I’m writing this after a bike ride. When I’m on a bike ride, I mostly think about riding my bike. I rode my bike for a long time today, so I thought about riding my bike for most of the day. As this newsletter is supposed to be about new music, that may mean I’m not in the best state of mind to write it. But I’ll give it a shot and see if I can’t keep talk of bike rides at bay. Here we go.
I got on my bike at 12pm. Destination: the beach.
I rarely have a destination (I tend to spend two hours criss-crossing the same few roads and only realising I’ve not been more than 3 miles from home till I check my route) so the clarity of my journey was unusual. I embraced it.
After 20 minutes, I rolled into Itteringham village, where the Church was flying a Ukrainian flag (Fig. 1) in a show of solidarity that recalled Very Nice Man Jason Isbell and his 2021 tribute album, Georgia Blue—a celebration of that state being declared you-know-what you-know-when. It’s all covers of homegrown artists performed by a new generation of the same. Because the spirit is communal, everything gets shared, including the mic, which provides some relief from Isbell’s voice. Not that he’s a bad singer, but after a while his grave sincerity makes me itch. Three of the other voices—Adia Victoria, Brandi Carlile and Julien Baker (though I only knew she was here from the credits)—give better accounts of themselves than on their own 2021 releases. I’d normally say, “well guv, that’s tributes for you, the material picks itself,” but these aren’t all obvious picks. Sure, there’s REM, the Allman Brothers, James Brown. But for each of them, there’s a whozat like Now It's Overhead, Indigo Girls, or Precious Bryant, with the latter responsible for standout gem “The Truth”, sung by Victoria with the sprightliness A Southern Gothic was missing. I’d call Georgia Blue middle of the road, but I don’t really know what middle of the road means. I’ve always assumed it has something to do with The Eagles. But as they alternate between brilliant and horrible, that’s doesn’t help. Maybe that’s it. Somewhere between brilliant and horrible. But, er, that’s most music isn’t it? Anyway, unlike the Eagles, the 400 Unit’s rip-roaring solos are a celebration of something other than machismo. They signify a shaky optimism. The amity of the broad mix of performers: shared values. The tightness of the band: the vote margin.
Fig. 1: A fine example of a church. Also, as far as literal representations of my name go, a Church with a Ukrainian flag on it is hard to beat.
From there, it was plain sailing to Sheringham, where I headed for the sea (Fig. 2). Ah, the sea. Peaceful, isn’t it? Look at it and your mind wanders. Mine didn’t wander far before arriving at the notion that the sea is connected to the ocean, which brings us to another tribute album.
Ocean Child was made for Yoko Ono on her 89th birthday. In tone, it’s not unlike last year’s What Goes On and I’ll Be Your Mirror Lou Reed and Velvets tributes. But either they misread “tribute” for “memorial service”, or veneration just suits Ono’s work better. Either way, these covers capture her spirit. They’re dainty, mischievous; trusting just one or two piquant sounds to draw out their musicality—the backwards whatsit on “Yellow Girl”, the time-warp guitar and music box tinkle on “Born In A Prison”; the creeping bass in “Dogtown”; the tambourine-doing-a-half-arsed-impression-of-waves on “Toyboat”; The Flaming Lips singing from inside a broken radio on “Mrs Lennon”. Ocean Child also celebrates the female voice—as good a tribute to Ono as the treatment of her songs. Sharon Van Etten, Sudan Archives, Thao, U.S. Girls, and Amber Coffman are all shades of peculiar, haunting, brittle. But nowhere do I feel the vocals more than Japanese Breakfast’s “Nobody Sees Me Like You Do”—an astonishingly artless and naked performance. In the age of arty talk-singers (see below), Ocean Child is a timely reminder of an artist who did it better than most.
Fig. 2: Can you see my wandering mind?
I headed back into town for what I thought would be a quick bite but ended up being several slow bites. Things to blame for my staying too long/eating too much:
1. Sunny spot in café courtyard garden.
2. Good food.
3. Interesting stuff to read.
4. Three pairs of very short shorts behind the till.
I’ll let you decide which of these is ultimately to blame, but if I tell you the segue into the next album is “distraction”, that shouldn’t be hard.
