An Acute Case: 3 June 2022
A Jubilee special with Bob Vylan, featuring the St George's flag as toilet paper, violent sedition, and a suggestion of culpability for Diana's death.
Arcade Fire: WE
Self-serious and precious isn’t a problem. Neither are their false dichotomies. But their heavy-handedness squishes most of the fun from these mildly danceable songs, as well as putting them perilously close to rock’n’rolling Bo Burnham: Inside. (‘Unconditional I (Lookout Kid)’) **
Bob Vylan: We Live Here (Deluxe) (2021)
All the essential parts of their exhilarating punk-rap are in place, though the fury isn't as intense, wit as caustic, stories as vivid, target assassinations as dead-eye, guitars as eviscerating, drums as cataclysmic, or performances as dazzling as on the follow-up. But if they're treading a middle ground, at least it's one that’s entirely their own. The mission statement’s in the intro. Miss that and there’s no hope for you (okay, maybe this). They’re claiming Britain as their own, even though it’s serially failed them and continues to make a killing from those at the base of the elephant's trunk. Why? Clue’s in the title. Nothing here is as seditious as ‘Take That’ or as perceptive as 'Health Is Wealth', but if you’re looking for a motto, you could do worse than "You can't get away with words / Even if you've got a way with words / Nobody wants to get punched in the face / Cause when you get punched in the face it hurts." Jason Aalon Butler's appearance only serves to remind me why I decline to reappraise post-hardcore screamos whenever the idea pops into my head. Bobby's daughter's appearance serves the greater purpose of reminding me that, while he may have overcome his disadvantages, so long as things remain the same generation upon generation of children won't. A MINUS
Bob Vylan: Bob Vylan Presents: The Price of Life
Unlike rap metal that rages vaguely against machines, Bobby (rapper) and Bobbie (drummer) know who the vylans are and expose their crimes. Know how to bait them, too. Within the first seven minutes they drown Churchill's statue, dig up Maggie’s grave (the lady's not for disinterring?), and wipe their backside with the St George's flag—acts that highlight Bobby’s gift for antic theatricality, which he uses to bring to life the hardscrabble existence of a disregarded underclass as much as antagonise his enemies. Bringing the noise as furiously as heroes Chuck D and John R, they bomb squad the fuck out of a thrash guitar and live/programmed drum combo that sounds basic until you notice how the sequencing, segues, sound effects, and samples add up to a coherent concept album (framed by Walter Rodney’s opening soundbite) that’s inexhaustibly entertaining, not to mention so intense it might give you an embolism. Bumper sticker-ready phrases like "No liberal lefty cunt is gonna tell me punching Nazis ain't the way" suggest Bobby’s idea of praxis tends no-nonsense. But he can also be educational. His sermon on the exclusionary cost of healthy eating is so on point it could be used as a GCSE Bitesize version of the Marmot Report. And given it’s devoid of swearing or violent riffs, I expect he'd like it to be. Best British rap album ever? No contest. Best British punk album ever? It’s in the conversation. A PLUS
Pastor Champion: I Just Want to Be a Good Man
This reborn preacher—who, between his birth in the Jim Crow south in 1946 and death last December, also worked as a Californian gang member and carpenter (as well as being the well-kept-secret brother of soul singer Bettye Swann)—was discovered by David Byrne-founded label Luaka Bop in 2018 while they were recording for another compilation. Knowing their gospel onions, they hooked him and a scratch band up to a reel-to-reel right where they found him—the 37th Street Baptist Church in Oakland. Recorded over just two nights, this perfectly imperfect minor miracle is the result. Like Champion tells his band while teaching them the three chord changes they need for one tender devotional, the compositions are simple. But they're also deceptively plastic, with room for audience participation, some mild jamming, and enough licks to keep the devil down. There’s a lifetime of rupture and repair in Champion’s weathered tenor and the raggedy-ass rhythms he scratches out on his guitar. These songs have been torn, frayed, and patched back together. They’re a test of faith, a platform he knows will never collapse under the weight of his sins and anyone else’s listening in. That’s the real message. Though he’s got some choice words for congregants who cheer louder at football games than at church. And even non-believers like me can aspire to the title sentiment. A MINUS
