An Acute Case: 4 August 2023

I'm not what you think I am, you are what you think I am

Amaarae: Fountain Baby
Deft at finding melodic pockets in her carefully curated faster-than-average Afrobeats, but like SZA, I’m not convinced she isn’t a better indie rocker than pop star. * (“Co-Star” “Counterfeit”)

Grian Chatten: Chaos For The Fly
Now his rage is misanthropy and his rock tenebrous click-clack, he does Thom Yorke better than Thom Yorke, though it’d be better if he avoided the impression altogether. ** (“Fairlies” “All Of The People”)

feeble little horse: Girl with Fish
These Pittsburgh-or-thereabouts striplings might not be the best band to practise imprecision as artistic ethos in 2023, but they’re the first to turn my head. Clumsy (in a dainty way) and mangled (in a pretty way), an accidents will happen spirit infuses this music, whether it’s stumbling over bright tunebursts or overrun by guitars behaving badly. At 11 tracks in 26 minutes, that proves tremendously moreish. But thanks to Lydia Slocum—a non-musician two years ago who still uses post-its to remember her bass parts—process doesn’t preclude product. Inscrutable as a lyricist, as a vocalist she provides a fey and dependable emotional nexus. Plus that other 2023 alt-rock essential: the grim spectre of a religious upbringing. A MINUS

Lil Uzi Vert: Pink Tape
Not as weird as he wants to be, more inconsistent than he gives a shit about, every bit as energetic as his “whoah”s deserve. Still, as artist-and-flag album covers go, closer to Ryan Adams’ Gold than Stankonia. * (“Suicide Doors” “Amped”)

Andy Fairweather Low: Flang Dang
This Caerphilly County-born 74-year-old has been a high-end sideman for his fellow guitar gods since a mythic 70’s run I still haven’t laid ears on ended in 1980. 26 years elapsed before his next album and another 17 before this one, but he stayed sharp. So when he returned to the even more mythic Rockfield Studios (a mere 1.02 miles from the English border but every yard counts) it was with a selection of songs that comprise a complete philosophy of life, after-life, and the bit between. An opener in which Otis Redding and Elvis shoot dice while St Peter waits with a stretch limo, and God sports an Alice band, espadrilles, and a perm-a-tan sets the spiritual tone. The synthesis of creamy jive and kinetic rhythm is impossible to place while recalling everything you know about rock’n’roll. The voice is like thick Christmas cake batter. And the lyrics are so brilliant I’ve virtually transcribed them all, which is no use to anyone. In brief, they’re a paragon of spiritual thirst, wilful self-determination, droll rationality, and stubborn joie de vivre. A

Taj Mahal: Savoy
Guided by the immaculate touch of prestige producer John Simon, the 81-year-old born Henry St. Claire Fredericks Jr. loses himself in blissful daydreams of the Harlem ballroom where his parents hooked up in front of flesh-and-blood Chick and Ella. Three Ellingtons, two Gershwins, smatterings of Jordan, Arlen, Loesser, and Mercer, all played with bold brush strokes and all the time in the world. The secret weapon here is restraint. The band has a thunderous engine but only ever applies gentle pressure to the pedal, letting the music sink in rather than blow you away. Leisurely openings. Languorous solos. False finishes. Like that. Similarly, Mahal’s life force is prodigious, his charm all natural warmth rather than alpha cool or oily solicitation. And yes, that includes on the potentially problematic “Baby It’s Cold Outside”, where he's comically at heel to a show stealing Maria Muldaur, who adds “Maybe just a tiny toke more” to the list of reasons to stay, thereby proposing a reading of the scene that’s little more than stoner babble. A

Smokey Robinson: Gasms
Robinson says the title of his first collection of originals in over ten years refers to any kind of pleasure, which is neat copy. But be under no illusions, this is about the joys of fucking. Yet if there's anything untoward in his desires, I can't hear it. Appreciative, generous, and not as single-minded as you’d expect, his celebration of shagging is as devoted to cuddling as carnality. No orgiastic fantasies or claims to virility here, just everyday chat about rolling around. While killer hooks are few, his sleek phrasing and compositional puissance underwrite the decency of his overtures. These are grooves that respect quality time. But if you’re looking for more immediate pleasures, he can still titillate. If I tell you he rhymes “eyegasms” with “my gasms” and “mind gasms” with “hard to find gasms,” you won’t be surprised to learn that when he croons “If you've got a vacancy / Make it a space for me,” it’s on a song called “I Fit In There.” B PLUS

Joanna Sternberg: I’ve Got Me
Too queer for normie folk, too normal for freak folk, too freaky for show tunes, too showy for doing the mess-around. By dint of their homeliness, shaky pitch, and tendency to clobber the prettier end of the piano, my best comparison is Roches/McGarrigles without the harmonies. So let’s just call Sternber singular, but not to the extent that we need to codify a new genre. Over expert arrangements, they pile up sentiments that start simple and don’t get much deeper: I'm drifting on a cloud, she dreams of another, I've got me, people are toys to you. Yet musically and lyrically, there’s temerity in hammering so few nails so many times. And by the end, the pile feels substantial. Especially when coupled with a pseudo-naive aesthetic that expresses a brittle inner life far better than words can. And certainly better than words that go “Doo-doo-doo la-la-la fi-fo-fum / Stockholm syndrome.” A MINUS