Album review: Young Dreams - Between Places

As a term of musical reference, symphonic pop feels faintly oxymoronic. Pop in its most instinctive form is not meant for grand statements; it's short, stabbing, and to the point. Overblown orchestration shouldn't really come into it.

Yet a closer inspection of the last 50 years shows the collision of symphony and pop works. The Beach Boys were, of course, kings of the craft. In the last decade, Panda Bear, Arcade Fire, and Grizzly Bear have all, to some extent, taken up the mantle, producing huge, ear-filling arrangements imbued with a distinctly poppy edge.

It's remarkably easy, then, to imagine Young Dreams mingling freely amidst this roll call of acts. The Norwegian collective's debut long player, Between Places, is possibly more symphonic than it is pop. Each track is ambitious and meticulously honed, gravitating around woozy melodies that lilt like palm trees in a West Coast breeze.

On a surface level, it's an incredibly easy and rewarding listen. "First Days of Something" is a doe-eyed,Graceland-infected earworm that swells into a summer-pop cacophony. Album closer "Young Dreams" touches on dreamy acoustics before revealing its harmonious swoon, peaking on hope-filled declarations of "We'll live forever."

Such simplicity, however, disguises the architectural craft behind this record. "Footprints," the buoyant album opener, is an entanglement of thumping percussion and seismic brass parps. "Fog of War" is just as beguiling, drifting in with Matias Tellez's drum-backed a cappella before its combination of keys and violins creates a dazzling, cloud-floating daze.

While Animal Collective comparisons will probably never be too far away, Young Dreams tend to stick to more accessible textures-even during 11-minute beach-combing opus "The Girl That Taught Me to Drink and Fight." Oxymoronic it may be, but symphonic pop doesn't come much more natural or sweeping than this. 

First published here for Under the Radar

Album review: Girls Names - The New Life

Clocking in at almost 50 minutes, The New Life is a long-form evolution for Girls Names. The band's 2011 debut Dead to Me was filled with staccato bursts of '80s indie pop clangs, thrashed out with the sort of breathless urgency that suggested the Belfast trio-since upgraded to a quartet-had its eyes on something much more substantial. Turns out it did: the follow-up.

In almost every way, The New Life fills out the adolescent bones of its predecessor. Traces of the wide-eyed Orange Juice-styled jangling still make a cameo in these 10 tracks, but this is a darker, more groove-orientated affair, led by insidious basslines that snake between the chasmal chimes of "A Second Skin" and "Hypnotic Regression."

Thematically, it's a record that revolves around solitude and this maudlin sense of confinement lurks in every nook: "Drawing Lines" is driven by a noose-tight guitar line that leads the charging melody; the up-tempo prang of "The Olympia" belies frontman Cathal Cully's spectral yearns; and the colossal title track is a seven-minute whirl of romantic melancholy bathed in chasmal reverb.

For anyone who's witnessed Girls Names live, none of this will surprise. The record's rhythmic nuance and towering structures represents a natural next step for a band that's worked hard to revise its sonic palette since its debut. It may lack the sun-drenched thrill of Dead to Me, but that was never the intention. The New Life is a fully-formed long player that yields rewards over time, not just 50 minutes.

First published here for Under the Radar

What I've been listening to this month: February

February has never been my favourite month. It promises spring but almost always delivers a bone-chilling reminder that we’re still in winter’s clutches. This year has been no exception. Fortunately, I’ve spent the month writing about myriad records for Under the Radar and Drowned in Sound, while even managing to sneak in my own listening when I’ve had the chance.

It’s been a consistently good month for music, in my mind. Girls Names, !!!, and Rhye are all about to drop some fresh and highly listenable records. Cherubic London trio Theme Park’s debut LP is a welcome blast of jangling indie pop while, on the other side of the age scale, Nick Cave and the Bad Seed’s 15^th outing sees  them return to the statesman-like splendour of old.

But, unlike many an indie-rag, I wasn’t so sure about the new Foals record. Holy Fire, their third album, swung between up-tempo earworms and fairly mundane, mud-treading dirges. I’m not entirely convinced they’re an “album” sort of band. Likewise, I was left a little underwhelmed by the new Darkstar albumNews From Nowhere, which is still to congeal as sounds that make any sense to me. I'll keep trying on that front though.

