classical music | Music Boats

PinkPantheress: Heaven knows review – a polished, hard-hitting graduation
25
Dec

Two years after enigmatic Bath uni student PinkPantheress found instant fame with her nostalgic brand of dancepop, Victoria Walker is back with a rewarding debut album that fulfils the promise of that viral debut mixtape, writes Alex Walden.

get this feeling of excitement mixed with fear when alternative artists begin to gain popularity. It’s essentially a takeover of mainstream media, like the alt scene no longer has to hide on streaming services or small venue concerts any more. But what if it’s only a phase for the majority of listeners? What if these artists who are essentially pioneering new genres are left to fade out? I can remember feeling this range of emotions when I first heard Pink Pantheress’ Boy’s a liar Pt.2 on the radio. I was so happy for her but who knew if it would last?

Those who read my article on Pink Pantheress’ previous mixtape know that this was one of my biggest concerns for her. I thought that her first mixtape was a good start, but she had a long way to go to make her next project truly astounding. However, after two years of singles with some iconic artists such as Willow Smith, Kaytranada, Skrillex and Ice Spice, Pink Pantheress has officially released her first studio album. That’s right, she’s graduated from short mixtapes to just under 35 minutes of album-quality tracks, but is it enough to mark her place in the music industry permanently?

The music video for Mosquito includes cameos from Charithra Chandra, India Amarteifio and Yara Shahidi.

Numerous aspects of inspiration

One of my favourite elements of her previous work was that PinkPantheress wasn’t afraid to channel a sound from a time that often gets forgotten. With elements of garage, jungle and even nu metal littered throughout her mixtape to hell with it, it’s clear that she’s not afraid to take inspiration from the era of her youth. Any fan of this aspect of her music will love the fact that not only do we get the same amalgamation of sounds, but she also incorporates some new influences this time. In tracks like True romance and The aisle we get this crisp discotheque/pop sound but then with tracks like Bury me, we get this softened and heavily delayed 808 mix with a very ambient melody which gives us a somewhat psychedelic sound. This plethora of different sounds is mixed together incredibly well and gives the album a more polished feel that makes it sound longer than 35 minutes.

Lyrical progression

As far as musicians go, PinkPantheress has never really been labelled as a lyrical genius and it’s never really been a problem for her because her songs are so incredibly catchy that you barely pay attention to the lyrics anyway (despite her usually talking about some quite serious stuff). I have countless friends who could recite the entirety of Pain and I Must Apologize but if I asked them what those songs are actually about, they’d have to think about it before giving me an answer. But with this album it’s almost impossible to ignore the lyrics. It’s full of serious and quite dark topics ranging from being wanted for her career and not her personality, like being so crazily in love with someone she starts losing friends or her ongoing battle coming to terms with her fame and fortune. These themes are presented in an aggressively straight-up manner. I mean, seriously, I was completely astonished when I heard the line “because I just had a dream I was dead, and I only cared ‘cause I was taken from you”. It’s not every day you hear a lyric like that. There’s no heavy wordplay for you to decode at all, instead it’s very raw and hard hitting. In my opinion it’s amazing that she can be so blunt. We saw a glimpse of this in her EP but this time around, it’s a real step up.

Ice Spice collaboration Boy’s a liar Pt. 2 is a certified hit, reaching number 2 in the UK earlier this year.

Finding a balance

After Internet baby (interlude) the album begins to take a slower pace for the next five tracks. We can hear a range of standout melodies accompanied by these beats that come across as borderline ambient like in the tracks Blue and Feelings. It feels like this half of the album was inspired specifically by the songs All My Friends Know and Nineteen from her mixtape in 2021, but it doesn’t have the same soothing sound that those tracks do. With those two tracks we got rudimentary melodies matched by a calming tone from PinkPantheress singing about her struggles with her love life, growing up and loneliness, while the lyrics had no hidden meaning or crazy harmonic drive. Not that that was an issue – her melancholic tone fused together with the beats so effortlessly that it gave us this schematic “less is more” feel which worked well as a method of giving your mind a break from the fast paced drum brakes and overall feel-good/hype songs earlier in the tape.

Yet with this album the beats are all a bit too well structured. It’s not every day that I find beats that feel overdone but in this case the tracks feel a bit too heavy in places. For example, in the track Capable of love you’re unable to fully let the music take hold of you like in her previous work because there’s just so much going on. You’re constantly waiting for the next hook, the next drum fill, the next thing to happen which clashes with her soft voice making it feel lacklustre in some parts, almost like a supporting instrument rather than the star act.

Final thoughts

The only real negative thing I had to say about PinkPantheress’ first mixtape was that I thought that it was too short. It felt like you couldn’t really get into it because as soon as your mind starts to escape with the music, it was over. I’m glad to say that with Heaven knows, I can eat my words with this album as PinkPantheress has shown amazing improvement in both quality and quantity, there’s a very clear progression in terms of production quality in this album as well as none of the tracks feeling short at all. While I still think that in some areas songs sound a bit overdone, overall this is another great step forward for PinkPantheress. She has shown that she can keep that classic sound we all adore while still experimenting with other ones to give us a more refreshing sound. PinkPantheress has clearly been working hard since her ‘To hell with it’ days and has proved that she’s got what it takes to stay in the spotlight.

RNS/Kim live at the Glasshouse review – music fizzing with tension
1
Dec

Playing to a half-capacity Glasshouse, Sunwook Kim’s admirable account of Brahms’s Second Piano Concerto was technically dazzling if lacking in nuance before the RNS found lift off with an invigorating Schumann symphony.

The receptionist at the box office of Gateshead’s newly renamed Glasshouse seemed puzzled when I arrived shortly before a concert on this frigid late November night. The concession ticket I was after wasn’t in her pile, and she looked worried before exclaiming “ah, under 30!” before apologetically asking for my ID. Looking around, it seemed perfectly possible that I was the only concertgoer this staff member had encountered that was eligible for the Glasshouse’s generous under-30s discount. It’s a fabulous, futuristic, indulgent venue and easily the finest concert hall in Tyne & Wear; schemes like these should in theory attract more youngsters, but their effects are yet to be felt.

