Laufey: Bewitched review – the finest yet from vocal jazz revivalist
20
Feb

A breathtaking title track is the climactic highlight of the Icelandic-Chinese artist’s second album, packed with enough gorgeous melodies and intricate orchestration to singlehandedly spur the revival of an entire genre.

TikTok has transformed the music industry in ways that are still becoming clear. Its sudden boom felt by everyone under the age of 30 has changed the emphasis for artists from writing well-rounded singles or albums for the expert ears of tastemaking radio DJs to coming up with marketable 20 second chunks to be listened to millions of times by many app users who may never hear the entire song. With the shortened time span comes new incentives for the artist – accessible hooks and instantly relatable lyrics will ensure instant results, and bright, funk-leaning pop music is the genre of the day (all the better to record a dance to). The big money in the now common phenomenon of charting TikTok songs has practically led to an entire new genre of Gen Z-pandering pop, doing away with bridges (no time for them in a short TikTok clip) and simply speeding up preexisting songs, providing an easy extra uptempo kick with the unfortunate side effect of giving the vocalist an uncanny chipmunk voice.

For that reason, the rise of Laufey Lín Jónsdóttir (say LAY-vay) has been improbable to say the least. Based in Los Angeles and London and with the unusual combination of Icelandic and Chinese heritage, she plies her trade in the notoriously unmarketable genre of vocal jazz, recalling classy melodies and smoky piano trio instrumentation that hasn’t seen mainstream attention for more than 50 years. She’s made steady progress on TikTok, posting quietly impressive performances on cello and guitar, each video invariably graced with her expertly enunciated vocals. A steady flow of new fans became a flood only in this past year with the viral success of Bewitched’s lead single, From The Start. An unusually peppy bossa number (Laufey once wrote that fast jazz makes her anxious), it was catchy enough to win the attention of the app’s mysterious recommendations algorithm and, a few months later, Laufey has the most-streamed opening week for vocal jazz album in history no less, a modest record to break given the lack of competition, but nonetheless a signifier of just how much Laufey is on her own when it comes to her preferred corner of jazz. Boundary-pushing instrumental jazz may continue to thrive both in the UK and the US, but for the moment it is Laufey alone who is fighting the corner of this more conservative, decidedly less cool subgenre with its familiar harmonies and straightforward melodies.

From The Start may be the song powering Bewitched’s success, but it’s just the tip of the iceberg when it comes to this album’s charm. Laufey already has a live album with the Iceland Symphony Orchestra under her belt, and at its best Bewitched shimmers with unashamedly elaborate flourishes of oboe and swelling waves of strings. California and Me is so densely orchestrated that London’s Philharmonia Orchestra gets an official credit, providing momentum to Laufey’s enchanting melodic meanders. Elsewhere, the classical elements of Laufey’s style are more intimate. Serendipity, perhaps the most charming of this album’s many waltzes, sees Laufey trade bittersweet melodies with a sonorous string section and pensive piano. On slinky bossa nova track Haunted the effect of the strings is more an atmospheric shimmer. “I swear to myself as he leaves at dawn / This will end ‘til he haunts me again,” Laufey confides to us, almost whispering before breaking out into a sublime passage of hummed scatting the likes of which the Top 40 Albums Chart hasn’t seen for decades.

The biggest joy of Bewitched lies in witnessing Laufey fall gradually ever deeper in love, song by song. “Boys just make me cry,” she announces resolutely in the delightful opener Dreamer, a classic swing tune with a classy vocal performance that would surely have impressed Ella Fitzgerald, Laufey’s most obvious influence. By Lovesick, though, Laufey’s determination to avoid boys at all costs has evaporated. The central moment of turmoil of the record, Lovesick is the closest thing Laufey has ever got to a rock song, even if the chugging electric guitar is buried under a web of heart-tugging strings and sustained piano chords. It also happens to include one of her strongest choruses to date, replete with beautiful lyrics delivered with an urgency that sounds somewhat out of place on this otherwise soft album, but nonetheless could be a promising sign of more daring genre-mashing to come for Laufey.

By the time we reach palate-cleansing piano solo piece Nocturne, it is clear Laufey is well and truly besotted. Swooning, helpless love is the mood that Laufey has dealt with most comfortably in her career to date and true to form these final six songs offer the most assured moments of Bewitched. Promise, a heartbreaking tale of a long-distance relationship, is exquisitely teased out before a barnstorming, despondent bridge (“I’ve done the math / There’s no solution / We’ll never last!”). Misty, the only jazz standard on the tracklist, is even more enthralling, with Laufey flexing her vocal jazz muscles in a tasteful performance, even if there’s no space for an instrument to take the limelight for a solo.

