-rock. ** (“Haut là haut” “Pè” “Bafon”)

Caroline Polachek: Desire, I Want To Turn Into You
Polachek embraces modes of feeling that don’t cleave to neat storytelling or readily disclose their intentions. While that doesn’t necessarily mean a failure to communicate personality, it can make her hard to pin down. She’s a slick auteur whose adaptability could be mistaken for modishness, and whose coolness risks obscuring the intensity of her passion. But as her main hang-up is the elusiveness of human connection, a few well-placed obstructions are probably needed. None of which would do anything for me if she didn’t provide a way in, which she does in the form of a thrillingly novel sonic palette. The sounds she’s collected with oddball producer Danny L Harle range from the insanely hooky to the deliriously abstract. They’re a character study in themselves: textured, exotic, gorgeous. Like fellow art angel Grimes, connect with the sound and the lyrics follow. “I’m so non-physical” and “These days I wear my body like an uninvited guest” get to the heart of the matter, and if those aren’t concrete enough for you, “Sexting sonnets under the table” should be. As for whether she finds that elusive connection, the first song starts with “Welcome to my island” and the last one finishes with “I never felt so close to you.” How’s that for character arc? A MINUS

Skech185: He Left Nothing for the Swim Back
So stentorian that when billy woods appears on the finale he’s positively soothing. Alt-rap cred is further assured by guests with the following monthly Spotify numbers: 0, 0, 0, 0, 50, 62, 64, 726. With the beats grinding and halting, and hooks few and far between, attention to detail is his metier. Like, extreme attention to detail: “The regular walks away and our hero stands there staring at the streaking stars / Praying that his tears are mistaken as sweat / Wipes his face / Shakes his buddy's hand / Straightens his posture / And returns to finish the dance." ** (“Badly Drawn Hero” “East Side Summer” “Western Automatic Music, Pt. 2”)

Sam Smith: Gloria
Despite the Brit Award bin bag, slut-pop collaboration, and other apparent controversies, Smith’s designs on irreverence aren’t enough to dislodge their entrenched tastefulness—but they give it the old college try. Here, they bear down on that dichotomy by refusing to distinguish between physical and spiritual gratification in a pursuit of the divine—if not the godly—that leads to Sunset Strip’s Body Shop as often as the Saffron Walden church they attended as a child. The mood is one of sustained supplication; the sentiments candid avowals to treat themselves with kindness and be less permissive of people who don't. A singular vocalist but rarely a show off, Smith extends their impeccable sense of dynamics to arrangements that allow equal room to glitz and elegance. For every medieval choral chant or flutter of strings, there’s a thunderstorm solo from Rihanna’s guitarist or a loop of Jessie Reyez squeaking "gimme" fourteen times over. The result is smooth, slender, and immensely catchy. Tuxedo pop dressed up in a cassock. A MINUS

Shania Twain: Queen Of Me
If someone has to make normal Taylor Swift albums while she’s doing moody indie, who better than her progenitor? ** (“Inhale/Exhale AIR” “Queen Of Me” “Not Just A Girl”)

Young Fathers: Heavy Heavy
Caught in a bind, they rattle their sticks and beat their drum until they go numb. Failing that: "Brush your teeth / Wash your face / Run away." ** (“I Saw” “Drum” “Sink Or Swim”)