Already a contender for record of the year, however, has to be Local Natives sophomore LP Hummingbird. A stunning sonic concoction of washed out orchestration and sparkling melodies, the LA outfit have produce a gargantuan, wonderfully engrossing record that, with any justice, should put them on par with The National as crafters of tear-stained tunes.

As for surprises, I’ve found Japanese pop maestro Shugo Tokumaru’s In Focus? an infectious, smile-raising listen that’s perfectly poised for my daily (well, every other day) gym sessions, while Deptford Goth’s sublime Union is a swelling, gorgeously cut glide of tender beats and synths. And K-X-Ps maniacal II is continuing to serve up fresh surprises in my ear canals

So, all in all, this month hasn’t been that bad. Hopefully March will pick up where  February left off and maybe give us a little more sunshine.

Album review: Theme Park - Theme Park

On first impression, Theme Park seem like a pretty carefree bunch of guys. The London trio’s self-titled debut LP bounces around to the sound of elastic bass lines and tapped out guitars that flutter and flicker with kid-like excitement. Add a dollop of sugarcane production into the mix and what comes out is an innately summery affair, best suited to moments of sun-wallowing pleasure.

But there’s more to this ebullient offering than originally meets the eye. Theme Park, you see, have been doing the musical rounds for a couple of years, gestating a sound that’s seen them touted as the new Talking Head/Foals/Vampire Weekend, or any moderately successful band with a penchant for complex rhythm patterns and up-tempo melodies. It’s slightly surprising, then, to find they’ve created a record bearing very little resemblance to any of these touchpoints.

Drenched in irresistible hooks and big heady choruses, each of these 12 cuts revolve around good times, or at least the upcoming prospect of said good times. Musically, Theme Park jangle their guitars, swoon their harmonies, and shake their funky derrières in the general direction of the dancefloor. Essentially, what we’re dealing with is a shameless indie pop record created by a shameless indie pop band.

Yet beyond the honeyed goodness is an album of substance. Take opener ‘Big Flood’. Underneath its glossy veneer of elated keys and smooth, rubbery bass lurks a hardkicking percussive engine striving to maintain the song’s melodic urgency. ‘A Place They’ll Never Know’ and ‘Wax’ are equally multi-faceted, using effervescent guitar hooks to reel listening ears into a web of zig-zagging synthesizers and calypso rhythms.

For the most part it’s a successful approach, etching out real depth from twisting jaunts like the excellent ‘Ghosts’ and ‘Jamaica’. But as soon as they tread away from the angular indie pop paradigm, Theme Park begin to lose their edge. The echoing Eighties overtones of ‘Two Hours’ float depressingly close to The Killers at their most benign, while album epilogue ‘Blind’s all-for-one sentiment feels as sanctimonious as a boozed up Bono set loose at a charity fundraiser.

This stylistic drop-off implies Theme Park are still to settle on a chosen career path. On one hand, there’s enough creative flair here to suggest something special isn’t far away. Yet, they could just as well be readying for the mainstream, eager to embrace the fleeting adulation brought on by sentimental indie melodies. A debut LP this may be, but it already feels like the sound of a band at a crossroads. This carefree bunch may need to get serious soon.

First published here fore Drowned in Sound

Album review: Ducktails - The Flower Lane

You could say Matthew Mondanile's idea of a "solo" project has become a little skewed. The Real Estate guitarist's fourth outing as Ducktails includes support from New Jersey outfit Big Troubles and contributions from Cults, Oneohtrix Point Never, and Outer Limitz (to name a few).But rather than dilute Mondanile's woozy psych-pop aesthetic, this congestion of ideas brings fresh focus to his lo-fi craft.

Notably, the shift from the bedroom-born acoustics of 2011's Arcade Dynamics to a studio environment has helped shape a richer, more voluptuous body of work. The surface-scratching lilts of old have been replaced by gorgeous multi-layered swells such as twinkling opener "Ivy Covered House" and the blissful undulation of "Sedan Magic." But The Flower Lane isn't about reinvention; Mondanile continues to produce sauntering laments that pour out like fresh orange juice on a warm summer's day.