Every time I’ve thought about listening to MOTOMAMI or CRASH this month, I’ve found myself throwing on ALPHA instead. Maybe I’ll dope out Rosalia and Charli XCX’s pop contrivances eventually, but right now I like knowing where to find the hooks, and with Shenseea, that’s everywhere. I’m sure some credit should go to her big-name producers and guests, but don’t be fooled into thinking they’re here to airbrush her debut. Shenseea is in control, hopping between them like Mario platforms to show off her talents. She bubbles with Tyga, bounces for Offset, turns red-hot for Megan Thee Stallion, performs a mating ritual with 21 Savage, and freaks out with Beenie Man on a wild collab named after—what’s this?—“Henkel Glue”. Their strapline: “Providing an unrivalled portfolio of adhesives, sealants and functional coatings designed to transform markets and the way you work.” Her strapline: “Open your mouth / Put up mi pum pum.” The theme on ALPHA, loosely speaking, is her changeability re: intimacy and independence. She swings from “Your sex is amazing but I’d be lying if I called it love” to “Ain't gonna be no other weh can love you like me” to “Look in the mirror, say: ‘Bitch I'm the best.’” But enough fishing around in lyrics. Her voice is what you came for, and it’s got all the kitchen essentials covered: creamy, buttery, sugary, syrupy, icy, carby (huh?), yogurty (um), tomatoey (that’s enough). After Beenie Man (and Sean Paul—of course Sean Paul) comes “Hangover”. Driven by just an acoustic loop, and without much of a beat, it puts all the focus on her pipes. Problem? Nuh badda. She plugs the ice machine into the autotune and pulls off the most powerful vocal line on the album. Best ad libs: 21 Savage. If he never makes an album worth writing about, let it be known that his monotone “twennyones” are one of modern music’s greatest gifts. Worst producer ID: Scott Storch. This isn't 90's radio in Dunstable, Scott.
As I unchained my bike from outside a newsagent, I caught a glimpse of a headline: “Kremlin says Boris is our number one target.” For what, I thought, Tory party donations? Access to the libel courts? Brass plate companies? Nah, just the Daily Mail covering his ass. It's the kind of thing that'd set off this month’s despairers-in-chief: Superchunk.
Pissed-off about Trump last time out, they’re down-in-the-mouth about covid on Wild Loneliness. That had me wary of a lockdownier-than-thou isolation album, and while Mac McCaughan does whine something rotten: a) he always does; b) power popping for 20 plus years while accruing a mere 93,000 monthly Spotify listeners is no guarantee you’re further from the breadline than anyone else; c) it’s a sympathetic whine. And then the same pick-me-ups the band uses to stave off glumness started working on me. Namely, shitloads of pulchritudinous melodies, some strings, some horns. The chord progression at the start of “City of the Dead” is a minor miracle; the arrangement on “Highly Suspect” a light at the end of the tunnel; the drums on “Endless Summer” something resembling defiance. These musical self-help strategies steady McCaughan for his fight with darkness. And while he’s not claiming any victories, he’s still able rationalise, which is something. If “I try to direct my energy somewhere good, but it keeps refracting” and “You’ve been highly suspect of my cheerful aspect” find him self-doubting, “This night is like so many / But I still get a thrill when you ring me” and “Please stay connected to me” are him rallying. As for “And if there’s still a shelf to fill / With non-scented banana bread / Find me weaving, find me still / Find me face-down on the feather bed”—I guess that finds him somewhere in between.
And then I was gone. Goodbye Sheringham. Eat my dust. Unfortunately, I have no sense of direction, so I wasn’t gone for long. I stopped after ten minutes to consult a map, predictably took in no useful information, still got lost on the way home. However, I did notice a label (Fig. 3) that made me double-take, and which brings us to The Overload.
