Category Archives: Blog

Not just background music: the art of the soundtrack
1
May

How exactly does the art of music-making change when it becomes a small part of a much larger video game or feature film? And what makes the soundtrack of Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse so remarkable? Alex Walden is on hand to reveal all.

One of the things that I love most about music is that it’s entirely subjective. There’s no genetic influence on what type of music you enjoy or what you look for in music; it’s completely down to just what your brain likes and that’s what makes it so unique. There’s complete freedom over what songs you like, what you like about music and what music you prefer to listen to while experiencing specific emotions. Take me for example: I can go from Kanye West to Nirvana straight to Jorja Smith like its nothing. Music’s ability to merge its way into any and every situation in life is one of the best things about it. So, what happens when entertainment corporations begin to realise this? The simple answer is that you get soundtracks, a collection of songs which feature sometimes extensive lists of artists from the same genre who are recruited to essentially convey to you how a project should sound. If done well, these soundtracks can become a great way to further indulge yourself into a corporation’s project. But what makes a soundtrack so good? By looking at some of my favourite examples I hope to give you an insight into exactly that.

DOOM and the ability to immerse
To this day, the pair of unbranded plain grey headphones that my father bought for me as a Christmas gift years ago remain one of my essential items. The main reason for this is that they come with what was at the time a new feature known Active Noise Cancelling. Although I found this feature amazing when I first experienced it, it made me appreciate the idea of having music as background noise more. For example, as I’m typing this right now on my busted AirPods at about 60% volume in my silent room I can still hear the tapping sound of my fingers on my laptop, which is helping me from becoming completely focused on this Slum Village album, whilst helping me focus on what I’m writing. The addition of music is sometimes the crucial piece needed to allow a consumer to become immersed in entertainment and Mick Gordan’s DOOM soundtrack is a prime example of this.

For those who don’t know, DOOM is a video game series which has been going since 1993. What started out as a simple arcade-style shooter has gradually progressed in recent years to become one of the most intense games ever released. You can only imagine how intense a game set on Mars with your primary objective to kill everything in sight in increasingly gruesome ways could be. Filled with fast paced action and highly detailed combat sequences, this game series has earned its place as one of my favourite game series to play. The game itself may be great, but the soundtrack is the driving force as to why this game is so special.

DOOM‘s original release dates back to 1993

As you tread through the game’s map you are given a subtle warning as a stream of white noise and bass tones hit you. In addition these sounds have been completely transformed by an extensive list of phasers, pedals, distortion boxes, reverb effects and many more. These short stretches of music are known as stems and are designed to give you an uneasy feeling of dread. It forces your brain to tell you “I don’t know what’s up ahead but whatever it is, it’s going to a be a lot”. As soon as the combat starts, the game’s techno-based sounds are completely thrown out the window, now replaced with no-nonsense metal. The addition of heavy metal music which accompanies a swarm of demons as they head directly towards you forces your body to produce a surge of adrenaline as you try fight your way through the horde.

Mick Gordon’s idea of combining metal with electronic sounding drums and heavily altered stems is not only genius, but also extremely difficult to pull off. Metal music has always been a violent badass and extremely niche category of music. It’s aggressive, fast paced and resembles everything about this new generation of music that your grandma hates. However, the fact that metal is so niche that can be its downfall sometimes. There are occasions metal fans don’t like when their genre is mixed in with more cliché genres such as techno. They feel as if their music is being watered down or that the people who make it are just doing it for money, not just the love of music. Yet Mick Gordon is able to use just the right amount of techno influence in extremely heavy basslines to add that extra kick that makes the music hit that bit more. I mean seriously – the drums and guitar riffs in this game are completely unmatched. It sounds something far beyond the capabilities of some video game composer from Australia.

Sometimes I need to pause DOOM… either I need to turn my volume down or I feel way out of my depth.

There have been times when I’ve had to pause the game while in the middle of a combat scene. This is always because of two reasons: either I need to turn my volume down because I can feel a headache coming on, or I just feel way out of my depth and need a minute to gather myself before I jump back into the game. That’s why I love DOOM so much. I’ve never played a game where I feel as if I’m being mentally dragged right out of my comfort zone, pushing myself to my limits as I try to comprehend everything around me while also trying to stay alive. I assure you that without a soundtrack, this game wouldn’t feel the same. (No seriously, I’ve actually played the whole game on mute while I watch a show in the background). But with Mick Gordon’s remarkable background music blasting through my ears, my mind constantly bounces back and forth between the thoughts of how amazing a song is and how I’m currently flirting with death in my game right now. It’s as if the game is able to control my brain, messing with me so that I’ll find it all the more challenging to complete.

Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse and the construction of fictional universes

It’s time I let you into my lives a little more now. I have to admit I’m practically in love with the Post Malone and Swae Lee song Sunflower. Ask anyone who knows me and they’ll tell you I have a borderline unhealthy addiction to this song. At the time of writing this, Sunflower is my most played song on Spotify since I created my account (that must say something considering that this I discovered this song 5 years after I first created my account). If I’m honest, I could easily write a whole dissertation level paper about how the movie, Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse, is a perfect movie but for now I’m going to attempt to restrain myself and try to only talk about why the soundtrack is able to help construct a fictional universe for the consumer.

Spider-Man: Into the Spiderverse received widespread critical acclaim in 2018 for its creative storytelling and hit-filled soundtrack

Spider-Man Into the Spider-Verse is, in my opinion, the best spider-man film made to date. The story follows Black and Puerto-Rican teen Miles Morales as he begins his journey at the Brooklyn Visions Academy. It’s clear from the beginning that Miles isn’t a huge fan of the academy and feels pressured to live up to his father’s expectations. However, while hanging out with his Uncle Aaron, Miles’ entire world gets completely flipped upside down when he gets bitten by a radioactive spider. I’ll spare you my synopsis of this film, but seriously there’s practically and endless list as to why I love this movie so much. One of the key things I always notice is that like most teens in this day and age, Miles gets anxious and things can feel mentally out of his control very quickly. It’s through music that Miles is able to calm himself down, which I know is a very common practice for people who struggle with anxiety, so we naturally relate to him because we see he’s just a kid underneath the mask.

One of the best decisions Marvel made was constructing this specific movie soundtrack. We feel as if we’re being brought into Miles’ world. With tracks like What’s Up Danger and Start a Riot we get the textbook high energy songs that let our minds wander and draw up our own Spidey-themed scenarios in our heads, but with tracks such as Sunflower, Invincible and Scared of the Dark we’re brought into Miles’ personal life. Behind all the vigilante stunts, he’s really just a kid from Brooklyn. It’s through this that were able to build a connection with Miles and we feel as if we actually know him – after all, we know his music taste, his character traits, and his biggest secret.

It’s through the soundtrack that we’re about to build a connection with Miles. We see he’s just a kid underneath his mask.

One of the most common issues with movie soundtracks today is that, although companies tend to recruit artists who are in the mainstream scene at the time, it often sounds forced and cringey because let’s face it, the number one rule with any creative passion is that it shouldn’t be forced because everyone can tell when it’s not from the heart. I’ve even read up on cases where artists have been paid to name drop specific brands in their lyrics. People can tell if you have a genuine passion for something or if you’re just doing it for clout. But with Into the Spider-Verse’s soundtrack, Marvel managed to group together artists who fit quite well in the hip hop and pop rap categories, so for them this was just another song for them to write. In particular, you can hear how good the genuine chemistry is between Post and Swae throughout the song Sunflower. It’s probably why Post decided to take Swae Lee on tour with him after the songs release.

mid90s and cultural representation

If you would’ve told me when I was a kid that hip hop would become one of the most popular genres of music in the future, including the number one in America at one point, I would’ve thought that you were talking complete nonsense and I’d have fair reason to. Up until 2016, hip hop was seen as the outcast genre. It was viewed as the genre which your kids should avoid and hip hop artists were deemed to have no valid musical talent. One of my other favourite hobbies as a kid which also got a bad rep was skateboarding. I grew up in the era of skateboarding where the days of kids watching Tony Hawk blast off crazy huge ramps and go around pools were starting to fade as street skating grew in popularity. This obviously led to skateboarding being viewed as a reckless sport which some people even saw as a crime. The representations of these two interests of mine are why they used to be home to quite niche communities, which is the same reason they ended up getting represented so poorly in mainstream media, because the people who write about it often don’t know anything about it. Despite this, there is the odd moment where it’s done well and mid90s is a prime example of how it’s done perfectly.