This ethereal, if slightly languid, gaze is eagerly maintained by the Wild Nothing-like guitar chiming of "Under Cover" and the swirling, unbridled train ride of "International Date Line." Despite the familiar hallmarks, these 10 cuts are more dynamic than any of Mondanile's previous efforts.

In particular, "Planet Phrom"—a Peter Gutteridge cover—is the sort of feet-sweeping pop glide he's always threatened to unleash, while "Letter of Intent," a tussling duet between Future Shuttle's Jessa Farkas and Big Trouble's Ian Drennan, is a divine foray into synthesized dreamscapes.

 Sure, it's no masterpiece, but The Flower Lane represents Matthew Mondanile's most consistent record to date. It would appear flying solo is a lot easier when you've got friends. (www.ducktails.bandcamp.com)

First published here for Under the Radar

A smash hit: Delving inside the mind of Aidan Moffat

On the release of the fourth L. Pierre outing, The Island Come True, Drowned in Sound opened its 8/10 review with a question: “Who exactly is Aidan John Moffat?”. At the time it felt pertinent, yet in hindsight it was always likely to come across rhetorical. In many ways, the review’s leading line was an inquest without an inquiry; a probe without a push; a fumble without a.... you see where we’re going here.

In our heart of hearts, we knew there was no answer. Remember, we’re talking about someone with the ability to swing effortlessly between verb-spouting poet, boorish musician, Twitter-glued deviant and, Christ, even relationship-fixing agony uncle. On any given day the man who made his name as the frontman for Arab Strap, can be anyone or anything he likes.

But here at Drowned in Sound we’re a persistent bunch. And some of us also grew up in awe of the probing – if slightly irreverent- interview style of 80s pop rag Smash Hits. So, in an attempt to finally nail an answer to our unrequited question, we tracked down Aidan and put a few personal posers his way, Smash Hits style...

Aidan, how would you describe yourself in three words?
Sure. I'm. Not.

What have you got in your pockets?
I'm presently wearing pyjama trousers, so all I've got is a torch to see where I'm going because I'm not allowed to turn the lights on in the bedroom after midnight.

As a play on one of our favourite ‘Strap albums, would you rather have a hug or a pint on a Monday?
A hug, probably from my son at three in the morning after I've had to take him back to his own bed.

Which pop star did you used to pretend to be in front of the mirror as a teenager?
Leroy from Fame. I'd lay the couch cushions on the floor in front of the telly and do somersaults and stuff. I wanted to be a dancer but it didn't quite work out.

Who do you think the most annoying person in music is?
I presently find Olly Murs' success irritating – he's the embodiment of desperate, talent-show mediocrity – but he is but a tiny tear in a vast, sad sea.

What would the topic of conversation be if Aidan Moffat today met Aidan Moffat from 15 years ago?
Money, i.e. don't spend it all on drugs, booze, comics and toys because no-one's buying records in the future.

If you could change places with anyone in the world, who would you like to be?
Olly Murs - I envy his mass appeal and common touch.

What is the most embarrassing lyric you have ever written?
I don't really get embarrassed, but there's a secret Arab Strap song called 'Don't Cry, It's Only A Penis' which will never be heard. I hope.

If you were called up to fight in a war, would you (a) shave your head and join up, (c) get the next flight out of the UK, or (d) be a conscientious objector?
If we're talking early 1940s then I'd be off already, but these days I'd entertain the troops. I'm too old to fight now anyway!

Which of these activities are you most likely to be found doing: (a) making a Jamie Oliver 15 minute meal, (b) tweeting about what colour of socks you’re wearing, (c) doing the ironing, (d) putting up shelves?
Definitely tweeting, but certainly not about socks. Rhymes with it, though.

Of all the musicians you’ve worked with who would you want to have on your side in a bar room brawl?
Michael Scanlon, Arab Strap's final bass player. He's a coiled spring; a hungry tiger waiting for a weak deer. (If he reads this, I'm joking. Kind of.)

And which one would be useless in that brawl?
Me, definitely. I'd be the one hiding under the table pretending to have lost something. Dignity, I expect.