And then there’s the title track. Bewitched’s opening orchestral flourish could hardly be more ornate, with strings, woodwinds and horns all tumbling over one another as if soundtracking the magical arrival of a Disney princess. Instead, there’s the gorgeous, softly sung voice of Laufey and a lonely guitar. The melodies and chord progressions are nothing short of exquisite, and the gentle reentry of strings in the chorus feels like quietly slipping into a steaming hot bath. Complete with gorgeous lyrics about “the world [freezing] around us as you kiss me goodnight,” Bewitched is the most complete musical depiction of romance I’ve ever had the pleasure to hear. Like all the greatest love songs, Laufey not only describes her love but invites you to feel it too, with all its profound, all-consuming ecstasy and a nuanced tinge of risk when it comes to “bewitching” and “spells”. Laufey has lost herself in love just as the listener loses themselves in the artistry of the soaring strings and timeless melody. With Bewitched as an album closer, Laufey’s tale of falling in love is immaculately wrapped up with a fairytale ending. It’s the pinnacle of an album like no other in the pop charts today, although judging by the success of this new, unorthodox formula for TikTok riches, Laufey may not be alone in her niche for long.

KNOWER: KNOWER FOREVER review – a grand return for the LA duo
12
Feb

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.

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.

Cobra Spell: 666 review – kick-ass hair metal runs wild
16
Aug

An outrageously eye-catching album artwork marks the debut the of the brand new, all female lineup of Sonia Anubis’ Cobra Spell. Alex Walden checks out to their latest album to see if they could produce that rare magic: genuinely fresh-feeling music inspired by the 80s.

If turning 20 taught me one thing, it’s that all the stuff that you gave up as a teenager to “fit in” suddenly becomes really cool again. For me, it all hit after three months spent in New York to which I returned with the urge to swap my skateboard for a guitar. It was while browsing for a new axe that I came across an advertisement from Jackson Guitars which showed Cobra Spell founder and lead guitarist Sonia Anubis absolutely shredding her custom made “Warrior from Hell” to Cobra Spell’s leading single, The Devil Inside of Me.

Now I was impressed, but it was the next day when the magic hit as I found myself still thinking about that video over and over again. I couldn’t remember how the solo went, hell I couldn’t even remember Sonia Anubis’ name, but something about the brief build up to the solo before it all came crashing down in such a spectacular fashion was stuck in my head. After a few hours of not being able to shake it, I decided to bite the bullet and download Cobra Spell’s 666 to see if I could shake the brainworm from within my head. Yet as I delved deeper, I found myself feeling this sense of joy and excitement that I haven’t felt in a long time.

The 80’s are back! (sort of)

Ok so let’s start by addressing the elephant in the room. This album reeks of 80’s glam metal. Anytime I write about anything to do with classic or hard rock, I find myself always saying the same thing about how rock is well past it’s best by date and unfortunately the glory days of the genre are well and truly behind us. That being said, you can imagine the feeling of dread as I read “Heavy rock band stuck in the 80s” in Cobra Spell’s Instagram bio as any rock fan knows that if a band describes themselves as being “stuck in the 80s” then it’s highly likely that they’re extremely mediocre. But man did I eat my words… and man was I happy about it.

Cobra Spell have managed to capture that epic, badass, bedroom poster, no fucks given aspect of 80s glam metal that we all secretly love, even if we don’t acknowledge it yet. With brash song titles like S.E.X, Satan is a Woman and The Devil Inside of Me, you can’t help but feel the rawness behind the album purely from the titles alone. Yeah we all know someone who is going to question us for listening to songs with such vulgar titles, but that’s what makes it so good; It’s excitingly rebellious while also shamelessly fun.

It’s fast, it’s fun, but most importantly, it’s freeing

Despite it’s heavy metal lyrical roots, this project is not all about Devil worshipping and Satan, for it’s when you look into the lyrics of the album that you realise how the devilish themes are merely a front for the messages of female empowerment, as quoted by Sonia Anubis herself in an interview for Metal Remains.

“The album is about rebellion, it’s about women in power… it’s some kind of liberation of expression for women, liberation of sexuality and also a celebration as an all-female formation.”