Tonight, there doesn’t seem to many over 30, either. Perhaps there was an iota of disappointment detectable in pianist Sunwook Kim’s eyes as he took his initial bows to a half-empty seated section and muted applause. What’s more, something in the way he threw his hands down by his sides at one point during the opening exchanges of Brahms’ Piano Concerto No. 2 worryingly suggested tiredness. This was only the second night of a two night tour, but Kim has an excuse – this concerto is a unique symphonic undertaking. Running at around 50 minutes, the work is the Hamlet of classical music and ranks amongst the longest and most complex piano concertos in history, demanding big, flexible hands and serious stamina. Brahms famously insisted on calling it “a tiny, tiny concerto”, perhaps to downplay its significance as successor of his disastrously received First Piano Concerto and the 22 year long build-up for its follow-up. In fact, nothing about this work is tiny. Instead, it is often viciously loud and fast and even includes an extra, fourth movement in a break from the three-movement concerto tradition. It seemed to take a few minutes for Sunwook Kim to fully settle himself into the first movement (no bother, since that movement alone is nearly 20 minutes long), but the time we reached the staccato pounding at the piece’s heart both Kim and the audience seemed enthralled.

Pieces as bold as this one call for some showmanship from the pianist – an irate shake of the head, a flick of the hands skyward with every sharp chord – which Kim delivered on, but there was also plenty of humility on show too. He was more than happy to stoop to some thoughtful call and response with the orchestra, his phrasing meticulously matched with the strings’. Dinis Sousa was on vivacious form, barely visible from behind the piano save for his restless, often airborne feet. He proved an expert navigator of the third movement’s meanders in which the piano concerto briefly becomes a cello concerto, and Kate Gould’s lyrical cello solo came across strikingly heartfelt and human. Here too, for an all too brief moment, Kim found some calm in the eye of the storm, patiently teasing out a quiet melody as if beckoning a kitten into his arms.

The second movement sees the concerto at its fiercest and most expansive, although Brahms was nonetheless at pains to call it a “tiny wisp of a scherzo”. It was here where Kim’s playing showed a few blemishes. The wistful melody struggled under a heavy-handed treatment, played with a blunt-force violence particularly in the upper registers; there’s a thin line between a rich, full-sounding forte and reckless jabbing at the keys. Meanwhile, the movement’s quieter passages, including a few enchanting moments of solo piano, were demoted to pretty interstitials between the ‘real’ action, Kim apparently not seeing their relevance in the grand scheme of this epic concerto.

After Kim’s otherwise impressive Brahms, the second half of this concert was something of a curiosity. This was especially true for a rendition of chamber piece Elongation of Nights, written by Lithuanian composer Justė Janulytė in 2009. It’s an intensely Baltic piece, almost to a fault. Dissonant, icy strings swelled and fell away in an intriguingly ambient ten minutes that might have set the mind wandering to tomorrow’s breakfast or my route home had it lasted much longer. Nonetheless, it was an effective conveyance of the long and lonely winter nights that envelop northern Europe every year – like a spooky, skeletal Baltic forest, Dinis Sousa remarked beforehand – if little else. Most impressive in the RNS’s performance was the extreme quietness that bookended the piece, Sousa letting a slender sheen of strings melt into silence like frost at dawn.

Robert Schumann’s exciting Fourth Symphony, a relatively compact work at 29 minutes, closed the concert. It’s a restless work – no theme or motif sticks around for long, and moments of respite from the torrent of notes are few and far between – but this seemed to suit the RNS, not least Sousa, who seemed in his element firing off an exciting new entry from a section of his orchestra virtually every bar. The RNS gained momentum alongside Schumann’s magnificently detailed score and were light on their feet for the electrifying scherzo as well as the blistering final presto, which had the strings operating at peak velocity.

I made sure to say goodbye to the couple sat next to me before leaving, who had asked me what I’d thought of Kim’s Brahms during the interval. I’d tried to talk intelligently about the piece but felt like I was unconvincingly rolling out all the fail-safe lines to get by in a conversation with an avid football fan; “Brahms was also overshadowed by Beethoven, wasn’t he?” was a bit like “Arsenal always try to walk it in, don’t they?”. Still, he seemed to believe I knew more than I truthfully do about classical music and appeared somewhat confused by my attendance, alone and conspicuously young-looking amongst the best seats in the house. It was understandable. Despite the Glasshouse’s £5 scheme for under-30s, people my age are sadly still an oddity in these sorts of venues. I left them with a promise I’d be back soon – perhaps Isata Kanneh-Mason doing Eroica in February. After Kim’s brilliant rendition of Brahms it wasn’t clear why more aren’t hooked on the genre. For me, visiting the Glasshouse for a pleasant evening is a no-brainer. Concerts of this calibre are simply too good to miss.

Jessie Ware live at Victoria Warehouse review – unparalleled joy
29
Nov

This seasoned popstar knows what she’s doing when it comes to delivering a night out for the ages. This deeply uplifting evening came replete with flawless disco sing-alongs, nut-tight choreography and even a stellar Cher cover to boot.

Jessie Ware doesn’t do halves. She tackles the pulsating dance number What’s Your Pleasure? sparkling in a pearl-studded bralette – her fourth outfit of the night and by no means her last – and clutches a microphone attached to a thick white whip instead of a stand, which she duly twirls around her head and lashes theatrically towards her backing dancers. It’s a rendition that leans into the kinky side of the title track of Ware’s career-defining lockdown album, which had many critics grasping for the appropriate superlative to convey its rush of steamy, exquisitely produced disco that caught the zeitgeist in a society clamouring for a return to the dance floor. What’s more, Ware has already told us her mother Lennie is in attendance tonight (beloved by the crowd as co-host of their hit mother-daughter podcast Table Manners), plus Auntie Monica. When the two male dancers, wearing tight shirts and even tighter unflinching smiles, gracefully bend over and present their backsides to the audience, a line seems to have been crossed. “Sorry, Monica!” Ware manages to blurt out between lyrics, doling out a pair of hearty spankings all the same. The choreography has been rehearsed for a reason, after all.