What’s your favourite record of all time?
Santo & Johnny's 'Sleepwalk' is the most beautiful piece of music in history, and it means many different things from day to day.

Who would you rather duet with: (a) Rhianna (b) Gaga (c) That girl who used to be in Pussy Cat dolls (d) Ke$ha?
Ke$ha! She'd probably be the most fun, too much baggage with the first two and Nicole Scherzinwhatever's fucking horrible.

If you were an animal what animal would you be?
I'd be a cat so I could sit about licking my cat parts, doing fuck all until I demanded some affection from the gullible tit that feeds me.

If you weren’t a pop star what would you be doing?
If I wasn't a POP STAR?! Flattery's always welcome, cheers. If you mean if I wasn't a 'little known indie moanist', then I'd probably still be at my mum's and on the dole. Qualifications and me didn't mix well, and I'm fundamentally lazy.

 

How many instruments can you play?
I can only play the drums with any degree of prowess, and even then I'm woefully out of practice. Anything else is just me dicking about.

What is the best thing about being Aidan Moffat?
Having a massive penis.

What's the worst thing about being Aidan Moffat?
Being a terrible liar. (Boom tiss!)

If you could have a telephone conversation with David Cameron, what would you say to him?
"David, I'd just like to start by saying I have an enormous amount of respect for you and the tough decisions you have to make every… AYE RIGHT CUNT FUCKING DIE NOBODY WANTS YOU HA HA."

What’s the best chat up line you’ve ever been on the receiving end of?
"None of the rest of the band want to shag me."

What are you most scared of?
Ice. Seriously, I'm terrified of slipping, I fucking hate the stuff.

In ten years time what are you most likely to be doing?
Interviews by email.

And with that, he’s gone. Away to do whatever it is someone like Aidan Moffat does. So what did we learn? Well, this is a man who doesn’t take himself too seriously; a man who loves his kid more than a pint; a man who’s probably never going to get an invite to an open house at number 10.

But did we get to the heart of who Aidan Moffat really is? Were any of these ripostes a key to unlocking what’s inside his soul. Unlikely. In fact, amongst all cussing and celebrity chitter chatter, we’re probably further away from pinning down an answer than ever before.

With questions like these, it’s no wonder Smash Hits went to the dogs.

First published here for Drowned in Sound

Album review: K-X-P - II

Getting to the heart of a record can be a tricky business. Some bands create music so guarded, so locked down in metaphor and musical double-speak, it’s impossible to translate what the fuck is going on. Others, of course, go down the opposite path. Their themes and melodies are so blindingly obvious, you end up searching for some inherent, subconscious meaning that must surely – but usually doesn’t - exist beneath the layers of humdrum pedestrianism.

In a way, K-X-P’s latest longplayer lands on both sides of the coin. On first spin, II is as predictable as is it comes; a pitch black spectrum of satanic chants and chimes that straddle the more rampant throes of krautrock. Yet once the skin begins to loosen, once the flesh is revealed and the pulse starts twitching, what transpires is a rich, multi-faceted delve through a gauze of style and sounds; a record that shovels a brutal punch of techno, post-rock, free-jazz and scarring electronica straight down the ear-canals.

This shouldn’t really come as a surprise. The Finnish quartet’s self-titled debut was a masterstroke of rhythmic, primal splurges charged with duelling drums and indecipherable vocals. Remarkably, its successor takes two steps forward, easing poppier swells within those impenetrable squalls. Ear-bleeding moments still exist – the band’s rabid dog soul finds a way to bite through the ethereal overtones of 'In The Valley' – but they’re executed at more agreeable angles.

II, however, is no gentle sail down the mainstream. Any such notions are quickly ditched in a breathless opening run. ‘Melody’ is a motorwaying drive of basslines and synthesizers that judder like Dan Deacon after a psychopathic makeover. Its follow-up, ‘Staring at the Moon’, is even more epic; rushing out as a paranoid cinematic sweep of unhinged percussion and skittering keys, while the line “and that’s the way it always is” loops into a frantic, hyperventilating mantra.