And it’s that exact feeling that passes on through the music. Just from looking at lyrics such as “I am your drug, you’re addicted” ,“Don’t want to give you expectation, don’t be a fool to my sensations” from S.E.X. and “Why do you try on her, if you know, you know that she’s too much for you” from Bad Girl Crew we get this sense of empowerment for women. These songs aren’t about sex and Satan so it can annoy your grandparents, these are songs about women finally feeling liek the sexy queens that they are. In a music space where the stereotype is men touring the world bagging any groupie they want, Cobra Spell are flipping that narrative in a positive way.

An audial Pack-a-Punch

While it’s obvious from the first listen that 666 sounds fresh out of the 80s, I must admit that the quality of this album is far from anything to come out of that era. Even I am partial to dusting off the old Ratt, Metallica and Van Halen records from time to time but what bugs me most about them is how I’m instantly reminded that the remastered versions on my phone sound so much better; It makes you wonder why people obsess so much over original pressings of records in the first place.

While yes it’s obvious that due to 40 years of technological advancements it will obviously sound better, you can’t deny how rich this album sounds. From the soft synth backing, to the iconic chug from a down picked guitar string to the fierce nature of Kris Vega’s vocals – with 666, the crisp audio quality goes hand in hand with the clear talent of each member. Normally I love when an album sounds like they’ve just turned everything up to the max so it can wallop your eardrums, but this album sounds as if every specific instrument has been precisely refined so that it compliments everything else. Between the thud of the drums, the rumble of the bass, the squeals of the guitar and the ferocity of the vocals, your brain is left almost scrambled as you’re thrown around between such talented members.

We’ve reached a point in rock music where the kids inspired by the golden era of rock have collided with the technological prowess of the 21st century music industry, and it sounds thick and beautiful.

While I do love the fast-paced tracks within the album, it’s not all kick-ass and take names for the quintet. Songs like Love = Love and one of my personal favourites Fly Away pose as emotional ballads for when you’re not in the mood for rocking the house but still want to listen to something impactful. While the bread-and-butter elements of a rock ballad, such as a prominent singing voice and a slow but moving guitar solo, reign high on these songs. Their prominence is challenged by various hard-hitting backers such as synthesisers, vocal harmonies and even a saxophone solo. I mean come on, when was the last time you heard someone kill a sax solo on a rock ballad?

Cobra Spell has gone through a few lineup changes before, but it really feels like with this one Sonia’s got it right. This album is hot fresh glam metal and there’s no messing with it. It sounds as if this album was born to perform, to blow kids’ and adults’ minds all over the world. With an album this good, it’s a shame that they weren’t around in the 80s as I’m sure that they would’ve done huge numbers. What is certain though is that I know for a fact next time Cobra Spell play in England, I will be there.

SOFT PLAY: HEAVY JELLY review – redemptive riot delivers on all fronts
9
Aug

The Kent punk duo SOFT PLAY hold nothing back on their deafening fifth album. There are ample pulse-quickening riffs to whip up the mosh pit, but also plenty of nuance and introspection to reward repeat listens, not least a tender surprise at its climax.

It’s an unfair cliché that punk music—and loud rock music in general—is all about anger and hatred. Enter a mosh pit at some loud and sweaty bunker-like venue, as I did a few weeks ago in Leeds’ grungy Key Club, and the first thing you’ll notice is apparent violence: limbs flying, bodies separating and then converging at high speed, the occasional boot to the head from a crowd surfer. But the second thing will be the compassion lying just under the surface: the way the chaos stopped for a few seconds when my mosh-loving companion Ewan picked up a reveller who had dangerously ended up on the floor, the way the performers speak of gratitude and love, albeit so passionately they sound enraged. Ultimately, that’s what punk is about: not anger, but straightforward, extreme passion. Indeed, there’s often more camaraderie and mutual respect to be found at a heavy metal gig than at a pretentious jazz concert or your average pop gig where drunken fans bay for the hits. It’s in the lyrics too. IDLES, perhaps the biggest punk group in the country at the moment, recently released an album featuring choruses with savage lyrics like “I really, really love my brother,” and “the gratitude runs through my veins.” Listen too closely, and suddenly punk sounds like a rather schmaltzy love fest.