It’s a moment of hilarity that nicely sums up what makes a Jessie Ware gig such a unique hoot. Five albums and 13 years into her career, the 39-year-old is entering pop veteran territory, and there’s a wizened confidence in the way she effortlessly endears herself with organic chat between songs, speaking in the loving tone of an old friend. It seems over the years Ware has learned to drop her guard and never take herself too seriously. “When I first played in Manchester I just stood still, sang my songs and that was it,” she admits to us at one point, in between chatting to a couple celebrating their wedding anniversary and gushing about how she met Marcus Rashford yesterday (“I invited him to come but I think it might not be his kind of thing”). That said, Ware knows when to assume a more formidable posture when required of her, like when whipping her bandmates on What’s Your Pleasure? or on the opening number That! Feels Good! during which, after introducing monikers for her bandmates – Steady Eddy on bass, Sweet Pea on backing vocals, The Oyster for one unlucky dancer – she pronounces herself as Mother, arms spread wide and head held high. Make no mistake, for tonight this venue is not just Victoria Warehouse, but Victoria Ware-house.

A tightly choreographed What’s Your Pleasure? was one of the many highlights.

Mother may have been a reference to the recent Gen Z trend of giddily calling any vaguely authoritative female figure on a stage “mother”, but it was literally true, too. Ware is at an age at which women in the music industry are encouraged to gradually recede from the limelight and into the afterlife of Radio 2 to make way for the next cohort of trendy twenty-somethings. A mother of three isn’t supposed to bring in the numbers Ware is pulling today, let alone with unequivocally erotic songs about sexual empowerment and dancing. Instead, 2020’s What’s Your Pleasure? turned Ware from a faltering M.O.R. popstar into a household name, and it’s that album which forms the bulk of the set list tonight, along with if-it-ain’t-broke follow-up record That! Feels Good!. In fact, the only pre-2020 song that gets more than an allusion is Say You Love Me, a poignant remnant of a past era for Ware, delivered with a sombre piano accompaniment to contrast the bombast elsewhere in the show. It’s a touching singalong with a fine vocal performance, but even this ballad has been bettered in recent years, namely by the gorgeous Remember Where You Are, which soon follows and provides necessary respite from all the feather boas and glitter. A song title to live by, Remember Where You Are’s message of bittersweet hope hits even harder in the flesh, a relatively calmed group of swaying backing vocalists delivering the chilling line “the heart of the city is on fire” as Ware begs for someone, anyone, to “take me home”. It’s her most profound song and perhaps greatest artistic achievement.

That song formed the end of a run of Ware’s slowest, sweetest ballads, which were all lumped together for an obvious reason: to leave a second half bursting with non-stop dance crowd-pleasers. The uber camp showstoppers soon piled up: Ooh La La’s bass line alone could have torn the roof off; Begin Again built spectacularly towards a thrillingly belted high note; Bananarama-referencing Mirage (Don’t Stop) was hypnotic and impulsive, the only flaw being that it had to come to an end. When the source material gave an opportunity for some fun onstage amateur dramatics, Ware went all in. Shake the Bottle, for instance, features plenty of coy interactions with the two backing dancers, who hysterically played the roles of Ware’s former love exploits, making absolutely sure the audience missed none of the many cheeky double entendres sprinkled throughout the lyrics. She hardly stopped moving during up-tempo dance banger Freak Me Now, her drummer delivering a thrilling performance at a DJ station at the front of the stage. Beautiful People provided a ready-made slice of crowd choreography in the lines “Stand up / Turn around / Take a bow / Because you look so good right now”. It could have been corny had the music itself been lazy, but instead we got a cracking bass riff, punchy horns and an all-out vocal performance from Ware, gleeful architect of the ensuing chaos. We were all, as Ware insisted, “beautiful people” and as the few thousand punters crammed into Victoria Warehouse spun around and jumped up and down to the beat, it was impossible not to agree.

Say You Love Me provided the night’s only acoustic moment.

Every song was a winner, but Ware had one more surprise up her sleeve. After a suspiciously long costume change, we might not have figured out the source of Ware’s disembodied vocals had one of the dancers not gestured to the back of the room. A disbelieving cheer rippled through the crowd as it transpired that Ware was perched in a corner of the mezzanine floor at the back of the room, now wearing a riot of pink that dazzled under the spotlight. What’s more, she was getting stuck into the verse of Cher’s cheese-smothered classic Believe, which the audience duly belted along to. She proceeded to weave through the standing audience Jesus-like, blowing kisses and holding hands of devotees all whilst belting out the chorus in full voice like the rest of us.

She was ushered back onto stage just in time for a final rendition of Free Yourself, a riotous ode to self-acceptance and perhaps Ware’s quintessential song. The track was one of the highlights of the lavish opening sequence to last year’s Eurovision Song Contest in Liverpool and in Manchester it was no less extravagant, the sashaying dancers visibly perspiring under many layers of sequins. It was silly and unedifying but in an honest, unapologetic way; Ware understood that you don’t need a reason to have a good time – just wanting to dance is enough. The extended cut of the track was glorious, Ware never losing an ounce of enthusiasm even as the final chorus looped back into another repeat. All around me, the ecstatic crowd lapped up every last note.

The sad truth was that Ware had to leave the stage eventually, prompting boos which briefly switched her into stern mother mode (“we don’t boo in this house!”). When she left the stage victoriously to the strains of Candi Staton’s Young Hearts Run Free the crowd simply kept dancing, oblivious to the stewards who were rapidly trying to cordon off sections of the standing area for cleaning. I would soon regret not joining in. Instead I watched and took a moment to appreciate how far I’ve come and how special this moment was; or, as Ware would put it, remember where I am. Jessie Ware had been the figurehead for tonight’s fabulous celebration of life, but as I watched punters twirl one another around and laugh uncontrollably, it seemed clear that this gig belonged to all of us.

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.