Jonah Hill gave all the kids on set real iPods to listen to 90s hip hop on. As someone who skates, this is a major victory.

The story of mid90s is relatively simple. It follows 13-year-old Stevie (Sunny Suljic) as he navigates his way through summer accompanied by a troubling home life and a group of friends he meets at the local skate shop. What I like most about this film is that it accurately represents the skate community by showing all skaters are different; hell, some of the skaters in this film are in their teens while some are just kids. It’s not just some attempt at seeming edgy for a money grab. In fact, all the people who play skaters in mid90s were skating way before they were acting. You can find them on the Illegal Civ YouTube channel which is what makes this movie so comforting to watch you feel as if you’re just watching some kids skate. It doesn’t feel like you’re watching some scripted attempt at making skating seem rebellious and edgy.

mid90s marked Jonah Hill’s directorial debut in 2018

One of the best aspects of this film is that it features music from the time that the film is set. As a matter of fact, director Jonah Hill gave all of the kids on set iPods which were all filled with songs that he used to listen to growing up in the 90s. Many of the songs on these iPods were from artists such as Pixies, Wu Tang Clan and The Pharcyde who were also featured during the movie. Now, to the average viewer this would just be seen as a method to help add to a scene, but as someone who skates this is a major victory. I remember hearing 93 ’til Infinity by Souls of Mischief and Put It On by Big L and feeling surprised that a movie about skating was using songs that actual skaters listen to. My friends and I actually listen to some of these songs on the regular and I’m hearing it in this movie? It felt weird at first but then it felt great realising that the director, who had decided to bring quite a small sport to the big screen, had actually nailed the portrayal of skaters and had taken the steps necessary to do so. Not only that, but thanks to mid90s I was able to discover loads of new artists and songs. After watching the movie, one of the first things I did was find a Spotify playlist with all the songs featured in the movie. I was blessed with Spotfiy’s own official mid90s playlist which even included small anecdotes from Jonah Hill himself. It was through this playlist that I was able to discover golden era hip hop and how as well as good music, it doubled as an awesome soundtrack for skating. I remember trying to skate around my neighbourhood while listening artists such as Raekwon, Nirvana and, now one of my favourite groups of all time, A Tribe Called Quest. It was through times like this that I was able to explore skate culture which has become one of the best parts about my daily life. Of course, there were other instances as to why I had discovered skating, like the famous Tony Hawk games, but I feel as if it weren’t for mid90s I wouldn’t have been able to link together this fun hobby with one of my favourite things in the world, music, which has led to skating and skate culture becoming a huge part of me.

So there you have it: three examples of how a soundtrack can become a valuable feature of any project. I feel like often soundtracks can get overlooked by some who just view it as an accessory and I will admit that sometimes it can fit that description if poorly constructed, yet I hope that these three examples of iconic soundtracks have helped you realise that soundtracks can often be underrated. Maybe it’s just my habit of having a particular interest the little things and small details talking for me, who knows? What I do know though, is that next time you go watch a movie or play a video game or even go somewhere with your friends or family and you feel some extreme emotion whether it be joy, sadness, anger, or any other variation of mood, pay attention to what music is playing in the background or the songs that you play that day. You might make some amazing memories which you can then attach to a specific song. That is what makes soundtracks so amazing.

Los Bitchos live at Star and Shadow review – scintillating cumbia finds a new home on the Tyne
19
Apr

Sturdy trainers were indispensable for a night of moving and shaking in one of the trendiest little venues in Newcastle. Armed with an arsenal of percussion, it was Los Bitchos’s touching onstage chemistry that turned a good show into a fabulous one.

It’s been a wild week, but something about stepping into the modest crowd inside the Star and Shadow felt like home. I’d been slightly nervous on the bus journey across Newcastle city centre – perhaps a sign that my solo gigging confidence has been lost somewhere in an almost concert-free summer – but seeing the lights and the staging and feeling the atmosphere of anticipation reminded me why I love live music so much, with company or otherwise. It helped that the Star and Shadow turned out to be my sort of venue. Cinema by day, the small complex is proudly independent and volunteer-run, and it felt like it with its artsy handmade signs and exposed overhead ventilation ducts that butted up against a mirrorball hung up by string, giving the place a cobbled together feel, albeit lovingly. No one I had asked since moving to the city three days earlier had even heard of the venue, which was small enough for the merch queue to be almost non-existent and the bar queue an unusually polite single line leading to one side. The typically awkward task of wrangling my way to the front was a cakewalk; in fact I did a little too well, and my spot front and centre with some space around me was a bit more of a challenge to my shyness than I had bargained for. Being the only member of the crowd in a fresh, bright tangerine Los Bitchos t-shirt admittedly didn’t help me blend in.

The Star and Shadow seemed to suit Los Bitchos too, a somewhat underground four-piece from London whose remarkably niche style of guitar-driven ’80s instrumental cumbia (Latin-American dance music with roots in Africa) has gained them some notoriety as the queens of their genre in the Big Smoke. To call Los Bitchos Londoners is to discount the improbable variety the band members offer. Australian former drummer Serra Petale plays lead guitar and acts as frontwoman; Swede Josefine Jonsson, formerly of a garage rock band, takes bass; Uruguayan model Agustina Ruiz plays synthesiser and born-and-bred Londoner Nic Crawshaw both plays drums and is a working physiotherapist in the NHS.

Despite their disparate origins, as soon as the music started Los Bitchos were one inseperable unit, and the undeniable chemistry between performers was a joy to witness. Whether performing coordinated footwork (the band simply having too much fun for it to come across cheesy) or sharing swigs of tequila between songs, the four women were clearly keen to share the spotlight as evenly as possible. Leading the charge was Petale with her slinking, frictionless guitar lines and carefree dancing which was well replicated by an energetic audience. Jonsson was an authority on bass, her riffs heavy and thumping, and Crawshaw was an engine at the back on kit, her kick drum providing an everpresent thwack that got the crowd’s feet moving. Percussion is an essential part of Los Bitchos’s appeal, and every member had a crack on some sort of percussion throughout the night. The several exhilarating drum breaks involved a flurry of clattering cowbell and rippling bongos, a tapestry of sound too detailed to fully appreciate in the moment. In the midst of it all, the four of them looked like they could hardly be having more fun. Even Ruiz, tasked largely with holding down long notes on a relatively quiet synthesiser between sorties on an egg shaker, rarely stood still amid the frenzy.

I had quietly hoped that a live show would give Los Bitchos – and Petale in particular – time to explore their tracks with some improvisation, but instead songs largely stuck to their original blueprint, with Petale’s guitar playing never beyond the remit of your average intermediate guitar player. Instead, the smartly crafted ostinatos were performed with purpose and passion by Petale, who often seemed utterly lost in the groove. At her best, like on impulsive plodder Pista (Fresh Start) or hopelessly earwormy The Link Is About to Die, Petale’s hooks felt inevitable, and quite capable of being played over and over for many minutes without losing any of their appeal. Throbbing Tripping at a Party, which at times sounded like a quaint cumbian Benny Hill Theme, was another example of Petale at the top of her game both in terms of songwriting and performance.

Drum breaks were amongst the show’s highlights

Wisely given the billing it deserved, Las Panteras was an ecstatic, roof-demolishing set closer. A final build – faster, louder and even more thrilling than the original – had the crowd in raptures. The end result was a room of invariably hot and sweaty revellers begging for more; poor Star and Shadow lacked the air ventilation to deal with such an invigorating dance number. Tequila, fulfilling the wishes of several crowd members, was the fated encore follow up. Changing the formula for possibly the only Latin-American surf rock standard in Western popular culture was a necessity, and Los Bitchos’s Tequila was refreshingly intense, Ruiz belting out Spanish into the mic with the force of a pop punk star behind a wall of rock guitars. An uninhibited yelp of “Tequila!” from everyone in the room marked a fitting end to a deeply lovely night of joyful music from musicians that didn’t take themselves or their art too seriously. Such an act isn’t always easy to find.