What’s perhaps most striking about II is it deep sense of ritual. Cuts like ‘Flags & Crosses’ and ‘Tears’ weave a trail of melodic twists and hymnal chants that congeal like a concentration of hypnotic, deeply animalistic urges. The depth-charged prog and complex time-signatures of ‘Magnetic North’ escalate the occultism to higher levels, with a slithering vocal gleefully reciting “for those who are bored, Satan is Lord” amidst a babble of cheering kids. Tongue in cheek it may be, but such feral narratives add a dash of drama to the ceremony.

At a production level, frontman Timo Kaukolampi has attempted to capture the band’s rampant live energy. For the most part, he nails it. Each number is frothing and wild-eyed, managing to feel free form and utterly purposeful at the same time. In fact, the sweaty disco groove of ‘Easy (Infinity Waits)' is such a crotch-rubbing orgy of sound it could have been snatched from the sticky floors of a Berlin bondage party, rather than a darkened Helsinki studio.

And that’s exactly why this album won’t appeal to everyone. II is a propulsive, unrelenting composite that doesn’t know what it is, nor does it care. What K-X-P are dealing in is label-less music; complex, iron-gripping sounds delivered with towering bombast. It should be a mess. It should be unlistenable. But it’s not – it’s extraordinary. Why? Because once you’re at the heart of this album, somehow, it only feels like the beginning.

First published here for Drowned in Sound

New music I’ve been listening to: January 2013

Cor, that’s January almost done then. Where the hell did it go? Not that I’m complaining, mind. This shitty weather is not particularly uplifting.

Anyway, I feel like I’ve been listening to and writing a tonne about new music lately. January, for all it’s ills, is not a bad month to spend time indoors getting your lugs wrapped around the first crop of albums in 2013.

 My track of the month is Teleman’s rather wonderful Cristina. I’ve had it in my head since I first heard it at the turn of the year and I can’t see it going anywhere quick. Finally my penchant for the braw Pete and the Pirates has new outlet.

Album-wise, I’d have to say the best thing I’ve heard so far this year is the L. Pierre record, which probably won’t suit everyone’s tastes, but it includes some of Aidan Moffat's finest work, post-Arab Strap.

I am definitely finding myself being swayed, quite surprisingly, by the Dutch Uncles and Everything, Everything LPs. With all these math-pop ensembles, Manchester seems to be having a bit of an identity refresh at the moment. Which I guess is no bad thing.

Anyway, here’s a taster of the (new) tunes that have been spinning around my head this month…

Album review: The Ruby Suns - Christopher

If someone was to put together a line-up of underappreciated acts from the past decade, The Ruby Suns would surely head the queue. Band foreman Ryan McPhun’s first three full length releases encapsulated a swathe of genres, played out with a sense of fidgety, untameable curiosity. In particular, the unkempt Amazonian rhythms of 2007’s Fight Softly showcased a mastery of percussive-based melodies which, live, was made all the more hypnotic by McPhun’s limb-combusting stage presence.

Yet, there’s always been a touch of the Yeasayers about The Ruby Suns. Not just in the shared pursuit of tribal splurges with a melodic twist, but in the feeling that this is as good as it gets; that wherever McPhun goes next, no matter how spectacular the execution or boundary-pushing the sound, he’ll never quite scale the greatest heights.

With the release of Christopher, McPhun seems to be using this sense of inevitability to his advantage. Bathed in high-fidelity production (thanks to Beach House mix-maestro Chris Coady) The Ruby Suns' fourth longplayer gallops away from its predecessors’ calling card of experimental flicks, tricks and flourishes. Here, McPhun is putting away his blueprints and doing as he pleases. And what he pleases is pop - of all shapes and sizes.

His latest creation is a Ruby Suns record in name only. Everything else – the sounds, the hooks, the synthesized delivery – derives from chart-topping produce from the last 30 years. Unsurprisingly, this pegboard style creates an uneven trajectory, meaning the run between opening number ‘Desert of Pop’ and curtain closer ‘Heart Attack’ has more peaks and troughs than an alpine ski resort.