Abel Selaocoe live at Boiler Shop review – fiery cello beats come filled with love
10
Nov

No Bach Preludes were to be found here, just consistently thrilling African beats propelled by Selaocoe’s fierce bowing and awesome throat singing. In between show-stopping dance numbers and a spellbinding percussion solo, it was the audience participation that lifted this gig towards something spiritual.

Abel Selaocoe doesn’t just play the cello, he consumes it. At the start of what will be a special night in Newcastle he strikes an imposing figure, appearing in a huge rose red toga with gold patterns flowing all around him, somewhat upstaging his three plainly dressed bandmates who comprise the Bantu Ensemble, a group fashioned specifically for this tour. Stood up or sitting down, Selaocoe is a bear of a man, but the lovable, cuddly kind: he starts his show with a heartfelt thanks to the audience, his broad smile only encouraging lengthy cheers in response which he patiently waits to subside. Like most musicians, he writes his music about love, but a love deeper than the coffee shop crushes and sickly clichés that might take your average popstar to the top of the charts. Instead, Selaocoe speaks about love for one’s friends, love for humanity in general and, most importantly, love for one’s home. Indeed, this concert is devoted to his homeland of South Africa, with its hypnotic, percussive grooves and ingrained emphasis on the power of community. The cello is Selaocoe’s tool of choice for celebrating his culture, his playing zippy and playful, lending a new sense of soul to an instrument so often confined to the sanitised world of European concert halls. Perhaps Selaocoe is less consuming his cello, then, more giving it a much needed hug.

That’s not to say Selaocoe’s music is all sunshine and lollipops. He opens with an expansive reworking of his track Qhawe / Hero, launching boldly into a capella vocals, standing tall and closing his eyes so as to maximise the power of his bone rattling voice. Therein lies the first surprise of the night: Selaocoe is a great cellist, but his vocal abilities are just as remarkable. The several passages of a capella singing in this show have a primal quality, and despite being almost entirely sung in his native Sesotho, there’s something about his abrasive transitions from lion-like throat singing to shamanic growl that require no translation. Besides, watering down his lyrics to appease an English audience would forgo the many wonderful qualities of his mother tongue, most notably Sesotho’s extraordinary click consonants, which give his faster passages of singing a fascinating percussive edge. Selaocoe does offer translations for his song titles, but otherwise we must simply enjoy how his words sound rather than what they mean, and his performance is all the better for it.

The best songs were the ones that managed to cram in all the many aspects of Selaocoe’s offering as a performer. Hlokomela / Take care was one of several roof-raisers, starting with gentle singing and plucking before bursting into joyous life, Selaocoe standing up at one point, leading claps for the crowd as if they needed any encouragement. This form of tribal African music seems to dig a layer deeper into our urge to dance as one community than most Western music, and a rowdy Newcastle crowd didn’t require much introduction to get their feet moving and heads bobbing, a few giddy yelps emerging from the audience to greet any particularly acrobatic new bass line from Alan Keary. Mohamadou Kouate was the engine in the centre of stage, kneeling amidst a playground of various percussive wonders but spending most of his time striking a calabash, an upturned dome that, when struck with a firm fist, released the earthy pulse at the heart of Selaocoe’s uptempo crowd pleasers. Hewasn’t merely a beat provider, though; exquisitely gentle Ibuyile l’Africa / Africa is Back sounded like the giant sun rising over the savannah at dawn, complete with birdlike whistles from Kouate, plus a shimmer of beads like a rattlesnake emerging for another day on the plains.

Quite what sort of music we were hearing was difficult to pin down. To English ears it sounded fresh and exotic, but it may not have sounded especially familiar to many of Selaocoe’s South African compatriots either. Some passages veered towards jazz, especially when Fred Thomas’s piano flutterings came to the fore, and Keary was even offered a wild jazz fusion solo on the opening track, an opportunity which he took with aplomb. Other times, Selaocoe played the role of spiritual leader, and an astonishing one at that. Several songs were elevated by two-part harmonies sung by an impressively full-throated Boiler Shop crowd. On the faster numbers the singing just added to the fun-filled chaos, but on slower compositions crowd participation added something deeper. The sound of several hundred strangers singing loudly and proudly will always be moving, but when applied to Selaocoe’s timeless melodies, the effect was transcendental. Ancestral Affirmations provided one such moment, our shared melodies falling like leaves. Most powerful was the fact that this clearly wasn’t just a song about joy – swelling piano chords and murmuring bass gave the music a dark, religious quality, Selaocoe our sombre funeral leader. Ancestral Affirmations truly was not just a song, but an experience, the sort that I’m convinced is impossible to properly convey in words.

“Dudu knows the cosmos better than the rest of us,” Selaocoe told us in his delicious baritone speaking voice between songs at one point, referring to percussionist Kouate. What followed was the most extraordinary percussion solo I’ve ever witnessed. It was not a drum solo in anything like the traditional sense, more a fascinating show-and-tell: here was a strange dark cylinder emitting a sound like waves; a black tube looped around the neck which Kouate blew into; two flexible corrugated plastic tubes which Kouate flung around his head like a football hooligan. Strangest of all were two pipes with cut-open water bottles taped to their ends, which Kouate dipped repetitively into a basin of water as if a plumber trying to dislodge a blockage. It was all inescapably absurd (there were plenty of confused laughs from the crowd, particularly after Selaocoe’s cryptic introduction) and might have devolved into silliness had the actual sounds produced not been so surprising. The hooligan plastic tubes, for instance, were spun at various speeds so as to produce – miraculously – a discernable melody which Thomas later picked up on the piano. The plumbing element initially seemed like a highbrow way to recreate the sound of watery footsteps, until Kouate used the air rushing through the tube and the partly-covered hole as its end to produce a sound like a wind instrument. Kneeling back down at his station, he delved into a tintinnabulum of shiny trinkets, producing a dazzling flurry of tinkles, even if it did occasionally sound like what happens when you open that precariously stacked kitchen cupboard full of saucepans.