I walked back onto the quiet evening streets of Shieldfield glowing with that addictive post-gig high, not before taking an opportunity to thank Ruiz and Crawshaw who were already calming down with cigarettes on the entrance steps. A Los Bitchos gig had been a strange way to come to terms with the big week of change in a new city, but it had worked wonders. I couldn’t have wished for a more delightful inauguration.

RNS/Ólafsson live at the Glasshouse review – quite possibly the best pianist in the world right now
8
Feb

Beethoven’s flamboyant Emperor concerto was an odd choice for this master of pianistic introspection, but Ólafsson nonetheless proved his world class status following a typically daring and dynamic first half from Sousa’s Royal Northern Sinfonia.

It’s a chilly Wednesday night at St. James’ Park, and the music is a heady mix of Hey Jude, a Wembley-themed Que Sera, Sera and a live rendition of Newcastle United’s own gloriously cheesy anthem Going Home. It’s odd to think that amongst the thousands of fans twirling their scarves in the stands one of Europe’s foremost concert pianists, a fresh United scarf draped over his chic turtleneck. What would Víkingur Ólafsson, a man known for his heartfelt and studied renditions of obscure Bach organ works, make of the wilfully dated sax melody and the thumping 80s drum groove?

Almost unbelievably, it turns out the Icelandic piano sensation wasn’t just there out of curiosity. In fact, he’s been a fan since he was a child, boldly going against the consensus of his Reykjavík schoolmates by picking Newcastle over Manchester United. After this 40-minute Beethoven recital in Gateshead, he recounts the wild events of the previous night’s victorious cup tie, provoking chuckles from the audience as he – dressed in a pristine suit and hair neatly gelled in position like a lovable teachers’ pet – struggles to recall the words “howay the lads”. “I originally picked Newcastle because they played exciting football,” he remarks before reeling off several names from Newcastle teams of yore, as if to prove his true allegiance. “But now I realise it’s because they are black and white, like the piano keys.”

It is a bizarre footnote that somewhat explains Ólafsson’s unlikely appearance in Gateshead. The Glasshouse is undoubtedly one of the finest concert halls in the North but, even for them, getting Ólafsson is something of a scheduling coup – the pianist won a Grammy just days ago for his superb recording of Bach’s Goldberg Variations, which is generally considered as one of the finest readings of that legendary suite of music. Next week he has a blockbuster series of recitals with fellow piano god Yuja Wang in the hallowed concert halls of Toronto and New York. Consequently, the atmosphere in a packed Glasshouse is simply electric. The lady next to me can’t help but burst into conversation about Ólafsson, telling me about his “magical” Prom last summer, the majesty of his Bach organ transcriptions and, most giddily, that “he was on Petroc this morning!” If BBC Radio 3’s silken-voiced presenter approved, then it seemed certain we were in for a classic concert.

First, though, we had the first half of the programme to get through. Fortunately, resident conductor Dinis Sousa is not one for adding crowd-pleasing filler to his concerts. He continued his noble work of promoting contemporary classical music with an opening rendition of Ciel d’hiver, the 2013 piece from recently departed composer Kaija Saariaho. The Finn was known for her fascination with light in all its subtleties, and it was the eerie grey of a dusky winter sky that was most clearly evoked here through Charlotte Ashton’s icy opening flute solo. Later, strings slid from note to note unnervingly, and bubbling harp glissandi gave way to alarming rushes of cymbals. The programme notes suggested Ciel d’hiver would be a beautiful experience, but this was more of an orchestral horror film, vividly portrayed by an RNS demonstrating their fine attention to detail, even in avant garde, pulse-free pieces like this one.

It was a fitting warm up for the following piece, Bartók’s masterwork Music for Strings, Percussion and Celesta, which is known for its inclusion during a particularly unsettling sequence in Stanley Kubrick’s The Shining. In Gateshead, this was a reminder of why classical music is best enjoyed live – two groups of strings players sat directly opposite each other, and their battling, overlapping melodies made for a thrilling stereo experience. It culminated in the electrifying Allegro molto duel, each section leaning forwards as they dug their bows into the strings like fencers going in for a lunge. The strings joined forces for a jagged and impressively synchronised pizzicato passage, whilst pianist Benjamin Powell’s agitated exchanges with Fionnuala Ward’s celesta (essentially a piano that strikes steel plates instead of strings) proved that the piano, at its heart, is in fact a percussion instrument. Dinis Sousa’s conducting was uncharacteristically rigid throughout, and rightly so: this is a claustrophobic piece of music – a symphony in a straitjacket, albeit a straitjacket from which it is desperately trying to escape.

The choice of Beethoven’s Emperor piano concerto for Ólafsson’s visit to Tyneside was mysterious. The programme had originally listed Brahms’ second piano concerto as the headline piece (a convenient change for me, since I’d already seen Sunwook Kim‘s businesslike rendition of that one in 2023). One concertgoer I ended up asking about the switch to Beethoven said it was something to do with Ólafsson’s health concerns, but this concerto, a piece oozing with flair and self-confidence typical of late-era Beethoven, hardly seemed like an easy cop-out for the pianist.

Even so, perhaps for Ólafsson Emperor really is a cakewalk. It certainly seemed that way as he delved into the fiendish technical passages that open the concerto, sat back on the stool as if even he was stunned by the acrobatic feats his fingers were pulling off. This sort of musical showmanship is somewhat unchartered territory for Ólafsson, who in 2023 distinguished himself as a Bach specialist when he embarked on playing the Goldberg Variations for 88 concerts in a row in a world tour that took in every continent bar Antarctica. He’s adept at drawing out the hidden inner melodies of Bach’s knotty fugues, as well as tricky task of locating the deep springs of human emotion buried beneath the composer’s cold mathematical genius. Setting him to work at some relatively uncomplicated Beethoven then – one clear refrain per movement, repeated over and over like a pop song – felt a bit like taking a Ferrari to work.

Nonetheless, there was never a sense of superiority about Ólafsson’s impeccable playing, giving the opening movement’s radiant refrain all the vigour it deserved, then sitting back during the breaks and eagerly watching his melodies take flight in the violins around him, clearly delighted by the results. Emperor‘s dominant emotion is simple and persistent joy, although Ólafsson still found room for brief moments of reflection towards the end of the first movement, easing off on tempo momentarily before a delightful final flourish of quicksilver scales.

It was the slow middle movement where Ólafsson seemed most at home. Beethoven’s tranquil theme here is often likened to a hymn, but to me it sounds starkly contemporary, and even pop-y (is there a through line from Beethoven’s steadily rising refrain to the chorus of Becky Hill’s pop hit Remember?). In Gateshead, Ólafsson’s elegant piano melodies were superbly matched by Sousa’s RNS, the strings sounding delectable over the theme’s hushed rise and fall.

The eventual third movement, foreshadowed with subtlety by Ólafsson a few bars earlier, was pure elation. The bombastic refrain looked like terrific fun to play on piano, and Ólafsson did well to ensure even the very loud passages remained light-footed and playful. For a studious-looking pianist whose discography leans towards the austere, this was a reminder that he is still not one to take himself too seriously. A final symphonic prank from Beethoven – the dummy of a quiet ending on piano, followed by a blast of conclusive chords from the orchestra – cued five straight minutes of rapturous applause.

It took the insistence of Ólafsson himself for the applause to finally abate. After his charming chat about Newcastle United, the pianist had one last surprise in store: an encore of Jean-Phillippe Rameau’s The Arts and the Hours, dedicated to the late concert pianist and former RNS director Lars Vogt, who had in fact chosen this specific Steinway grand piano for the Glasshouse. The piece – a devastating tapestry of falling melodies and mellow harmonies – was the sort of music that words could never do justice to. The piece’s title and its dedication to Vogt made it a deeply moving meditation on the mortality of artists and the immortality of their art. This was Ólafsson at his most extraordinary; there can be few people in the world this good at communicating emotion so powerfully. Ólafsson had been a close friend of Vogt, and shared with us a text he received from Vogt just days before his death in 2022. The message was simple, but it haunted me all the way home after this scintillating night of music: “Don’t ever take the music for granted.”