Such inconsistency makes Christoper a frustrating listen. The spirographing Eighties wiggle of ‘Real Life’ is instantly countered by ‘Dramatikk’s directionless composure; ‘Rush’s overjoyed synth-scape finds itself clawed back by the placid austerity of ‘Kingfisher Call Me’; and the spiderwebbing rhythm of ‘Starlight’ is left sullied by ‘Boy’s suffocating Chromatics-like tundra.

Curiously, McPhun’s sonic shunt evokes a more honest lyrical approach from the New Zealander. These tracks are washed in personal narratives, ranging from surface level popstar pondering (‘Real Life’) to deep-seated soul searching (‘Heart Attack’). At one point 'Boy', perhaps the record’s most blunt point of reflection, finds McPhun explaining to his inner-child that “there’s a monster in everyone you know”.

Despite the self-therapy and tonal lulls, Christopher is a highly listenable affair that produces two truly outstanding moments. ‘Desert of Pop’s vibrant synths and dreamy, sentimental notes make it a dead-ringer for New Order at their finest, while ‘Jump In’s grandiose scales and dashing percussion conjure up a brilliant slab of zig-zagging pop that’s as hummable as it is demanding.

Were they delivered via the sugar-coated pipes of a giggly chanteuse, such impressive touchpoints would scythe their way through the charts. Yet, for all Christopher’s shiny veneer, you suspect McPhun has no need for such lofty heights. He’s satisfied doing what he’s doing, playing what he’s playing, being what he’s being. Appreciation doesn’t even come into it.

First published here for Drowned in Sound

Album review: The Revival Hour - Scorpio Little Devil

To make any sense of The Revival Hour’s debut LP Scorpio Little Devil, it’s necessary to understand the commonality that binds its creators. Born either side of the Atlantic, DM Stith and John-Mark Lapham, formerly of Manchester’s The Earlies, are both gay men who were brought up in stern – if very different - religious communities. It’s unsurprising then to find their first full-length collaboration strongly bedded with themes of escapism and alienation.

Despite the deep-seated subject matter a sense of adventurism runs across the record’s spine. Fusing together a kaleidoscope of genres, the duo’s ability to switch skins is absorbing. Opener Control is a skittering, effects-riddled hailstorm; the harrowing Hold Back swoons with brass and gospel choir harmonies; and Run Away’s sunkissed pop skips away like a sugar-rushing Animal Collective. A never-ending treasure trove of ideas, Scorpio Little Devil is the sound of two remarkable minds becoming one.

First published here for The Skinny

Album review: L Pierre - The Island Come True

Who exactly is Aidan John Moffat?

Well, one look at the late night mutterings of his Twitter feed suggests we’re talking about an alcohol-sodden deviant with a penchant for slinky bubblegum pop princesses. A subsequent rumble through his recordings with Arab Strap wouldn’t entirely contradict this suspicion (see the deliciously depraved 'Stink' for proof). But don’t be fooled - the 39-year-old Scot has much more to offer than coital claptrap on digital platforms.

See, behind the misanthropic dirtbag front lies an artist of genuine class. He may ham up the Bukowski-for-a-modern-age swagger but there’s real substance to his output, as proven by 2011’s much lauded collaboration with Bill Wells on Everything’s Getting Older. His work under the guise of L Pierre is another touchstone for artistic merit. The comedown haze of 2002’s Hypnogogia and Touchpool’s louche jazz bar leanings suggest Moffat’s musical thirst is as insatiable as his libido.

Returning to the L Pierre moniker, Moffat has crafted new LP The Island Come True through a platter of scratching environmental recordings and samples pulled from age-old tape reels. In essence, it’s a step in to simplicity for someone who was never been overly complicated. And, somehow, amidst this jumble of hissing, spitting, creaking arrangements, Moffat has composed one of his finest and most abstract records to date.

It’s hard not to think of these 11 cuts as anything but a journey; one that starts at the feedback crackle of ‘KAB 1340’ and ends on ‘The Kingdom’s ethereal day-breaking drone. Between these two points, Moffat saunters through an ever-moving landscape of sounds and themes that segue effortlessly into one engrossing whole. Yet, individually, each track packs enough punch to stand up on its own right.