By the time Ka Bohaleng / On the Sharp Side came along at the end of the gig, the crowd was in raptures. Destined to be not quite as thrilling or rhythmically impeccable as the brilliant studio recording, there was still a fantastic piece of call and response crowd work in the feverish finale, Selaocoe’s great clapping palms ushering bedlam. Kouate’s climatic solo on talking drum – a two-sided hourglass shaped drum tucked under the arm – had the added thrill of interpretive dance, Kouate’s arms flailing wildly at impossible speed, all silhouetted against a background of pulsing white lights.

It was all a far cry from the gig I had been expecting. Yes, Selaocoe’s debut album contains Ka Bohaleng, but it also contains strikingly restrained accounts of a Platti cello sonata and a few movements from Bach’s cello suites. It makes for a fascinating and perhaps uneven record, and I’d arrived at Boiler Shop prepared to critique Selaocoe’s attempt at marrying Western baroque music with its African antithesis.

But there was to be no such challenges: Selaocoe’s show was devoid of tranquil (and perhaps sleepy) baroque pieces and instead stuck to unchartered territory. I have no doubt Selaocoe’s passion for Bach runs deep, but it’s hard to imagine any music delivered as passionately and compellingly as Selaocoe’s own compositions. Crucially, rather than hearing interpretations of some other composer’s ideas, we got Selaocoe’s own soul. As a result the crowd required little thought before falling in love with it all, judging by all the shouts of joy during the grooviest passages and the staggeringly loud singalongs.

The applause was so fervent it made you wonder if the encore really was planned this time, or if the band, like me, had been awed by the sense of occasion. Either way, Selaocoe was not one to get carried away in the moment, standing calmly as the applause quietened before telling us, monk-like, that “with this energy we’re gonna take over the world out there.” The breathtakingly quiet Infinite Love rounded off the night, a delectable waltz that rose elegantly into the Boiler Shop rafters like smoke from an incense stick. Both Selaocoe’s vocals and cello sounded silkier than ever but, not for the first time, it was Mohamadou Kouate’s work on percussion that was most spellbinding. This time his bowl of water played the role of a sonorous kick drum, Kouate floating a smaller, upturned bowl on the water’s surface and deftly striking the top with his palms. Woody crunches like footsteps and sparkles of kalimba, all emanating from Kouate’s encyclopaedic ring of small instruments, completed a stunning soundworld. As his fellow musicians drew the song to a peaceful close, Kouate filled his bowl with water and purposefully poured it back out, his other hand tickling a set of chimes. Some may say the sound of water sloshing isn’t really music, but Abel Selaocoe’s concert had already ventured well beyond the traditional boundaries of music and into something more artful and poignant. As Selaocoe’s last stroke of the cello strings receded to nothing, Kouate shook out what was left of the water, the last drops falling like tears.

Olivia Rodrigo: GUTS review – the rallying cry of a generation
12
Oct

Equally packed with punk rock instant classics and beautifully understated piano ballads, Olivia Rodrigo’s bravura second album is somehow fiercer, wittier and altogether even stronger than her Grammy-sweeping debut.

It takes about 52 seconds for the brilliance of Olivia Rodrigo’s sophomore album to hit. It begins with a delicately plucked acoustic guitar and semi-whispered vocals as Rodrigo sweetly delivers disingenuous lines about being perfectly socially aware and having “sun in my motherfuckin’ pocket”. It’s an expletive that foreshadows the rage that’s about to unfold: a clatter of drums followed by an implosion of distorted guitars and bratty, Avril Lavigne-esque vocals, matching Rodrigo’s rage at having to conform and look effortlessly pretty as the fawned-over young American pop star she is. all-american bitch is not just a smartly executed satire but simply a great rock song, with unusually fierce and unhinged guitars for a pop album so deeply in the mainstream, plus a rebellious shouted chorus that lands with all the impulsive force of a teenager’s bedroom door slammed shut.

It’s a bracing opener that sets the tone for what should become one of the great pop-rock albums of the decade. Where her generally excellent debut record SOUR outstayed its welcome with increasingly underpowered wallowing in the same formative breakup, GUTS sees Rodrigo venture (partly) beyond the world of misbehaving boys, in the process diving deep into the full throttle punk music that lingered dormant within the highlights of that first album. Raucous banger ballad of a homeschooled girl perhaps best exemplifies Rodrigo’s evolution and sudden maturity as an artist as she sings about social anxiety and unease at settling into a crowd after her unique upbringing as a child actor at Disney. What makes this song about awkwardness so brilliant is just how confident the music sounds as Rodrigo sings of “social suicide.” This song is not self-pity but a vivid recreation of Rodrigo’s (and, as it happens, much of her generation’s) anxiety in the form of a rapid torrent lyrics and a restrained bridge that promptly collapses upon itself into an electrifying finale.

Interestingly, a newfound willingness to be a little silly on GUTS is all part of that new maturity. Where SOUR occasionally risked slipping into melodrama, GUTS is mellowed out with wry anecdotes from a turbulent love life and jokes at Rodrigo’s own expense. “Yes I know that he’s my ex but can’t two people reconnect?” she quips on gritty Wet Leg-esque number bad idea right?, a song about willingly doing what you absolutely know you shouldn’t – far from the only unifying feeling of adolescent life that Rodrigo has comprehensively unpacked in her two albums already. get him back! is even more fun, a sharp-witted tale of getting a spot of light revenge on a clueless ex complete with a killer singalong chorus and an irresistibly groovy drum groove.

When Rodrigo gets serious, though, she doesn’t hold back. Lead single and perhaps this album’s finest achievement vampire steadily crescendos towards the condemning lines “bloodsucker, fame fucker, bleeding me dry like a goddamn vampire,” delivered with enough conviction to void any previous criticism that 20-year-old might be throwing in swear words just for cool points. There’s no mistaking that vampire’s vehemence is whole-hearted as the drums build into a canter and a twisting chord progression tugs on the heartstrings with accumulating urgency. At the heart of it all is the best vocal performance of Rodrigo’s career so far, transitioning from exquisitely quiet opening to bell-clear belted high notes that slice through the mix like a hot knife during the second utterly flawless middle eight of her career (after drivers license, of course). It all comes crashing down satisfyingly in a wall of spliced piano chords and deafening cymbals, triumphantly wrapping up what may be Rodrigo’s greatest three minutes of pop.