The wonderful adventure: why Slipping Through My Fingers is ABBA’s tragic masterpiece
16
Dec

A devastating account of a mother’s loss doubles as a universal meditation on the human compulsion to cling on to the past in a pop single that mixes ecstasy and agony in a way no other song has before or since.

Slipping Through My Fingers is twice as old as me, and yet, unlike any song released before my birth – or really any song released before 2015, for that matter – it stirs something deep within my soul. It’s had a modest renaissance other the last year after Declan McKenna, an indie rock figurehead of my own generation, released a tasteful if unspectacular cover of the track, which somehow remains his second most popular song on Spotify. It’s obvious in McKenna’s tender, wavering vocals that this song means as much to him as it does to me, and yet on paper our adoration of it makes no sense. We should be reaching for remix-ripe disco hits like Gimme Gimme Gimme or TikTok-able snippets like Angeleyes’s chorus or Chiquitita’s outro, not a ballad told unambiguously from the perspective of a Swedish mother in her thirties. Presumably like McKenna, I cannot directly relate to experiencing your child leaving home – on to school, university, or marriage – for the first time, although I have played the “absent-minded schoolgirl” in my own departure to university, and have watched my parents process some of Agnetha Fältskog’s pain in real life.

But the daughter (now 51-year-old Lena Ulvaeus) is far from the only thing slipping away in this pop masterpiece. Add a comma (“Slipping through my fingers, all the time”) and suddenly time, not the daughter, is the song’s principal subject. “It’s okay, we have time,” Donna reassures Sophie moments before STMF begins in Mamma Mia!, but really she’s fooling herself – STMF primarily deals with the disturbing mystery of time’s “funny tricks”. How can a lifelong bond between mother and daughter suddenly be a thing of the past without warning? Even when it feels like there are some things, love perhaps, that can make time stand still, why do memories inevitably fade, and joy revert to a sort of distanced numbness? Why is time so slippery? “Sometimes I wish that I could freeze the picture,” the narrator admits in the song’s only dud lyric (pictures are, by definition, already frozen), a line that only makes proper sense when heard over that spine-tingling melody and Anni-Frid Lyngstad’s shrill vocal harmonies.

What’s most poignant about STMF, however, is how the mother mourns the idea that she might one day know her daughter entirely. “Each time I think I’m close to knowing, she keeps on growing,” she reflects beautifully. It’s a line imbued with equal parts melancholy and hope – ‘knowing’ her daughter may be forever just out of reach for the narrator, but what a gift it is to have a daughter so nebulous, so unfathomably special that she just “keeps on growing”. In the song’s moving rendition in Mamma Mia!, for a while Donna sings to Sophie’s back, the latter blissfully unaware of her mother’s agony as she preens herself in the mirror. “Do I really see what’s in her mind?” Donna mirrors back. To love is to know one another on the deepest possible level, but STMF comes to terms with the fact that we can never really “know” each other. The daughter will always have surprises for her mother, and indeed the mother hardly even knows herself, ending a verse with “And why? I just don’t know”. Such mysteries are the beauty of living.

That aching emotion you can hear in the music alone – the pull from major immediately to minor in the first two chords, the way a rising, major-chord bridge somehow sounds utterly desolate – perfectly complements the core of STMF’s exquisite tragedy: the mother mourns her daughter, but she must let her go. Crucially, the daughter is not simply leaving – the mother is actively letting her go, having come to the painful conclusion that her sorrow is the unavoidable cost of her daughter’s freedom. “Will you give me away?” Sophie asks, referring to her wedding, still just about young enough to act on her mother’s advice. Donna swallows a yes and nods. She lets her daughter go out of love, and yet weeps as a result of that same, heart-wrenching love.

On top of all that tragedy is a certain world-weariness in ABBA’s swooping melodies and plodding drum groove. This is, after all, a “well-known sadness” and an “old, melancholy feeling”. Has the narrator felt pain this before? Perhaps this agonising dilemma – whether to hold on to the past in vain, or to let go and mourn – is an integral part of human condition? We all have a compulsion to cling on to what we know, and yet the universe transpires to forever keep changing against our will in ways both subtle and profound.

Remarkably, despite the specificity of the lyrics, STMF succeeds (like all the best pop songs) in being readily malleable into whatever meaning the listener sees fit. Whilst traveling this summer, I found myself overlooking the tragedy and reading into the song’s ample euphoria. I took it as a reminder that this moment, in all it’s thrillingly novel glory – navigating towards a sparkling Eiffel Tower at night, summitting a rugged peak alone in the Bosnian mountains, watching the sunset from a boat on the Bosphorus – is of course only transient. In fact, it’s precisely that transience that makes those moments so special. After I arrived home, I found STMF morphed into a rallying cry for a return to that trip’s whole-hearted spirit of adventure and personal development. “What happened to the wonderful adventures?” Fältskog muses, and I hear a call to snap out of all my obsessing over tricky coursework or a patch of unhappiness and remind myself that this too is an adventure and, like the daughter, I will “keep on growing”.

Tellingly, STMF ends completely unresolved. Fältskog returns to the first verse having apparently learnt little from her revelations about love and loss, and the daughter finally waves goodbye, leaving only the sounds of a clock quietly ticking in the background. The mother doesn’t know what comes next for her daughter, and in fact she can’t know; this is not her story to tell any more. The daughter will continue to grow. Perhaps she will become a mother herself, or maybe she’ll find cause to run back to her mother for a spell, temporarily reigniting those wonderful adventures. But without any doubt, at some point along the way, the daughter will feel the full weight of her mother’s thoroughly human dilemma: to hold on, or to let go. In ways big and small, this is a question we all must tackle over and over in our lives. Long may Slipping Through My Fingers keep me asking it.

Katy J Pearson live at Leeds Irish Centre review – illness-battling songstress lifts the spirits
13
Dec

Battling on despite illness, the singer-songwriter’s voice still had just enough oomph to do her finest soft rock numbers justice, and her effortless stage presence brought joy to this rainy Wednesday night in Leeds.

The alarm bells were ringing as early as song one. Bristol singer-songwriter Katy J Pearson opened this evening’s concert in the endearingly ragged confines of Leeds Irish Centre – which looks like it hasn’t changed a bit since it opened in 1970 – with her wistful recent single Those Goodbyes, a treasure trove of gorgeous, meandering melodies and pained reflections on loss. But under the venue’s tinsel-strewn ceiling, something seemed off. Her vocals on the chorus quivered, and she stepped away from the mic in the instrumental sections as if hoping to escape the obligation of having to sing. It didn’t look like she wanted to be there.

She cleared things up immediately after the end of the song. “I’ve picked up a sinus infection, so sorry if I sound a bit shit tonight,” she explained, before joking with guitarist Benjamin Spike Saunders about handing over the cold to him. Pearson apologised to the front row before Saunders chipped in with “The cold is free merch!” It’s indicative of a night that was hampered by Pearson’s illness but uplifting nonetheless, in no small part thanks to Pearson and Saunders’ gift for convivial inter-song patter.

Pearson’s beleaguered vocals are a particular shame because, as an artist, her voice is her greatest weapon. It is a remarkable thing, piercing yet mellifluous, with a delicate sheen that only gets more beautiful the higher into her range she ventures. It’s been likened to a cross between Kate Bush and Dolly Parton, but her music also evokes the trending country star CMAT, albeit with a slightly more sober presentation.

Vocals aside, Pearson also has a gift for beautiful, deceptively simple soft rock ballads, showcased best in her indie classic debut LP Return. Her third album, this year’s Someday, Now, was arguably her first creative misfire. Billed as the first album in which she’s truly taken the helm of the songwriting process, denying her label’s calls for a straightforward pop hit, Someday, Now surprisingly lacked sonic boldness, with a glut of pastel-hued, woozy tracks and a chronic lack of hooks. The fresh material understandably took precedence in Leeds, but tracks like the lethargic It’s Mine Now or the vaporous Constant had a tendency to set the mind wandering.