Emotionally, it’s as striking as Moffat’s ever been. And given his lack of lyrical input here, that’s an impressive feat. ‘Drums’s battering-ram percussion seethes with an anger that surpasses his most spiteful Strap moments. Its follow-up, ‘Sad Laugh’, is a doomy slow-dance of tender strings and indecipherable chants, while the piano-waltzing ‘Exits’ teases out a dreamy, romantic side that bears little of Moffat’s debauched tendencies. Even ‘Dumbum’s ever-looping skit suggests there’s a coy inner child in there begging to make an appearance.

Such latent multi-sourcing is, of course, open to interpretation – and its creator isn’t beyond firing out a mischievous curveball or two. But with such an imaginative cauldron of ideas, it would be foolish to pass this off as another exercise in Moffat-coined story weaving. Instead, The Island Come True might be as close as we’ll get to understanding the inner-workings of this perplexing and unique artist. Then again it might not. With Aidan John Moffat you just never know.

First published here for Drowned in Sound

Album review: Plantman - Whispering Trees

Close your eyes during Plantman’s debut album and you’ll be transported back to an era of pre-Britpop Indie. Given Matt Randall’s (AKA Plantman) love of Go-Betweens, Sebadoh and Durutti Column, it’s hardly surprising Whispering Trees sounds like it’s been pulled straight out of the NME’s fabled C86 mixtape. But in a decade where over-production thrives, there’s a refreshing lack of polish to this unhurried affair.

Although there’s little instant gratification to be found, tracks like the shimmering Away With The Sun and picturesque Stickman are quiet, unassuming earworms worthy of gradual pursuit. Equally impressive is the title track’s haze of trebly, mid-paced guitars and the ghostly chords of album highpoint Lunaria, both of which bare uncanny resemblance to Lou Barlow at his most introspective. At 15 tracks long, Whispering Trees could benefit from a little fat trimming, but this is still a fine reminder of uncomplicated times.

First published here for The Skinny

Festive times...

Goodbye 2012, hello 2013. It's hard to believe that we're starting a new year all over again, isn't it? The last 12 months seem to have flown in and, I dare say, the next 12 will do the same. Hopefully this will be a year that's got a little more stability to it than last year. There seemed to be so much tumult until I left London for Essex that it was difficult to keep our feet on the ground. After that though, it was strangely - and rather worryingly - plain sailing.

Anyway, I've not made any resolutions this year. I've been eating healthier, drinking less and exercising more over the last few months so I can't see me having to improve in those departments. On the "real" work front, I'll be spending much of the next year adding a few strings to the bow that is my CV before I consider taking the next step up. On the "unreal" work front, I'm planning on extending my writing opportunities and making time for an outlet that's both creative and cathartic for me.

Now we've got that out of the way, here's a few snapshots of my last few weeks of celebrating my birthday, Christmas and New Year. Needless to say, I'll be putting in a few extra miles when pounding pavementsover the next few weeks to work off some of the gluttony.

Best of 2012: Menomena – Moms

Despite the much publicised departure of founding member Brent Knopf, Menomena have done an impressive job of carrying on regardless. The Portland outfit’s fifth album Moms maintains their unconventional brand of meandering, off-piste motifs. The matadorial guitars and cascading percussion are all in check, as is the soul-searching subject matter that scrapes perilously close to the bone. But Moms is much more than just standard Menomena fare. These ten cuts are charged with a current of brutal, unrelenting oppression that’s as thrilling as it is absorbing. Menomena MkII, it seems, is working out rather nicely.

First published in Under the Radar's Albums of the Year 2012

Best of 2012: Hot Chip – In Our Heads

Recapturing the wonky, synth-pop styling of 2006’s The Warning has proved to be a tough ask for Hot Chip. But with the release of In Our Heads the UK electro-poppers finally found some semblance of form. As you’d expect, the quintet’s fifth LP is an infectious melee of disco-glittered melodies and kaleidoscopic effects. Yet amidst this floor-filling lather are speckles of transient, other-worldly grooves and melancholic wig-outs that reveal a new found sense of wisdom. While it’s hardly the sound of a band growing old gracefully, In Our Heads may well signify Hot Chip’s first step into adulthood.


First published in Under the Radar's Albums of the Year 2012