And yet, sometimes there are songs like the third track on SOFT PLAY’s superb new album, a song tellingly titled Act Violently. It’s a bruising three minutes squarely about vocalist Isaac Holman’s hatred towards reckless e-scooter riders, and he doesn’t hold back. “If I wasn’t such a loving bloke I’d kick your fucking head into the road, cunt,” he rages in the first verse over a tumult of scratchy guitars and swaggering drums. Perhaps Act Violently could be spun as a harmless outlet for rage, a way of safely transposing actual violence into song, but really this is a track all about unadulterated hatred. It’s also a fantastic piece of music. Laurie Vincent’s booming drums splash around the perfectly synced vocals and guitars in the verses, and Holman’s chant of “you make me wanna act violently” makes for one of the catchiest choruses of the year. It helps that Holman isn’t entirely serious in his message, allowing for some humor when a bandmate offers him a cup of tea mid-rant, before eventually getting his sweet revenge and sending that e-scooter rider flying over an uncovered drain hole in the middle eight. It’s a track indicative of HEAVY JELLY as a whole: propulsive and compelling on first listen, but not without its clever nuances and shrewd self-awareness.

The album’s flagship track is undoubtedly Punk’s Dead, a sure-footed lead single about the backlash the band received when they changed their name from Slaves to the ostensibly tame SOFT PLAY in 2022. It was a public response colored by today’s ‘culture wars’, the band being accused of over-the-top political correctness enforced by an apparent army of “liberal lefties.” Rather than simply defending their choice, Holman opts to simply present his opponents’ arguments back at them. “Are there any real men in Britain?” he bellows ironically, before a chorus that reads “I don’t like change / Why can’t you just stay the same?” Those might sound like unexciting lyrics, but a chorus about wanting to stay the same is sacrilege in the world of punk, a genre built on the relentless demand for social and political change. Rather than make his own argument, Holman lets his opponents join up the dots. If the spirit of punk is dead, as they claim, then could they be the ones that killed it? It works as a genius, comprehensive takedown of those who attacked the band for their name change, and what’s more, it’s the biggest hit of their career. For SOFT PLAY, surely Punk’s Dead feels like a perfect victory over their haters.

Holman employs a similar lyrical trick on Mirror Muscles, this time presenting the dangerous body-obsessed world of ‘gym lads’ with little direct criticism, although this time it’s harder to tell whether the band is commenting on the risks of tying your self-worth to your muscle mass, or whether, as they said in a recent interview with Rock Sound, they just really like to work out. Either way, the riffs are nothing short of titanic, and the oppressive world of the sweaty gym with its testosterone-pumped hulks is effectively conveyed.

It’s not the only moment on the album that seems to touch on masculinity in the modern world. Isaac Is Typing… is about Holman’s OCD but, as all male mental health struggles must be these days, the vulnerability is hidden under many layers of self-defense. The guitars almost drown out Holman’s confessions, and his screamed vocals make it easy to overlook the vulnerability that comes with admitting to going to therapy, or lines like “my brain is a battlefield, I’m struggling to hold.” It’s an honest, telling indication of how it feels to struggle with the supposedly fluffy, emasculating problem of ‘mental health’ as a man today. Give us some boyish heavy rock music and a heavy layer of vocal distortion and maybe, just maybe, we might be able to admit our vulnerabilities amidst the blanket of noise.

If it’s starting to sound like HEAVY JELLY is a cerebral commentary on modern society, it’s not. Isaac Is Typing… is swiftly followed by the up-tempo party starter Bin Juice Disaster, which is simply about the habit of pushing down rubbish into the bin instead of taking it out, albeit with its own connotations of self-destruction and neglect. There’s more obvious fun in John Wick (chorus: “I’m John Wick, bitch”) and the rapid, post-therapy rant The Mushroom and the Swan, which sports a relentless drum groove destined to ignite dozens of mosh pits when the duo goes on tour in October.

By far the boldest risk of the album comes with the closing track, Everything and Nothing, which starts, jarringly, with a mandolin, and later features a violin solo. Here, at last, Holman’s lyrics are given space to become their most heartfelt. “I see your smile in other people’s faces / Memories and traces / I wish you could’ve stayed,” Holman sings heartbreakingly. It’s not the catchiest song on the album, but it’s easily the most lyrically devastating, and a shockingly brave closer after such a loud and rowdy album. Aggression is easy, comfortable even, and SOFT PLAY are very good at writing aggressive music, but to close their album with a song about raw grief, with no gritty riffs or self-deprecating jokes to hide behind, takes real guts. “Setting sun and a starling murmuration / Amongst the devastation / I feel love,” Holman concludes beautifully at the end of this supposedly angry punk album. It makes you wonder: perhaps it really was about love all along.