Luckily, there were plenty of songs from Pearson’s first two albums to keep the crowd moving. The expansive opening of Talk Over Town felt like throwing open the window after the stuffy, staid songs that preceded it, and Pearson’s sole hit Beautiful Soul came with an appealing undercurrent of menace, even though the edits to the chorus melody – apparently a measure to protect Pearson’s voice – detracted from the beauty.

Pearson’s backing band gave an impeccably professional performance, and Saunders’ tasteful guitar solo on It’s Mine Now might have rescued the track had it not been mixed so frustratingly quiet. There were plenty of interesting basslines for Tom Damage to wrap his fingers around, not least in Save Me, noodling his way into a delightful breakdown and finale. Drummer Robbie Kessell, meanwhile, was best described by Pearson herself as “a safe pair of hands,” which is to say Katy J Pearson songs are not known for their challenging drum parts.

In fairness, Pearson’s voice did steadily improve (“adrenaline is a wonderful thing,” she explained), and she was almost at full power for the Fleetwood Mac swagger of Long Range Driver, the new album’s most arresting track. It was a relief, too, that she was more than capable of tackling Return‘s title track alone on stage whilst playing acoustic guitar. An understated ballad about the joys (and sorrows) of personal growth, Return is Pearson’s songwriting magnum opus. In an Irish Centre stunned into silence, Pearson’s elegant melodies proved that, illness or not, she is an extraordinary talent.

It was a testament to Pearson’s Adele-like powers of putting the audience at ease that she could transition from the quiet heartbreak of Return to light-hearted chat with audience hecklers, asking the lighting engineer to turn down the stage lights that were blinding a patch of the crowd. “I hope this gig was acceptable,” she said at the gig’s close, before launching into a story about the last time she played in Leeds and the subsequent “paralytic” night out. Tonight was far from Pearson’s best outing, but it will take more than a sinus infection to dampen this beautiful soul.

Confidence Man live at NX review – ludicrous dance-pop tears the roof off
9
Dec

Fresh from releasing their third – and finest – album, there’s simply no room left for duds in Confidence Man’s supremely silly live show. Even by Newcastle’s high standards, Saturday nights out don’t get much more ecstatic than this.

The first thing you should know about Confidence Man is that the band’s two singers go by the names Sugar Bones and Janet Planet. The other two band members perform exclusively behind what can only be described as wide-brimmed midge-proof hats. Together they make willfully silly dance-pop, and their notorious live show involves camp, somewhat stilted dancing, all duly served to the crowd with unflinching poker faces. If aliens learnt about dance music only through a Wikipedia page and decided to invade Earth in the guise of an Australian four-piece electropop band, they would sound and look an awful lot like Confidence Man.

If Con Man’s aim really is gradual world domination, their plan is working. October’s 3 AM (LA LA LA) was their third LP and quite possibly their best, a full-throttle clubby blast featuring a bounty of nostalgic musical references to Britain’s famous 90s rave scene, plus enough of a resemblance to Charli xcx to get the youngsters like me excited. It is 47 minutes of gloriously uncomplicated party music best enjoyed with your hands in the air and feet off the ground.

It made sense, then, that 3AM only sounded more glorious when flowing out of NX’s meaty soundsystem and into a packed room of dancing fans. Amidst the blasting dance beats, Planet and Bones’ kitsch choreo was occasionally impressive (a few of Janet’s somersaults would score well on Strictly) but always hilarious, delivered with a faux-seriousness that made it clear that we were watching a performance, and by no means the musicians’ authentic selves. In today’s post-Brat world, where popstars are obliged to lay out their deepest and darkest emotions on a record, there was something refreshing about seeing an act plainly giving the fans what they want: 90 tears-free minutes of quality entertainment.

And what entertainment. Breakout hit Now U Do was hastily disposed of at the very start of the set, but justifiably so – Con Man’s new stuff makes this mellow house track sound almost soporific. Recent single I Can’t Lose You, for example, is pure electro-pop gold – a sticky, agitated synth line set to a stellar vocal hook. The band have been churning out winning earworms for years now, but this is surely the most ruthlessly catchy ditty Sugar and Janet have ever penned. Control similarly provoked delirium in NX with its heady swirl of techno bass, backed by suitably batty visuals on the giant screen behind the band – think pigeons with laser eyes and badgers smoking cigarettes.

Not once did Bones and Planet falter in their complete commitment to the bit, launching from one side of the stage to the other as they recounted dancefloor love affairs and wild drug-fuelled nights out, occasionally pausing to execute an acrobatic lift. Album highlight Real Move Touch was served with a particularly involving dance routine, fitting for this breathless sugar rush of a dance track. In Newcastle, Janet’s pivotal yelp of “Don’t you know you make me want to scream?!” sounded utterly electrifying, the perfect distillation of the dopamine-filled mania this concert tended to induce.

Even 3AM’s more questionable tracks were given shrewd facelifts on the night. The patience-testing ode to psychedelics Breakbeat was rescued by a spot of crowd participation, whilst Sugar Bones’ sludgy solo number Sicko came with the theatre of seeing Janet smash a sugar glass bottle over his head (karma perhaps for Sugar Bones uncorking a full bottle of champagne on the front rows – myself included – in a particularly giddy moment a few songs earlier).

It must be said that, if it wasn’t already obvious, lyrically Janet Planet is no Shakespeare. Intoxicatingly heavy frugger All My People reads “With a face like that there’s no conversation / With an ass like that there’s no hesitation” (no prizes for guessing the choreography keynotes here), and pathetic boyfriends account for much of the lyrical inspiration. A Con Man gig is not the place for mulling over nuanced metaphors, nor should it be. Janet and Sugar instead focus their efforts on roof-raising beats and titillating visuals, two things they do extremely well. The exception was So What, which hides its musings on the pointlessness of taking life too seriously behind a curtain of trashy Eurodance synths. Whether they were listening to the words or not, the crowd – encouraged to give each other piggy backs – greeted the track like it was a legendary Eurovision winner.

Reggie Goodchild and Clarence McGuffie (or so they call themselves) were unsung heroes, cooking up club beats behind their veils at the back of the stage and more than proving their worth in two extended instrumental breaks that succeeded in keeping the crowd’s hands happily bouncing in the air even without the two frontpeople for encouragement. Sugar and Janet eventually returned to stage wearing little more than light-up underwear and took back control with a terrific rendition of Boyfriend (Repeat), perhaps the biggest fan favourite in a night of fan favourites.

Effervescent hit Holiday wrapped up the show before an encore of 3AM’s title track, home to the band’s most artfully melodic hook. A shirtless Bones flexed his biceps one last time, Planet (now in a frilly maid’s costume) delivered a final pout, and the crowd erupted. It had been a Saturday night out for the ages. Releasing her pose and taking a final moment to appreciate the crowd, Janet finally dropped her stern persona and cracked a smile. Who could blame her? Everything about this night was pure euphoria from start to finish.

Fat Dog live at Project House review – barking mad dance-rock is a treat
15
Nov

The much-hyped band crowned a breakout year with a bangers-only 45 minute blitz in Leeds, packed with mammoth riffs and thunderous bass lines. Even the band’s photographer couldn’t resist the pull of a vintage mosh pit.

Twilight on a moody November evening by the canal in Leeds, and the leaking locks are hissing harshly behind a gloomy row of trees. At 8 p.m. it’s still just about bright enough to make out the passing clouds, oddly glowing with light pollution against navy skies. I’ve only just arrived, but I already feel exhausted – with the murky recent weather, a cold going round and a certain election result, I can’t have been the only one approaching Project House feeling weighed down by November blues. I walked towards the reassuring thud of live music – the muffled sounds of what turned out to be a rather dreadful support slot from Truthpaste – hopeful the music might provide some catharsis.

