There’s loneliness and there’s simply being alone, and as I plodded up the final steep slope to the minor peak of Froswick in the Lake District one evening last September, I only felt the latter. I hadn’t seen a soul since leaving the valley earlier that morning, locating with difficulty a faint path that guided me through dense bracken and up a ridge that rose gracefully above the glassy expanse of Haweswater behind me. Even on reaching the summit of High Street, the most significant fell in the area, I could eat a celebratory Wispa with only the company of a handful of disinterested sheep. Having spotted a sharper fin of lower peaks a little distance away from the barren plateau I had arrived at, I had diverted in their direction, enjoying the gloriously gentle wide ridge (High Street was once indeed a passageway for horses and carts, and a spectacular one at that). I found a picturesque tent pitch on Froswick for the night and wondered whether the tiny, potential outlines of people I’d seen earlier on the hill’s larger neighbour Ill Bell had been imaginary.
There were two reasons why listening to the second studio album from Californian singer-songwriter Phoebe Bridgers felt like the natural thing to do after I’d settled down that evening. The first was fear. I hadn’t seen anyone all day, but something about the prospect of a stranger approaching – particularly without me spotting them in advance – in such an exposed, vulnerable location scared me more than it perhaps should have. After all, I’d met a friendly enough fellow solo camper on a similar overnight trip up Helvellyn last year, and that night spent the first hour of darkness watching specks of headtorch light weave their way up the ridge I was sat on, willing them to turn away from me at the crest perhaps for the sake of a little more solitude. There were no such encounters on Froswick, although I heard the chug of helicopter blades from my tent later that night, which is surely one of the most inexplicably terrifying sounds you can hear when alone in a tent in the middle of nowhere, made worse when accompanied by a search light (camping is, after all, technically illegal in England, but not that illegal). For me, thankfully, there was no such light, and I breathed a sigh of relief as the sounds of the rotor promptly faded into nothing.
The view of Froswick and Ill Bell from the summit plateau of High Street was enticing.
The familiar sound of Punisher was, therefore, a vital extra comfort blanket over my icy sleeping bag and copious layered fleeces. The album exhibits a calmness so intense it can be easy to dismiss the whole thing as insubstantial or boring on first listen. The exceptional quietness of most of the songs invites deeper listening, and meticulous production provides plenty of hidden gems to uncover: alien electric guitar mumblings, minimalist and thoroughly intentional muffled drum grooves, the occasional frissen of electronic vocal manipulation. Bridgers’ vocal performance in particular encourages this tranquil, deep listening. Lyrics are recited patiently and deliberately, and Bridgers’ outstanding poeticism shines as a result. Seemingly one-dimensional lines like “if I could give you the moon, I would give you the moon” are rendered gut-punchingly poignant by Bridgers’ poised delivery, pausing several times for effect before ushering in a final rush of backing vocals. There’s no rush in Punisher, and neither was there in my wonderfully spare few hours atop Froswick.
Cars like fireflies occasionally made their way up the valley beside me, their full beam headlights clearly visible in the gloom.
The other reason was that Punisher seemed to fit the occasion in a way no other album could. Far from a distraction from the beautiful view in front of me – standing on Froswick’s modest summit, Windermere stretched out into the distance towards the barely-visible wind turbines of Morecambe Bay – Punisher is an album pristine enough to enhance that feeling of wonder. Kyoto, for example, includes a rousing trumpet melody that, completely independent of the lyrics, inspires pride and awe that I can quietly indulge in having made it up to the heaven of a Lake District fell entirely on my own steam. Other times, Punisher has an ability to transport me even further away from the problems of the real world than my rural location. Garden Song is one such escape, with Bridgers describing a surreal dream beside a single reverb-soaked guitar, her plaintive melody doubled by an eerie deeper vocal. “What if I told you I feel like I know you / But we never met?” she asks uneasily a few songs later. Nothing quite makes sense, but nor should it. Punisher feels like its own fantasy world with its own rules, and perhaps that’s why its meditative qualities resonated with me so strongly as day became night on Froswick. My perch on the summit gave a god-like perspective of the flat plain below. Cars like fireflies occasionally made their way up the valley beside me, their full beam headlights clearly visible in the gloom. Gradually, the residents of Windermere turned on their lights, which flickered gently as they proceeded with their Wednesday evenings. Being so high and so alone with my magnificent view of the land already felt blissfully unreal and gave a chance to momentarily untangle myself from the constant preoccupations of day-to-day life; Bridgers’ vivid world of strange, purring guitars and ghostly strings felt like just one step further into unreality.