On lyrics alone, however, it’s hard to beat making the bed, an artful standout ballad that grapples with the uglier aspects of the celebrity life that Rodrigo has inadvertently created for herself. “I’m playing the victim so well in my head,” she admits as a mire of electric guitars and washed out piano chords inexorably begin to subsume her. Much of the detail on GUTS is inevitably difficult to relate to given it draws directly from the truly bizarre upbringing of a young global celebrity, but on making the bed there’s something strikingly universal about Rodrigo’s deep-seated guilt and cognitive dissonance. There’s similarly exceptional lyrics on classy piano ballad logical, where Rodrigo tells of falling for a dishonest lover “like water falls from the February sky.” She ends up concluding that nothing about love makes rational sense with the ingenious “the sky is green, the grass is red / you mean all those things you said,” making a mockery of the superficial ‘roses are red’-style love poems she must have received from countless desperate boys over the years. It’s rounded off with a sense of self-awareness typical of GUTS’ maturity, Rodrigo admitting in an introspective bridge “I know I’m half responsible.” This isn’t just a case of mining a flawed relationship for witty comebacks and one-upmanship. This is the intricate, pained unravelling of both party’s flaws set to ruminative piano and beautiful melodies.

In terms of sheer songwriting quality, GUTS never loses an ounce of momentum during its 40 minute runtime. In other years and on lesser albums, love is embarrassing could quite easily be a smash hit and worthy song of the summer with its joyfully self-deprecating chorus and pulsating synth beat. On GUTS it’s just another underappreciated deep cut, as is smooth and catchy indie pop number pretty isn’t pretty, which covers the well-documented topic of unrealistic beauty standards with a new clarity. “Fix the things you hated and you’d still feel insecure,” Rodrigo bluntly points out at one point, reminding us it’s something deeper than the supermodels and sunny Instagram posts that are making young people feel so insecure.

Most of all, it’s Rodrigo’s age that runs a thread through this album, with the singer both grappling with intense fame at such a young age and the jealous, patronising put downs that she receives from her invariably older critics. The opener’s semi-earnest declaration of “I know my age and I act like it,” proves to be self-deception by the time the stunning closer, teenage dream, is reached, when Rodrigo asks “when am I going to stop being wise for my age and just start being wise?”, sounding almost defeated. There’s also the uncomfortable question of whether committing her entire young adult life as an actor for Disney was wise. “‘Got your whole life ahead of you’ […] / But I fear that they already got all the best parts of me,” Rodrigo reflects in a line that must resonate with any young person unfortunate enough to come of age during a pandemic. Therein lies the great magic trick of GUTS, an album that has the raw intensity of Rodrigo’s singular life experiences but is equally adept at speaking on behalf of an entire generation of Gen Z-ers. For me, like many other 20-year-olds the world over, this album has quickly become part of my identity, a work of music to scream and dance along to in vigorous catharsis or confide in during quiet moments of overwhelm. I couldn’t ask for anything more.

Emma Rawicz live at Brudenell Social Club review – youthful boundary-pushing veers towards indulgence
19
Sep

Challenging and ambitious, Emma Rawicz’s polymorphous jazz sought to tread new ground on a yearly return to the Brudenell. Epic solos and an extraordinary closing number had the audience baying for more, not least because her 90-minute set contained just six songs.

“Proper” jazz music – that is, music that isn’t strictly rehearsed, with the length of each section negotiated on the fly via nods and gestures between bandmates – brings with it two big risks when it comes to live performances. The first, and most obvious, is that it all unravels in miscommunication, perhaps with a disagreement about who should solo first or which chord they should be playing. In practice, however, a good ear and a knack for fast thinking in resolving any musical disagreements in an instant is a minimum requirement for any professional jazz musician. Less talked about, but far more common, are the perils of an open solo. Picture the scene: you’re a few minutes into a tune in front of a few hundred patrons of Brudenell Social Club. Emma Rawicz – a much talked-about bright spark in UK jazz – wraps up a final saxophone lick and turns to give you a knowing nod, and suddenly all eyes are on you to come up with something to play. For once you have the spotlight; you step to the front of the stage and revel in the complete creative freedom of being able to play more or less anything, for as long as you like. After a while you consider relinquishing to the patient pianist looking your way in the corner, but there’s still a particularly clever tangle of notes left in your fingers that you’re desperate to get out with one more repeat of the chords. A two minute solo becomes a five minute solo (a very different prospect), and before you know it there are audience members heading for a loo break and Emma seems to glare at you as she shoulders her way back into the song. Of course, it’s hard to play a harmonically interesting, technically impressive solo for five minutes straight, but it’s even harder to play for just one.

It was consequently a pleasant surprise to have seats for Emma Rawicz, owing Brudenell’s secondary venue a far more relaxed atmosphere compared to the last time I was there, not knowing my luck to see Parcels as my first ever gig back in 2018. It was a shrewd move from the organisers too – with currently only one album to her name, last year’s strong but underappreciated Incantation – 21-year-old Rawicz has only just joined her first record label, and the Brudenell would have felt underwhelmingly half-empty if it weren’t for all the tables and chairs. She did at least have the gravitas to warrant a dedicated introduction over the PA system from the sound guy at the back, in an endearing first for an Undertone gig.

Emma Rawicz backed by Conor Chaplin and Ant Law

A first half of entirely unreleased music started slowly. Patience-testing opening number Rangwali was carefully assembled like a sort of free jazz jigsaw, and a tedious one at that. A lopsided shuffle seemed to be implied by the drummer, but the grooves were too fickle, the chordless interlocking melodies too nebulous to give the unfamiliar listener any chance of finding solid ground in all the shifting textures. An assured piano intro into the second track promised more, but still the melodies remained frustratingly slippery and the solos overly tangential, eventually wheeling back to an apologetically short head thrown in at the end seemingly because Rawicz felt obliged to repeat the ‘hook’ at least once.