As it happened, few bands do reckless, enthralling catharsis quite like Fat Dog. Like Black Country, New Road and Black Midi, they were borne out of the fertile left-field music scene centred on the legendary Windmill venue in Brixton, making a name for themselves in recent years solely through notoriously wild live shows. Fat Dog’s unique sound is charged with an impulsive energy that makes it easy for audiences to be swept away by it all even without prior exposure. Remarkably, one scant album into their career, Fat Dog have already carved out a distinct stylistic niche – aggressive industrial dance music with thunderous unisons riffs, scuzzy saxophone and yelped, barely coherent vocals about impending doom. Think somewhere between Madness and Daft Punk, but with more lyrical references to slug invasions. It’s unlike anything I’ve heard before.

You could forgive Fat Dog for being exhausted themselves – they’ve essentially been on tour for their entire career so far, including a marathon four performances on various small stages at this year’s Glastonbury. Emerging onto stage to a volley of drums and a tremble of deep synth bass, frontman Joe Love was a wonderfully enigmatic figure, his eyes barely open beneath a canopy of curly locks and a white Stetson. Vocally, he made no sense either, producing a manic yelp of “It’s Fat Dog baby!” at the start of the concert, sounding more menacingly deranged than comical.

Such is the unique appeal of Fat Dog, a band who on paper sound jokey – drummer Johnny ‘Doghead’ Hutch has a penchant for performing in a German shepherd mask, sadly not donned in Leeds – but in reality sound like credible harbingers of the apocalypse. It didn’t take long for the audience to start colliding with each other to the sounds of Vigilante, an album opener which brilliantly pairs a mammoth hook with a haunting, vaguely Eastern European folk melody. Gone were the intricate details of the studio recording – most notably a melodramatic spoken word passage, and a gigantic-sounding string orchestra carrying the hook – but in Leeds an additional percussionist was let loose on an arsenal of bongos and cymbals, more than plugging the gap. The result was an intoxicatingly heavy three minutes that had an instant, drug-like effect on the audience, who duly threw their arms – and beers – up in the air.

Joe Love’s performance was intimate for those in the front row.

It was enthralling – but then again I’m bound to say that, since Love spent a majority of this brief gig right next to me, close enough I could have nicked his hat. He leaned against the barriers for song after song, singing directly to his devotees like a young Nick Cave, only with less heartfelt hand-holding and more woofing into the microphone. It was a thrill to be in the mix of bodies with their arms reaching up towards him, but I doubt the people a little further back from me – spending most of the gig looking at a largely empty stage – would have agreed.

From my fortunate vantage point amidst the mosh, the only possible downside of Fat Dog’s set was that each song was almost too exhaustingly compelling. Seven-minute opus King of the Slugs was a marathon of industrial beats, particularly in its propulsive second half where the tempo was ruthlessly dialled up a notch. Wither similarly took off like a rocket, Jacqui Wheeler’s restless bass riff and Love’s oddball intonations of “You better wither, baby, before you die” whipping up a frenzy in the crowd. The bedlam was so irresistible that, in one exquisite moment of rock ‘n’ roll, even the hired photographer camped out beside the stage in front of me felt compelled to down tools and leap into the crowd, practically landing on top of me. A few seconds later I watched her drift off to the dim recesses at the back of the venue as Morgan Wallace’s saxophone squealed like a wounded pig.

Even I Am the King, the unconvincing ballad lodged in the middle of the band’s debut album, sounded gripping in Leeds, the shimmering backing of strings given new urgency by Hutch’s rapid hit-hats ticking away like a time bomb. “I am the king… and it means nothing at all,” Love repeated again and again with rising desperation, the swirl of synths rising around him like floodwaters. Yes, Love has penned plenty of silly lyrics (his first words in his debut album are “Granny’s tights on my head”), but this was a moment of genuine artistry and the evening’s only opportunity for pause and reflection.

It all came to ahead with an electrifying rendition Running, a stupendous single and one of the very best songs from any band this year. It’s a masterclass in tension and release, evident in Leeds when it triggered not one but three mosh circles (where fans clear an area of the floor then rush into the space when the chorus hits). The lengthy bridge in particular was excruciatingly tense, and by the time the eventual payoff came – a panoply of winning hooks, all neatly foreshadowed earlier in the song – bodies were circulating in the crowd as if swept up in a fast-moving lazy river.

An encore of noughties rave classic Satisfaction – a perfect riff for Wallace to attack on her saxophone – wrapped things up before the clocks struck 10 p.m.. Too early to call it a night perhaps, but I’m not sure if I had the physical fitness for much more, and the revellers around me looked like they’d been worked to exhaustion too. In the end, the crowd simply barked in unison instead of asking for one more song – if Fat Dog had indeed imbued their strange music with some sort of magic potion, it had worked a charm.

KNOWER: KNOWER FOREVER review – a grand return for the LA duo
23
Nov

Louis Cole, Genevieve Artadi and an incredible collection of collaborators have crafted an album elevated far above any of their past music, shaping a promising future for the electronic funk duo, writes Matthew Rowe.

Agood few years ago I was playing GTA with some friends when I first heard F—k The Makeup, Skip The Shower on FlyLo FM, and ever since I have been obsessed with LA’s experimental funk duo KNOWER, the main driving factor for me getting into funk music (thank you rockstar). It has been seven years since Louis Cole, Genevieve Artadi and their array of ridiculously talented musicians released an album under KNOWER, but you can tell they never stopped.

Cole, Artadi and friends are often found touring with their respective bands and solo projects. For example, Louis Cole’s tours often include a full entourage of artists, having a huge overlap with those included in KNOWER FOREVER. This is evident with how tight all of the songs feel, with every member able to fit seamlessly into the funk pocket, no matter how convoluted some of the melodies are.

KNOWER FOREVER is the product of a band where each member has refined their act so finely that their sound has evolved significantly, moving from a more unhinged dubstep feel to well put together funk. As an album, this was a brave move from Cole and Artadi, releasing it on Bandcamp back in June before it got released on streaming services, but listening to it on Spotify, I wish I’d caved in and bought it via Bandcamp.

Admittedly, at first I was a little worried about how the album would turn out, and that the rest of the songs would struggle to hold a candle to the three released before the rest, those three being I’m The President, The Abyss and Crash The Car, all of which set the bar high. On the release of specifically the first two, they were all I could listen to for a good week. The risk of the rest not being as good was one of the reasons I was put off buying the Bandcamp version but now since the Spotify release, I can’t stop listening. This project is easily the best funk album I’ve heard this year and is in contention for my album of the year, alongside Black Country, New Road’s Live at Bush Hall.

This project is easily the best funk album I’ve heard this year.

KNOWER has always been known for pushing the boundaries of wacky and ridiculous, but I believe that in KNOWER FOREVER they have successfully balanced this with producing nicely subdued songs in comparison. In the previous album, Life, there were songs like The Government Knows and Pizza which I’m sure some people will miss, but I think it’s a very welcome change for them to focus more on the synergy of the band rather than making rather nonsensical music. The new sound is very similar to two of their most famous songs, Overtime, and Time Traveller, the Overtime live session being one of my favourite videos of all time.

In this project, it’s also clear that inspiration has derived specifically from Cole’s other endeavours. Louis Cole is part of a duo that goes by Clown Core and in It’s All Nothing Until It’s Everything it’s clear to see with the drum beat that it is heavily inspired by them. This album also hosts a wide range of musicians; despite being a project by Cole and Artadi, it feels more like a revolving collective of pure talent. On top of this, some big names have been bought in: Jacob Mann and MonoNeon, just to name a couple. The only problem I have with this project is MonoNeon’s lack of bass soloing on The Abyss and despite his insane bass lines, I was left feeling that there was untapped potential.

As a drummer, I love nothing more than hearing new Louis Cole tracks, and he delivered. I have found, after several hours of trying, that his sound is very tough to replicate. Every song on KNOWER FOREVER seemed to bring a different style with it, but I for one find it very impressive how easily he can fit technically complex drumming and fills seamlessly into the rest of the band without overstepping. This has developed with this album. In the past, in songs such as Like A Storm, the contrast with the melodic singing of Artadi clashed with Cole a bit too much, but the new album has perfectly mixed her vocals depending on the song. Pair this with Sam Wilkes’ stank-face-inducing basslines and Sam Gendel’s sax riffs; you can’t go wrong.