Standing from the summit of Froswick, Ill Bell loomed over my tent, which looked out towards Windermere and the distant lights of Morecambe.
A sheep brought me back down to earth during Chinese Satellite, giving me a start when it appeared a few feet behind me, calmly munching some grass. It was a good prompt to stand up and turn towards the mountain range behind me for a few songs. Together we watched the colossal, boulder strewn slope of Mardale Ill Bell during Moon Song, the mountain’s valley base more and more thrillingly abyss-like as the darkness thickened. I was reminded why the song was one of my favourites of the album, largely thanks to Bridgers’ deeply evocative lyrics that offer a searing edge of resentment and melancholy to the lilting melody. “You pushed me in and now my feet can’t touch the bottom of you,” she tells us, apparently pointing out how comparatively tiny I am both amongst the mountains and the towns of people below, as god-like as I may like to feel. Being a mere drop in the ocean can be just as liberating as omnipotence, I was reminded.
A sheep brought me back down to earth during Chinese Satellite, giving me a start when it appeared a few feet behind me.
It was so dark by the time I reached louder, anthemic standout ICU the outlines of the great Cumbrian peaks to the west that I’d enjoyed during the day were beginning to become difficult to pick out. Truthfully, I grew so tired that the great musical explosives of closing track I Know The End washed over me. Beginning to shiver, I shuffled through the two fabric doorways of my tent and wrestled with my sleeping bag as Bridgers finished her finely crafted masterwork not with more acoustic musings but with a shocking, chest-rattling scream over a soul-stirring horn melody.
I would have preferred for Bridgers to somehow have continued through the night; even after many uneventful nights camping, the wind’s uncanny ability to shake the tent fabric in a way that sounds exactly like a sheep gnawing at guy ropes or, worse, footsteps of a wayward stranger, has always unsettled me. Of course, the logical part of me knew there was no one else nearby, and likely no one else on the entire mountain range. I couldn’t have been further from the buzzing confines of Leeds’ Brudenell Social Club, where Scottish new wave/post-punk band Altered Images were wrapping up their headline set to a no doubt rapt, sweat-drenched audience. Places of community like Brudenell give music their own ritualistic edge, whether one is hamonising as a collective in an improvised choir or colliding with bodies in a cathartic mosh pit. But on Froswick I learned that experiencing music in total solitude can feel every bit as life-affirming and vulnerable. It was quieter and more personal, but hearing Punisher that night provided all the feelings that come with a brilliant live gig: euphoria, awe and an unstoppable sense of freedom.
A return after a prolonged hiatus could have spelt creative reinvention for Ann Arbor funk group Vulfpeck. Instead they continue to underwhelm on a sixth album let down by vapid hooks and lazy rehashes.
After some years spent climbing the pinnacle of the undersaturated genre that is contemporary funk music, Vulfpeck reached the summit on 28th September 2019. Having successfully resisted the temptation to sign to a record label ever since the group started up in an Ann Arbor basement eight years prior, the endearingly nerdy five-piece delivered a career-defining set at a sold out Madison Square Garden in New York, being only the second independent act to do so. The 100-minute whirlwind tour of the band’s discography was a glorious achievement duly immortalised in a live album and film, featuring a host of special guests and multiple unforgettable performances (see Woody Goss’s spectacular baroque organ improvisation or Dave Koz and Chris Thile’s saxophone-mandolin duel for starters). 2020’s The Joy of Music, The Job of Real Estate soon followed and featured a handful of standout tracks amongst inconsequential instrumentals. Since then Vulfpeck have taken their first hiatus, with Cory Wong and Theo Katzman finding considerable success in their solo careers and eccentric frontman Jack Stratton apparently hunkering down in his Los Angeles home, masterminding the next era of Vulf.
Few could have guessed Stratton would return quite like this: drumming in a steamy sauna and dressed in a white towel robe and sauna hat alongside half a dozen similarly barefooted bandmates. It’s certainly a concept, but quite why the aesthetic was chosen beyond a good album cover and clickable Youtube thumbnails is anybody’s guess. Disappointingly, saunas are almost entirely irrelevant in the ten tracks that make up Schvitz, but perhaps that’s for the better.