Nonetheless, it was engagingly daring opening 45 minutes, the highlights being Rawicz’s dazzling solos. Launching up and down the octaves – embracing every nook and cranny of the tenor saxophone’s magnificent range – Rawicz sounded more than capable of carving out her own niche in the contemporary saxophone world, her preferred style nimbler than Nubya Garcia and more delicate than Shabaka Hutchings. Seasoned touring guitarist Ant Law’s solos meanwhile contained the grandest narrative arcs. At one point he apparently tried to pull a string right off his instrument, the resulting clang prompting audible shock from the crowd. Asaf Sirkis’s brainy drum solos, on the other hand, were neither restrained enough to sound succinct and sharp nor wild enough to impress on technique alone.

At one point a sudden cloud of stage smoke appeared to quite feasibly rise from Rawicz’s restless fingers.

After just three songs of intensive jazz exposure, an interval came with all the relief of finding shelter from the gusts on a windy day. I caught my companions Thomas and Rob checking the time a little nervously: it was 10 p.m., and all signs pointed to at least an 11 p.m. finish before a somewhat gruelling three-leg journey home. At least Rawicz seemed full of beans, spending the entire break personally selling CDs and chatting with fans, only hopping backstage to grab her sax in time for the second act.

The second half was much the better of the two. Voodoo, at last a familiar song at least to me (and sadly the only inclusion from Incantation for this gig) got things underway with punchy guitar chords, a nippy bass-and-piano riff and a taut melody delivered with impressive synchronicity by Rawicz and Law. Rawicz’s solo was even fiercer than usual and at one point a sudden cloud of stage smoke appeared to quite plausibly rise from her restless fingers. Nerdy rhythmic trickery behind the guitar solo triggered knowing smiles between those in attendance swatted up on the concept of metric modulation, but was an otherwise unnecessary distraction. By contrast, Sirkis’ explosive closing drum solo was less thinking and more thrashing, and the result was thrilling. He almost fell off his stool by the end of it.

Ant Law’s solos provided some of the evening’s highlights.

Middle Ground happened to be released on the very same night of Rawicz’s performance at the Brudenell and provided a much needed element of calm and meditation to the night’s proceedings. The chord progression was stunning, and Rawicz’s contemplative, beautifully drawn out melodies were as breathtaking to hear as they must have been to play. The accompaniment was unflashy – Law provided a smattering of fade-in guitar chords, bassist Conor Chaplin produced a woody rumble at the back – but the result was a gorgeous concoction of sound. Ivo Neame, this evening’s pianist and still a professor at Rawicz’s not-so-old haunt of Chetham’s School in Manchester, also gave one of the performances of the night. His sophisticated, kaleidoscopic solo had Rawicz shaking her head in blissful disbelief, before a rousing and unusually catchy closing refrain.

I felt a tingle of excitement as Conor Chaplin played the opening bars of Phlox, the sixth and final song of the night and Rawicz’s recent single which I had been eager to hear live. It features the meatiest, most rhythmically engrossing riff I’ve heard all year, served up with the unassailable momentum of a heavy metal showstopper. Rawicz’s furious, high-octane solo was a whirlwind of honks and screeches before Neame’s intricate and eventually clamorous bluesy riffs and immense chordal runs. The finale found Sirkis at last in his element, causing utter havoc on the skins as that angular riff continued to gain momentum. At the Brudenell it felt like the first track of the night with a palpable sense of purpose and urgency and, at least until her sophomore album is released, Phlox is the clear standout song of Rawicz’s career thus far.

Phlox featured the meatiest riff I’ve heard all year, served up with the unassailable momentum of a heavy metal showstopper.

Groans of “more!” came seconds after Sirkis’ last triumphant strike of the cymbals and were so persistent that the MC at the back had to grab his microphone and mumble something about the 11 p.m. live music curfew to get everyone to calm down. Part of the appeals for more must have surely stemmed from the fact Rawicz had played just six songs, leaving plenty of solid material from the first album unaired. “We prepped twelve, we’ve got more!” she was eager to tell us at the end, mentioning that they’d all had “too much fun,” but perhaps wishing there had been at least some songs that weighed in at less than 15 minutes a piece.

It wasn’t just the length that made this a gig suited to the hardcore jazzheads only. This rendition was far wilder, stranger and more polymorphous than the manageable, if occasionally unoriginal fusion cuts from Rawicz’s debut. Rarely did grooves settle into a recognisable form, and determining a time signature invariably required a diploma in jazz musicianship; in other words, attempting to dance along or even bob your head to this music is an exercise in confusion. It’s tempting to scold Rawicz for leaving behind the familiar, accessible world of funk-informed fusion music, but these bold steps forward into the unknown are exactly what jazz thrives on, even if not all of the experiments are going to land. Indeed, the fusion side of Rawicz’s sound could become something very lucrative – Snarky Puppy have filled the Royal Albert Hall on songs with the same DNA as Rawicz’s Wishbone or Incantation – but it takes genuine guts to unleash a set as challenging as this one. The mainstream, even in jazz terms, remains some way away from Rawicz, but her ample creativity and individualism looks set to thrive as a result. All she and her colleagues have left to do is play a bit less.

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.

Fergus McCreadie Trio live at Sage Gateshead review – overlong wanderings through Scottish wilderness
24
Jun

In front of a room full of attentive followers in the Sage, McCreadie’s trio indulged in expansive tangents away from the source material that only occasionally struck gold, although the technical ability and telepathic musicianship displayed throughout were undeniably immense.

There’s something distinctly soothing about the way Fergus McCreadie takes to a stage. Stepping out in front of a few hundred seated attendees at the Sage’s pleasant but somewhat underwhelming secondary auditorium, McCreadie almost creeped onto stage, offering a stifled smile and wave of his can of Stella during a polite applause free of any of the usual whoops and screams. The audience was silent for several seconds before McCreadie nonchalantly got things started with a few bare, quiet opening chords, still getting comfortable in his seat as he played them. As someone that’s made a routine out of big, blockbuster pop and rock gigs of late, I found it a jarringly civilised display from all parties.