It’s not only Louis who displays range in his playing; the entire band is capable of completely different soundscapes depending on the song. Just in this one album, we are blessed with ethereal melodic songs that focus on the range of the soft-spoken lyricism of Genevieve, fast bouncy funk in Nightmare and hardcore dubstep funk in It’s All Nothing Until It’s Everything. The band’s ability to adapt to any subgenre is inspiring and gives me a lot of hope for the future of KNOWER.

The band’s ability to adapt to any subgenre is inspiring and gives me a lot of hope for the future of KNOWER.

One thing I really appreciate about this album is the use of the full house band. This is classic Cole: a house full of musicians, all somehow in perfect sync with each other. This has been done in the past, but to my knowledge, has never made it into a KNOWER album, often being made as fun projects after the songs have had official releases. This opens up a whole new dimension to the song I’m The President, making it more of an epic orchestra rather than just a band, and the result is all of these talented musicians coming together, with perfect mixing to help realise a song, that otherwise would have been incredible, but is greatly boosted up by the theatrics of the brass and choir.

KNOWER FOREVER was worth the seven year wait. Even though I only started listening to them after Life came out, I have been waiting to see what else they could do. This has set the bar very high for future projects, but if there’s a group of people who can maintain quality, it’s these guys. All members involved contributed greatly, and all of them had their chance to shine, creating solid music with well-suited solos. They are able to take on any genre they feel like, and I can’t wait to see what they’re going to do next.

Nujabes: The growing legacy of the ‘Godfather of Lo-fi’
13
Sep

A favourite for hardworking students the world over, the relaxing tones of lo-fi hip hop make it a hidden giant of the music industry. Alex Walden traces the origins of the genre through its underappreciated founding father Nujabes and gets to the bottom of the unlikely link with anime.

One of the best things I’ve discovered about going to university is the complete melting pot of people you’ll meet. Naturally, as an utter music nerd, I love finding out about what music people listen to. I mean seriously if you would’ve told me when I started that I’d be rekindling my love for Led Zeppelin and would swap listening to Kanye West for The Vacations, I’d be surprised. Despite all these new genres and artists I’m discovering from people, there’s one genre that everyone listens to: lo-fi hip hop.

Even when his label began to take off, Nujabes still found time to DJ.

Ah yes, lo-fi hip hop, whether you’re cranking out a huge dissertation or just relaxing on your bed, it’s there for you. If you’re a nonstop livestream viewer or playlist organiser once again, it’s there for you. Lo-fi is one of the biggest genres among young people right now yet often with new genres we tend to associate the fact that a music genre is new with the concept that it has no history yet we can easily trace. One prominent figure who played a vital role in the creation of lo-Fi is Nujabes. Despite being critically acclaimed as “The Godfather of Lo-Fi”, in the grand scheme of things I can’t help but see Nujabes as the unsung hero. Despite his career and fanbase, there’s just an incredible impact this man had on the music scene that I think was forgotten too easily. However, being my usual fan-boy self, I’m going to attempt to do the impossible and break it down for you.

A star is born

Jun Seba was born on February 7th 1974 (many hip-hop heads will recognize this as the birth date of iconic producer J Dilla as well) in Nishi Azabu, Tokyo. Growing up, Seba was a huge fan of music and began to dabble with the art of DJing. After reversing the order of his name to make his iconic stage name, Nujabes was officially born. While DJing and producing on the side is fun, it rarely brings in the big bucks in the beginning, so Nujabes decided to make a name for himself through a more corporate method and during his 20s, he opened two record stores, T Records and Guiness Records. After a few successful years at the shop, Nujabes decided he wasn’t done yet and set up the record label Hydeout Productions in 1998. The label was moderately successful with its roster of local legends such as Uyama Hiroto while also acquiring overseas talent such as American artist Emancipator. Sadly, Nujabes’ story ended briefly due to his unfortunate death in 2010 due to a car crash. While he is still missed today, his legacy arguably grows more every day.

What made Nujabes so iconic?

Samurai Champloo’s refreshing blend of hip hop and samurai is a must-watch even for non-anime fans.

To describe Nujabes as the godfather of lo-Fi sounds like an outrageous take to someone who doesn’t know who he is, yet after learning about his work and listening to his projects, the influence is clear as day.

Nujabes’ music was the definition of perfect chill music: it doesn’t control you, it works with you.

Around the 90s era of hip hop, the trend of sampling had completely exploded. Behind every major hit, there was a producer who had taken a slither of a soul or jazz song and had completely reworked it to the point where you couldn’t even recognise the sample in some cases (producer J Dilla is very well known for this). Nujabes was no different to any other producer in the fact that he sampled too, but the way he would sample would be so different. Nujabes didn’t want to take a piece of music and completely flip it on his head so you could try to work out all the secret little differences to the original sample. Instead, he wanted the sample to effectively take the lead on the whole song, letting his production take a back seat. The reason for this is as clear as day (and you can find it throughout the Luv(sic) Hexalogy album). It’s because Nujabes is just like me and you: he appreciates music for what it is. He doesn’t want to rework it and put his spin on it but he wants to show you the beauty behind the sound. It’s as if he’s managed to tame the music and in doing so has trained each instrument to stand out in their own specific way. You can piece together every little detail at your own pace. That’s the true definition of perfect “chill” music to me: it doesn’t control you, it works with you.

The anime connection

Although I could talk about how his music is legendary for ages, it’s not enough to justify the take that he’s the “Godfather of Lo-Fi”, after all, there’s more to lo-Fi than just chill beats. It’s a whole culture in nowadays. When I mention the word “lo-Fi” to you there’s a strong chance you think of the famous lo-Fi girl, and I wouldn’t be surprised if that little anime girl who’s been studying non-stop is arguably the face of the lo-fi hip-hop scene. That’s very important because I feel that the anime influence in lo-Fi hip hop often gets overlooked when examining the genre, but where did it come from?

Luv(sic) Hexalogy is regarded as one of the most influential Japanese hip hop albums.

Nujabes’ music has a few ties with anime culture. In 2004, Nujabes’ and Shing02’s song Battlecry premiered as the theme song for the anime series Samurai Champloo, and he got production credits for the outro song beat Laments the World. Often when hearing that an artist you like made the theme song for an anime, you think that it would be your favourite musical thing about the show. However, I find myself saying that it’s the show’s fine details that truly make it a show for hip hop fans. Throughout the show, there’s a plethora of lo-bap/jazz beats that can be heard when scenes escalate or fights inevitably break out, as well as this the cutaway sound to signify a change in scenery is a literal DJ scratching. It’s a nice to make an abrupt change in scenery be smooth yet also keep that abrasiveness to it.

The show Samurai Champloo falls into the category of all-time great anime that got a US distribution on the late-night Cartoon Network channel Adult Swim. Surrounding itself with shows such as Full Metal Alchemist and my personal favourite of all time, Cowboy Bebop, it’s no wonder that the show’s anime/hip hop fusion completely took off and resonated with future artists of the lo-fi genre.

Nujabes never got to see his full legacy take shape. I hope he can see it from a better place.

I feel like there’s a sense of comfort that is similar to the nostalgia of thinking back to staying up late watching Adult Swim TV shows that is prominent in lo-fi hip hop and that is what makes it so great. It’s great at capturing that comfort while also stripping away the nostalgia so you can focus purely on music instead of constantly trying to think back to a better time.

Nujabes’ tragedy

Honestly, I can’t help but feel sad when thinking about how Nujabes had so much potential. Like many artists who die young, he didn’t get to see his full legacy take shape. Combined with his jazz-inspired beats and his anime soundtracks, it’s clear that this man had a gift that was only just beginning to take shape during the peak of his short-lived career. However, it is good to know that what he made what became essentially the building blocks for one of the most popular genres among young people today. I just hope that he can see it from a better place.

Rest in peace, Nujabes.

Hideki Naganuma’s Jet Set Radio: how a video game helped birth a musical generation
27
Aug

Jet Set Radio was once long forgotten, but following recent news that the game could possibly be making a return, Alex Walden is here to analyse the musical side of the game and the soundtrack’s cultural significance.