Florence and the Machine: Dance Fever
Yodeller hooks up with He Who Must Not Be Named in the hope that he can do something to compensate for the mirthless cult of her voice. The resulting beat is worth a nod, but it’s hard to imagine any setting where the title would ring true. (‘Free’) *
Clay Harper: They'll Never Miss a Five
Loser hymns so slow and brittle that when he goes midtempo on the title track and the one that sounds like a jaunty outtake from Nebraska you might find yourself wanting to dance. Not sure anything is gained by stretching his dirge aesthetic to eight and a half minutes. But for what it's worth, I'm not sure anything is lost either. (‘They’ll Never Miss a Five’) **
Imarhan: Aboogi
After recent stabs at assouf bands Les Filles Illighadad and Etran de L'Aïr didn't quite hit the mark, this one does because of two small differences: i) a tad more song-form, by which I mean identifiable beginnings, middles and ends amidst the recursive rhythms; and ii) those rhythms being more aqueous than flinty. The voices are softer, too. The vocalists slip in and out so teasingly it’s impossible to keep track, adding butteriness to drums that are deeply satisfying whether they’re gently thumping or pit-a-patting like water on a stone. As a contrast, the choral voices drone. And as yet another contrast, the guitars—always crystalline, always traceable—slice through that drone. Then they all switch positions and the guitars drone, voices slap, and drums slice. And so on. Other sounds rustle and shimmer and tip-tap in the background. As for the title, you’ll be pleased to know it’s taken from their new studio (which in turn is named after the structures their nomadic forbears built) and not the rapper wit da hoodie. The construction of said studio signals the first time they've recorded in their native Algeria. If you don’t have a lyric sheet, that’s what the songs celebrate. A MINUS
Marren Morris: Humble Quest
Daring inasmuch as rendering anything in gloss is a risk, especially big piano and mushy ballads. What isn’t so risky is her reluctance to work outside of the two song templates she feels comfrotable with, though credit her for trying on 'Tall Guys', even though she still comes up, er, short. (‘Circles Around This Town’)**
Pkew Pkew Pkew: Open Bar
Clever with words—they get to the point in an average of two minutes and forty-five seconds per song. But they’ll need more than bar band energy to turn those songs into an album. (‘Fresh Pope’)*
Wiz Khalifa, Big K.R.I.T., Girl Talk: Full Court Press
This collab between three artists I wouldn't have thrown together (plus Smoke DZA, who features on 7/10 songs but scandalously doesn’t get a byline) is part ode to Southern muzak and part bonged-out smoke session. I suspect their being high as kites has something to do with the outlandishly plush ten-years-too-late aesthetic, drugs being well-known for causing a certain detachment from the present. The raps are smooth, the voices the same, but this is primarily a vibe record, a victory lap of woozy, loopy samples, shimmering synths, and “woohoo, we made it” trap beats. It's the final burst of energy before you take a weed nap. Whether the drugs open their minds as much as they claim is debatable. Bare minimum, they've memorised a lot of drug nomenclature, with Khalifa reeling off a list on the opener that includes (just for fun) “kush dabs”, “edibles”, “bong weed”, “bong rips”, “a whole pound”, “a KK joint”, “some rapper weed”, “some wake and bake”, “half a P”, and “an ounce of dank”. Elsewhere, there's a questionable anti-player female empowerment song, a more convincing Chic-assisted sorta love song, and a "how to come up” instructional. The rest is mostly about getting high, so if you’re here for doors of perception wisdom, look no further than this apophthegm: "The secret to success? Be the motherfuckin' best." A MINUS