Stratton’s nasally vocals as ‘Vulfmon’ are nothing but unbearably irritating
More pertinently, Schvitz also marks the return of ever-lovable guest singer Antwaun Stanley, who takes lead vocals on five of the ten tracks and is often the album’s greatest asset. He’s radiant on chirpy highlight New Guru, joyfully riffing his way through the verses and digging into a catchy classic funk chorus with gusto. He also elevates well-written Simple Step alongside a pleasingly crunchy upright piano and Joey Dosik’s smoky sax hook. The lyrics, as often is the case for fun-loving Vulfpeck, are simple placeholders for a melody and demand little attention (Simple Step focuses on describing a single dance move), but the quality musicianship does well to smooth over any deficiencies in Stratton’s penmanship.
Elsewhere, Vulfpeck are less lucky. Earworm lacks both lyrical depth and musical interest, and Stratton’s nasally vocals as his alter ego ‘Vulfmon’ are nothing but unbearably irritating. It’s a song told excruciatingly from the perspective of an earworm (“I’m not in your stomach / I’m not in the ground”) but critically lacks an earworm of its own, with Katzman’s slurred hook too convoluted to live long in the memory. By no exaggeration, it all amounts to the most insufferable two and a half minutes of Vulfpeck’s career. Curiously sleepy closer Miracle is marginally better and features a corny chant of “all life is a miracle”, which lacks any self awareness of its own soppiness. There’s hope Joe Dart’s smooth bass line might lead to something more interesting, but it simply doesn’t besides a clunky key change. By the time the lyrics nonsensically start discussing Pokemon, all hope is lost.
For now, Vulfpeck seem to be settling into their life as former world-beaters now past their prime a little too easily
Antwaun may be back, but what hasn’t changed is Vulfpeck’s distinct lack of genuinely new songs. Theo Katzman’s quite sublime solo tune What Did You Mean by Love? gets a remake, and the clever chord progressions and neatly crafted lyrics prove incongruous on Schvitz. Stanley gives a strong performance, but the changes from the original are so minor there’s nothing to recommend the Vulfpeck version above the original. Joey Dosik’s delightful In Heaven also gets a cover and the switch to sparkling acoustic guitar for the cheerful hook is a welcome one, although there’s a niggling feeling that Vulfpeck are rapidly running out of ideas for new songs. A faithful but uninspired reproduction of Bob Dylan’s bluesy Serve Somebody drives the point home.
Schvitz may not completely devoid of highlights, but it is nonetheless an album that tests the patience of even the most dedicated Vulfpeck fan. Covers and joke songs are all well and good, but they largely end up hiding a lack of ambition that could drive the band on to new heights. Songs with more spectacular musicianship and lyrics that dig deeper are entirely within the realms of possibility for Vulfpeck (Katzman has long proved himself as an outstanding lyricist), but for now the band seem to be settling into their life as former world-beaters now past their prime a little too easily. Madison Square Garden was fantastic, but there are more hills to be climbed. In this album, Vulfpeck seem to have stopped trying.
Returning to Leeds for a one-off homecoming, the Guildhall jazzer’s set was rough around the edges but oozed with potential. Aided by a stellar trio of groove-makers, Parthenope’s dexterity on saxophone in particular is already dazzling.
It’s no secret now that the new world of British jazz is fertile ground for fresh talent. Ever since a talented cohort of young jazzers emerged on the scene in the late 2010s (Nubya Garcia, Oscar Jerome, Shabaka Hutchings and Ezra Collective being amongst the most prominent), the growing popularity and newfound coolness of contemporary jazz has been a wonderful thing to witness, and the rise of the moment shows no signs of slowing. The vast range of instrumental and stylistic choices allowed within the vague confines of the word ‘jazz’ has made the characteristics of a new ‘UK jazz’ genre difficult to pin down. Groups could be anything from traditional jazz trios to huge, ever-changing collectives or odd-ball percussion-driven quartets (see the now disbanded Sons of Kemet), often with a refreshing splash of electronics or the earthy touches of ancestral Afrobeat.
Leeds born and raised and still a student at London’s esteemed Guildhall School of Music, Parthenope Wald-Harding’s take on modern jazz is, like many of her contemporaries, none of the above. In her music, soulful vocals meet intricately funky guitar backings, but the emphasis is always on her winding Charlie Parker-esque alto saxophone lines, which dance over each slinky groove like a ribbon in flight. As it stands, the 20-year-old has positioned herself as one of the most promising rising stars in the scene, having already snagged herself a spot in the illustrious Blue Note Re:imagined II covers compilation disc alongside now well established acts such as Franc Moody, Maya Delilah and Nubiyan Twist. Catching her this early – Wald-Harding is yet to release her first original song – brings with it the thrill of seeing an artist at the moment their career begins to blossom and, more importantly, the possibility of being able to gloat about seeing her live a few years down the line once having to explain how to pronounce her remarkable real name becomes a thing of the past (think “penelope”).