Shannon & the Clams: The Moon Is In The Wrong Place review – wildly entertaining dive into the abyss
21
Jun

Raucous 60s rockabilly might sound like an unlikely match for an album unequivocally about grief, but Shannon & the Clams pull it off miraculously in this deeply personal record, which shifts from joy to despair – and often a complex mix of the two – with astonishing ease.

To the casual listener, the seventh album from Californian indie stalwarts Shannon and the Clams is a riot. The Moon Is In The Wrong Place is an endearingly fuzzy trip back to the wilder side of 60s pop: there’s sashaying doo-wop grooves, gloriously melodramatic vocals, a dollop of rockabilly barnstormers. Take the opening track, for instance, which ends theatrically with a flamenco-style coda over a long held note in the vocals, landing with an almighty stomp that’s only lacking a few castanets to bring the point home. It’s a sign of the up-tempo joys to come: The Moon Is In The Wrong Place is an album plenty interesting enough to entertain even before the lyrics can be fully understood.

It’s only by the closing song, Life Is Unfair, that the tight subject matter of The Moon becomes impossible to ignore. “How do you expect me to understand that the love of my life was taken away from me?” Shannon Shaw asks, an opening lyric so stark that even the chugging drums and cheery strummed guitar can’t hide its pain. It turns out The Moon Is In The Wrong Place is an album squarely about grief. The whole project is a result of Shaw’s personal tragedy, namely when Shaw’s fiancé died in a car accident just weeks before their wedding.

It doesn’t take much digging to find the emotional devastation left behind by that fateful day throughout this record. The Vow shuffles its way through an image of the wedding that never was, Shaw begging for the vows she’ll never hear. “First time in my life things fall into place,” she laments. It should sound dour and heavy, but the miracle of this album is Shaw’s knack of finding the light in the darkest of times. “It seems like it’s over, but forever you’re mine,” she concludes optimistically in that same song, letting all sorrow be forgotten with that raucous flamenco finale. It’s not just a satisfying surprise, but surely an act of Herculean bravery from Shaw, who seems willing to tease out whatever drops of hope she can find in such serious and personal subject matter.

Indeed, The Vow is just a taste of the twin themes of delight and misery weaving through Wrong Place. Big Wheel, for instance, is an electrifying piece of garage rock that I’m certain would have achieved world domination – probably alongside a wheel-themed dance move – had it been released sixty years ago. The chorus in particular, with its hulking bass riff and belted vocals, is an impulsive finger-snapper. Bean Fields provides the album’s sunniest moment, graced with almost irritatingly merry plonked piano and lyrics about a wild romance in the fields “where the bugs sing” – the fact that one of the lovers in question is no longer living is only the subtlest of dark undertones, easily lost in the uninhibited slide guitar solo and atmospheric hum of cicadas.

That’s not to say Wrong Place attempts to ignore the darker sides of grief. Oh So Close, Yet So Far is a deeply poignant doo-wop number that sets out Shaw’s conciliatory vision of her finance not being completely lost, but instead poetically subsumed into nature. “No I can’t touch you / Cause you are every star at night,” she rasps, reaching for a part of her lover – his soul, or perhaps literally his atoms – that will exist for eternity. She’s less certain on Real of Magic, a deceptively simple ballad about hallucination, complete with haunting call-and-response backing vocals that seems to mirror the conflicting voices in Shaw’s head.

The album’s title track and central triumph follows, a grippingly distorted descent into genuine terror. Guitars mimic an ‘SOS’ morse code call as Shaw jabs out a closely harmonised one-note melody to the words “The sun burned down when you left this world / Now there is some imposter in the sky”, surely about as epic as opening lyrics get. A furious pair of congas propel the ensuing torrent, evoking the deep-seated sense of cosmic ‘wrongness’ that comes with suddenly losing someone you had assumed would be around for your whole life. It’s the most exciting, darkly compelling piece of indie rock you’re likely to hear all year.

Perhaps inevitably, the less attention-grabbing corners of the album feel superfluous by comparison. The sharply focussed subject matter is briefly lost in the portion of the record where Cody Blanchard takes over vocals, and UFO’s psychedelic account of alien abduction feels slightly clichéd and melodically takes perhaps a little bit too much inspiration from House of the Rising Sun. Blanchard’s best contribution comes with In the Grass, a gentle acoustic guitar number which finds a pretty melody to match his country rasp.