I woke up and ate some cereal and began checking the news like any other day. It wasn’t until I opened YouTube and watched a video reviewing an alleged leak from SEGA headquarters that my day began to change. After over 20 painfully slow years, I couldn’t believe that one of my biggest influences on me as a kid Jet Set Radio was supposedly getting a new addition to its catalogue. I honestly wouldn’t be surprised if no one who read this had even played the game. I had forgotten about the game until earlier this year. It was a cool game but it lost its popularity very quickly so you can understand why I wasn’t jumping around my room in excitement yet. I was still interested though so I thought I’d see the footage and it wasn’t until I heard that classic tune of Hideki Naganuma’s Humming The Bassline that it all came flooding back to me. It was like a flashbang of nostalgia had blinded me, the rush of how the game used to make me feel came back so suddenly. I instantly knew I had to put on the soundtrack again while I tried to find my PS Vita to play the game one more time.

After playing I realised that Jet Set radio is the same as any action game to come out of the 1990s/2000s era of video games, in being that it includes an incredibly awful set of controls (seriously, the camera controls are almost rage-inducing), no ability to explore without a timer over your head and the equalizer that makes everything bad about it not seem so bad after all: an absolute banger of a soundtrack, courtesy of composer Hideki Naganuma.

Jet Set radio was renamed to Jet Grind Radio in the US due to licensing issues. The US market is also why the game features the New York-based Grind City map.

As I played through the tutorial, all I could think was “damn I used to want to be these people so bad”. I paused and looked around my room. I realised that if young Alex could see himself now, he’d be pretty impressed with how the influence of Jet Set Radio is still rooted within me. But what makes this game so incredibly influential? I mean I played hundreds of video games as a kid yet for some reason this was one of the few that helped shape my life.

The soundtrack – a melting pot of sounds


Don’t get me wrong, tearing around the streets of Tokyo-To on magnetically driven inline skates tagging every wall I see with my own custom graffiti is incredibly cool, however, much like anything I do today, it’s no fun unless I have a killer soundtrack, and Hideki Naganuma takes care of that problem with ease. Yes, the self-proclaimed “CEO of funky fresh beats” manages to gather up numerous genres and cram them into a tiny little mix. For a video game soundtrack, it does an amazing job of putting through your main character’s thought process. It sounds erratic and high intensity, yet it also has this smooth undertone that keeps you collected as you hope and pray that your character skates land on that rail without falling over on the ground incredibly hard. The soundtrack has a good clash of songs that keep you hyped up (e.g., Let Mom Sleep and Grace and Glory) as well as songs that keep you chilled out (e.g. That’s Enough and Moody Shuffle).

Funk, electronica, hip hop, rock and acid jazz are squashed together, fighting for their chance to be admired.

There’s a nice balance of songs that give off a futuristic vibe as well as keeping in style with that classic hip hop sound. A good example would be when the character Combo is introduced and you play your first mission as him. The game’s soundtrack gives you a smooth simple beat on the track Everybody Jump Around that fits well with his 80s New York hip hop reminiscent style, but the song is filled with scratches and chops of audio samples to throw you off. By doing this your brain becomes scattered on what to focus on and gives you this psychological rush to match your character who’s racing down the streets of Tokyo-to.

It doesn’t just stop at hip hop though. Throughout the soundtrack you can notice elements of funk, electronica, hip hop, rock, acid jazz and many more. It feels like this cluster of genres that are all squashed together fighting for their chance to be admired, making the soundtrack sound erratic and abrasive, yet Naganuma is able to make all this work through the magic of sequencing all the songs together one by one so the party in your ears doesn’t stop. This feature is a subtle one, for first-time players you’ll hardly notice it because you’re too busy rolling around the speed of sound trying not to be shot by police. But when you notice it, you can’t help but realise how much it assists in creating a different world that only you and your console are in for a short period of time. You begin to realise that these are no longer just a bunch of street rat vandals whom you get to play as; these are artists who are making their own paths in a city where what they do is not tolerated and they do this by throwing all their interests together and seeing what comes out of it. It feels like you’re hanging out with the cool kids in high school TV shows who smoke behind the schoolyard. You know that they’re kind of bad news but they just look so cool you can’t resist. It’s not often I say this, but as someone who DJs in their spare time, it actually has me looking forward to the end of each song, in a good way of course. Now can you tell me a soundtrack that makes you feel like that? I thought not.

JSR didn’t just break barriers with its soundtrack, it was one of the first video games to use use the now iconic cell shading art style.

Why Jet Set Radio will never die


Although Jet Set Radio had been put away for the past 20 years, the game’s culture, along with the era of the 2000s, lives on – you just have to know where to look. It’s all underground, baby.

Considering the game tapped into cultures like techno music, graffiti and action sports marketed to a bunch of impressionable kids and young adults, it’s no wonder the game has a die-hard fanbase that many artists take inspiration from. A genre of music that resonates heavily with JSR fans today would be the genre breakcore. The genre takes a page out of the book of Naganuma by combining jungle and techno, bringing back this cyber personality to its music that was thought to be long forgotten along with its hard-hitting drum breaks and smooth melodies. With artists like TOKYOPILL, Star Trash and black balloons taking over the scene by storm, we can be assured that music-wise you’re in good hands.

It feels like an insight into the world we were promised as kids but never got because life got in the way.

While I think breakcore captures the cyber aesthetic of what Jet Set Radio was offering us, I have to be honest and say that no matter how amazing and well-crafted the song is, breakcore doesn’t give us that upbeat feeling that we get from the JSR soundtrack. Instead, I’d say that breakcore captures the futuristic unknowing of the 2000s better than the Jet Set Radio Vibe. The beauty of the JSR soundtrack was that it was upbeat but also light-hearted. Yes, you were running around avoiding police, helicopters and in some cases tanks, but it never felt too intense or pressuring. The soundtrack made it seem fun but when I listen to breakcore, I don’t feel like part of a group; I feel like my headphones are my only companion it feels like an exclusive experience just for me, not for anyone else. If you’re looking for something that sounds fresh from your Sega mega drive, look no further than 2Mello’s Memories of Tokyo-to. If having the name of the city where the game is located in the title isn’t enough to convince you, then you only have to listen to hear the odd Jet Set Radio sample here and there. Also, make sure to look out for the soundtrack for the upcoming game Bomb Rush Cyberfunk to hear songs produced by Hideki Naganuma throughout the game’s soundtrack coming August 18th.

The JSR influence is very heavy in BRC, and we’re here for it!

Looking to the future of JSR


Whenever I talk about Jet Set Radio, I always feel a little bit upset or sentimental, though this may have just been a game for some people that they played as a kid. For me, it feels like a reminder of the 2000s era and the culture surrounding it: everything ranging from music and fashion to attitudes towards the future. It almost feels like an insight into the world we were promised as kids but we never got it because life got in the way.

At this point I was going to talk about how not all hope is lost and that the release of JSR’s ‘spiritual successor’ Bomb Rush Cyberfunk was going to save us, but the day after I finished writing this article that whole story got thrown out the window entirely with the news of the new JSR leak. However, I recommend looking into Bomb Rush Cyberfunk if you are looking for some more high-speed combo-building action, Hideki Naganuma decided to bless us with his skills for parts of the soundtrack of that game too. Despite the game not being released yet, fans are already excited about what’s to come.

We can tell from the trailer alone that Mr. Naganuma never stopped perfecting his craft. The way that the drums of the song spit viciously across the track while robotic-sounding lyrics wrestle their way through the song’s techno melody felt as if like all those years that the Jet Set Radio had been forgotten about. All those grooves, those drums, those melodies made me feel as if it had come back with a vengeance and had punched me square in the face. It feels like an explosion of 20 years’ worth of culture that was waiting for me and had just had enough of waiting around.

I feel like the news of the Jet Set Radio leak as well as the announcement of Bomb Rush Cyberfunk best described a comment under Bomb Rush Cyberfunk’s trailer ‘My brain is saying “Nice to meet you” but my heart is saying “welcome home”.’ I can’t wait to rekindle my love for the Jet Set Radio soundtrack once more thanks to Naganuma and Team Reptile. I can look forward to what the future holds, just like how I did as a kid. That’s more than enough for me.