McCreadie spent several minutes languishing in the early stages of that opening song, The Stones of Brodgar, letting the theme develop organically from embryonic whisperings of piano, eventually hitting the accelerator as bassist David Bowden and drummer Stephen Henderson got involved. The zenith of the first epic build was a storm of rapid improv and angular chords that often decoupled themselves entirely from Bowden and Henderson’s underlying groove. It’s partly this virtuosity that has garnered so much attention for this understated 25-year-old now at the forefront of the modest but buzzing Scottish jazz scene. Hailing from a rural village 20 miles north of Inverness, McCreadie’s brand of jazz is indelibly tied to the beautiful wilderness of his homeland. His two studio albums thus far have been squarely about stone and earth respectively, and a cosy, timeless piano trio set up is central to his sound – seekers of the electronic cutting edge of UK jazz should look elsewhere. His colourful, enchanting second album Forest Floor earned him a Mercury Prize nod that could be seen as his big break; he didn’t take home the £25,000 cash prize, but scoring a performance alongside the likes of British radio mainstays Wet Leg, Sam Fender and eventual winner Little Simz may have been a prize enough for the up-and-comer.

McCreadie’s breakneck scalic runs flowed from his fingers like a ferocious Highland mountain stream.

His performance for the Mercury of course had to be an abridged version of his songs which feature a healthy number of adventurous solos and, with a willing audience and headline billing in Gateshead, McCreadie was given ample room to explore his songs to his heart’s content. Such depth had mixed results. The Stones of Brodgar was drawn out to an intriguing, patient 15-minute rise and fall of experimentation. The sense of direction was inevitably lost at times as McCreadie navigated his way through the song apparently without a plan, but it never took long for him to refind his footing in such a sprawling jazz behemoth. A blaring new middle section, for example, was a thrill to witness, with Henderson’s clattering free jazz drumming a perfect match for McCreadie’s breakneck scalic runs that flowed from his fingers like a ferocious Highland mountain stream. Other times, McCreadie served up a wall of sound with monstrous cluster chords, bashing out a few before leaning back, furrowing his brows in contemplation then blasting out another heady knot of chords. A menacing final section, with Bowden plucking out a guttural descending bass line, was a more palatable finale and evoked some sort of sinister supernatural happenings at the stones of the song’s title, which McCreadie described as “Orkney’s answer to Stonehenge.” Wrapping up the song at the Sage, a feeling of terror around something so ancient and mysterious was well conveyed.

Such was the diversity of musical moods generated by the trio, it was a surprise when McCreadie revealed that there had only been three songs in the first act. Even the most dedicated fans of the trio may have struggled to keep track of all the extended improvised sections that diverted wildly from the recorded material, and songs often flowed freely into one another. After much brainy free jazz roaring, the hall seemed to take a collective relaxed sigh at the opening of serene Morning Moon following an earnest description of the nighttime walk in the Cairngorms that inspired the tune. The atmosphere of the song was gorgeous and Bowden offered a graceful second melodic voice, leaning close into his beautiful instrument to reach the fragile high notes on the far reaches of the fingerboard. It was a shame that McCreadie’s fine opening refrain got lost in an excessively meandering middle section, only returning at the end as a reluctant whisper. I reached the interval hoping for McCreadie’s songs to refocus for the second half. The couple sitting next to me were evidently less optimistic, and left a glaring gap of empty chairs in the front row before the three men returned to the stage.

Unfortunately the earwormy folk melodies that made Forest Floor such a hit never quite materialised in the second half, either. The terrific, tireless left hand riff of Landslide and the rousing anthem of The Ridge never received an airing in Gateshead. Bafflingly, The Unfurrowed Field, with its charmingly delicate refrain, was excluded too, despite being deemed good enough for London’s musical elite at the Mercury Prize last year. We did at least get a stonking rendition of album highlight Law Hill, which was introduced by a gripping drum solo, Henderson’s hi-hat hissing with venom and snare crackling like a bonfire. The crashing arrival of the opening chords at the end of the solo was delivered with satisfying aplomb. Henderson was busy once more for the song’s finale, with McCreadie’s overzealous urge for improvisation this time tied down by a fiendish ostinato. Succinct and incisive, it was easily the most engrossing passage of music all evening.

Henderson’s drum solo was gripping, his hi-hat hissing with venom and snare crackling like a bonfire.

A lengthy lull in the set followed. Glade was sleepy but pleasant, although when drawn out to ten minutes of indistinct tangential musings it ground proceedings to a halt. A subsequent diversion into the more introspective corners of McCreadie’s debut album also contributed towards a somewhat tiresome second half which ended in a distinctly unsatisfying murmur of achingly slow piano. There was at least the encore of Cairn which woke the audience up with its joyful, sprightly refrain, but there remained much potential in McCreadie’s two strong studio albums that fell by the wayside.

It should go without saying that McCreadie’s command over the piano is formidable. Plenty of pianists can have a crack at the unbridled, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it flashes of notes he produces in his most ambitious solos, but few can play with such sustained accuracy and clarity. McCreadie’s dexterity was matched by Bowden and Henderson, who each shined in their all too brief moments in the sun. Most impressive was the fact that the trio even had the ability to explore the DNA of McCreadie’s tunes with the thorough creativity they did. “We do every gig without a plan,” McCreadie says, a remarkable but utterly believable feat. How so much musical information can be conveyed in real time between players via a nod of the head or flicker of eye contact remains a particularly mystifying form of magic to me. Never did the trio seem anything but relentlessly in sync with one another.

In the end, however, the strength of the musicianship on display also turned out to be the performance’s biggest flaw. Just because one can produce 15 minutes of one-time-only jazz explorations loosely based on a theme doesn’t mean one should. McCreadie’s free flowing approach is admirable but set a high bar which his largely directionless ramblings often failed to reach. As McCreadie’s mind wandered through the infinite possibilities of harmony offered by each tune, so did mine, but instead I pondered what I’ll have for tea tomorrow, how I’m getting home and, most frequently, how glad I am to be sitting in a comfy seat.