Wrong Place is, undoubtedly, Shannon Shaw’s record, and it’s she who neatly wraps up proceedings with Life Is Unfair. It’s a short track that epitomises the album’s remarkable strength – the delicate balancing act between sorrow and optimism. The final words come in the form of a typically bouncy singalong hook in the major key which masks deep layers of a sadness that only feels partly quashed. “Life is unfair yet beautiful,” Shaw concludes, “only because you were here.”

Charli xcx: BRAT review – queen of the club reveals her softer side
18
Jun

BRAT may offer some of the nastiest club floor-fillers of Charli xcx’s lauded career, but there’s also vulnerable reflections on loss and the daunting prospect of becoming a mother. The result is a rollercoaster of an album that makes a point of its dramatic shifts in tone.

Charli xcx is an artist most at home in the frenetic, sweaty confines of a busy London nightclub, her music bursting with punchy drum machines and oddball electronic samples that no doubt come into their own when accompanied by strobes and a packed crowd of revelers. She’s gained so much notoriety as a dance music-adjacent singer that her 2022 album, CRASH, had some critics lamenting that she’d finally succumbed to the alluring pull of Top 40 pop (actual guitars! verses and choruses!). In reality, that album’s stellar highlights – zinging 80s throwback Lightning, honeyed funk hit Yuck – hinted at a songwriting knack that Charli would always have up her sleeve, no matter the genre.

Alas, as BRAT emphatically proves, Charli xcx’s ability to produce some our time’s finest nightclub anthems remains alive and well. As if to prove a point, she puts a song called Club classics at track two, a pulsating, shapeshifting electronic track that sounds all the more dynamic after the curiously static and unexciting opener 360. “I wanna be blinded by the lights” and “I’m gonna dance all night,” come the chanted lyrics. They’re the sort of words we’ve heard in endless dance and disco songs ever since the genre’s genesis, but Charli knows there’s hidden depths behind that urge to blind and deafen ourselves on a night out. Why do we not only want to dance, but need it? What are we escaping from?

She spends the rest of the album offering her own, very personal answer to that question. BRAT turns out to be a strikingly intimate listen. She confesses she wants to “go back in time to when I wasn’t insecure,” on Rewind, a track which uses a fuzzy mix to acutely convey Charli’s gnawing anxiety, plus some clever tape rewind samples. “I don’t know if I belong here anymore,” comes the final line of I might say something stupid, a quiet confessional amidst the chaos, in which Charli’s typical heavy autotune becomes a knowingly imperfect mask – a desperate attempt to hide her own frailties. I think about it all the time goes a step further, seeing Charli reflect on her friend becoming a mother and whether “a baby might be mine.” It’s such a vulnerable, thoughtful set of lyrics that the music ends up feeling like an afterthought. Perhaps the same is true for So I, a touching ode to late fellow artist Sophie with a pretty chorus but a long buildup that promises a payoff which never quite arrives.

And yet, there are just as many examples of Charli portraying herself as an unassailable queen of the dancefloor, with no insecurities to unpick. Lead single and BRAT‘s central banger, Von dutch, is an infectious take down of all Charli’s jealous contemporaries. “It’s so obvious I’m your number one,” she boasts as siren-like synths wail and a snare drum – mixed loud and in-your-face – smashes through the mix. Mean girls reads as a modern, lightly tongue-in-cheek feminist anthem, and sports a wild piano breakdown which Charli skillfully works into one of this album’s most irresistible beat drops. The biggest flex of Charli’s producer muscles, however, comes with B2b, an oppressively heavy masterclass in infectious synth loops and expertly crafted hooks.

The result is a two-sided album that switches from intimate confessions to festival-ready anthems, sometimes chaotically – the tender orchestral intro of Everything is romantic sounds odd immediately after the boisterous Von dutch. Only a few songs – Sympathy is a knife, Rewind – attempt to marry Charli’s chagrin to singalong party choruses, and as a result listening to BRAT can feeling about listening to two albums at once, switching from one to the other at random intervals.

On the other hand, BRAT‘s huge emotional range makes for a dance album that unusually probes for some sensitivity behind the hedonism. The latter emotion seems to win out in the end. Closing number 365 is a reprise of the opening track, although this time with a full-throttle dance drop and deafeningly scratchy synth hook. It’s gloriously odd moments of pop excess like these that are ultimately BRAT‘s biggest strengths, but this album also succeeds in showing us the hidden depths lurking amidst all the stage smoke and flashing lights of the club.