In case you hadn’t noticed, this post-punk revival is kind of posh. Dry Cleaning, Squid, Wet Leg, Black Country New Road—all very home counties. So be grateful for Yard Act, who lower the class average and introduce the poppier post-punk strain I’ve been waiting for; two developments that aren’t unrelated. Like their peers, they sprech the sprech. But where Florence Shaw, Rhian Teasdale and Hester Chambers (the names alone) are impassive chatbots, and Isaac Wood and Olly Judge quivering wimps, James Smith—in the words of the local big man he voices on the opener—is a dick’ead singer who’s gonna end up in the back of an ambulance and the mic stand rammed up his arse twice over, all cause he won’t respect the flag, be polite, and not get political. He’s a gobshite. But he backs up his rants about late capitalist decline, ghetto fetishes, and proxy foreign wars by dramatising them. That means narrative song writing, another difference from the breadcrumbs dropped by Shaw, et al. Take “Tall Poppies”, about a village Jack the lad who gets snubbed by Crewe Alexandra because there are more talented (and handsomer) footballers in the Greater Manchester area, marries his first kiss, and settles down to life as an estate agent with a second home in the Costa Del Sol and his death commemorated by a plaque on a bench bearing a quote “from a song he'd never heard, cause he wasn't too fond of long songs with lots of words.” Songs like these, then. But bolshy politics aren’t pop. That’s where Yard Act’s rhythm section comes in. They’re a fond parody of year 6 discos, house parties at age 16, and sticky dance floors in local night clubs. Whether smart-aleck lyrics and ironic danceability is enough to make people sit up and listen to Smith grind his axe, I can’t say (The Overload peaked at number 2 in the UK charts in January but has since disappeared), but if he fails, there’s always that gig down The Grand. I expect the beatdown won’t put him off. 30-year-olds still running off at the mouth tend to have had more than a few already.
Fig. 3: Has Smith called England a hell hole? Surely a matter of time if not.
To cut a long story short, I got back home. I showered, changed, sat here, typed this, and realised that I’d got one more album to write about with nothing from my bike ride to link it to.
Except.
Maybe.
Wait right there. I’ll be back in a sec.
…
Isn’t that always the way? It was staring me in the face the whole time (Fig. 4).
Fig. 4. What are the chances?
On Burkina Hakili, Kady Diarra gives her band so much room to breathe they should’ve been tested for oxygen toxicity but probably weren’t because said recording took place in Diarra’s garden in peak lockdown and said band is almost entirely family members. What happens in the covid bubble stays in the covid bubble. Those bits of context may explain both the convivial atmosphere and why these unobtrusively poppy songs perambulate rather than rush their grooves. Honorary guest is Thierry Servien. Unfortunately, he failed to read side two of his invite, which specifies traditional Burkinabé instruments only, so turned up with his lecky guitar. Luckily, the Diarra’s are nothing if not accommodating, so they let him join in anyway, and when he hooks up with the ngoni and balafon, sparks fly. He even goes metal on the closer, relatively speaking. Based on the way Samba Diarra laughs through his own flute playing, the clan love it. Presiding benignly over them is Kady. Her voice is powerfully conversational without a hint of dominance, yet this is definitely stamped by her personality—one characterised by warmth and openness. Politeness, too, given that one of the hooks is “Merci”. In true griot style, French is one of the four languages she sings in, the others being Bwaba and Bamabara and the internet can’t decide on the fourth. She was also a world-touring professional dancer in the 90’s. No wonder she’s head of the family.
Next month: roller skates.
Honourable mentions
Kasai Allstars: Black Ants Always Fly Together, One Bangle Makes No Sound (2021)
Spoon: Lucifer On The Sofa
The Delines: The Sea Drift
Mon Laferte: Seis (2021)
Hurray For The Riff Raff: LIFE ON EARTH
Your Old Droog: YOD Wave
The Muslims: Fuck These Fucking Fascists (2021)
Tanya Tagaq: Tongues
Sleaford Mods: Spare Ribs (2021)
SASAMI: Squeeze
Les Filles de Illighadad: At Pioneer Works (2021)
Aeon Station: Observatory (2021)
Anais Mitchell: Anais Mitchell
Pulchritudinous stuff - loved taking this journey with you.