Parthenope and her band were warmly received at the Wardrobe
Wald-Harding’s career in music may just be dawning, but a one-off homecoming concert in the cosy Wardrobe successfully pulled in an encouraging crowd of local fans already well aware of her talents. Her set may have lacked familiar tracks, but there were plenty of highlights to get excited about for 2023, with What You Wanted an assured and instantly danceable opener. On this and many other songs, Wald-Harding’s skill as a musician was more than matched by the trio of Guildhallers that completed the band, in particular laser-focussed drummer Tom Potter, whose complex, nuanced funk grooves managed to be engaging but never obnoxiously technical, a feat not all of jazz drummers can pull off. Solos were dished out liberally amongst the band, and it was guitarist Toby Daintree provided the standout improvisation of the bunch with his restless riffing over strutting Pigeon Park.
As a singer, it must be said, Wald-Harding tended to come across as somewhat tentative, never quite willing to go all in on a vocal even when Kinzan Mu’s outrageous bass fills urged her onwards. With a sax reed at her lips, however, Wald-Harding was a force of nature, her solos direct and startling, often whizzing up and down the instrument’s full range before letting out a fearlessly long high shrieks as the crescendos summited. Her habit of standing still and shutting her eyes in concentration for each show stopping solo occasionally made it seem as if the saxophone was playing her, and her ability to only so much as twitch as her unrestrained melodies soared skywards was almost as remarkable as the playing itself.
Parthenope’s saxophone solos were often remarkable
Aptly-named Dynamite, an interpolation of the Roots’ tune of the same name originally performed by drummer Nate Smith and his band, provided both the simplest and most effective head, with Wald-Harding’s dexterity giving way to straightforwardly brilliant jazz-funk songwriting. Equipped with an outlandish chord progression and almost comically plodding bass line, the song was the boldest number of the night, and the wait for an inevitable studio recording of the track begins now. Potter’s ludicrously groovy closing drum solo alone was simply too good to hear only once.
It was a surprise that Wald-Harding’s only public release to date – a dreamy, tasteful cover of Nora Jones’ Don’t Know Why – was one of the night’s less remarkable numbers, her sax lines perhaps inevitably lacking the crystalline sheen of her career-launching recording. There were rough edges to be found in the rest of the set too – head re-entries that lacked conviction, intros that had bandmates seemingly looking to one another for reassurance and good songs that underwhelmingly fizzled into nothing at their conclusion (Dynamite included). Each of Wald-Harding’s band are most in their element when deep into a glorious, attention-grabbing solo, but a little more attention to detail elsewhere would have more convincingly sold the band as a group of emerging professionals.
Yet, with the impressive turnout and clear strength of Wald-Harding’s songwriting ability, the night had been a resounding success and well worth my tiring end-of-season journey to Leeds and back. That said, I was very pleased to see the band wrapping up shortly before 10pm, if it only meant I could grab an earlier train home after my original train had been cancelled. I even had time to nab a set list from the stage before embarking on a brisk walk to the station, only to find the train I had rushed for was indefinitely delayed. I may have ended up stranded at York station as midnight approached but, even then, regret about making the effort to see Parthenope was never on my mind. In many ways, seeing upstarts as genuinely talented as Wald-Harding at the start of their career is just as exciting as seeing well established pros dish out their tried-and-true hits. There’s something smug about hearing so many unreleased songs, especially when the vast majority of them seem like the sort of thing a whole generation of young jazz fans would go nuts for. I’m certain bigger things are coming for Parthenope, and when they do come I will be insufferable.
Touring the UK on the back of daringly original debut album Lucky Me, Phoebe Green’s attention-grabbing pop creations deserved a keener reception in Newcastle. Seemingly put out by the poor attendance and lacking in conviction, Green’s performance struggled as a result.
It was an inhospitable, wintry Monday night and in the valley of Ouseburn, a mile east of Newcastle’s city centre, the dense fog was spectacular. The enormous road bridge I’d descended from looked otherworldly, its graffiti-strewn brick columns almost disintegrating completely into the streetlight-stained sky above. Cars rumbled above and a stream trickled below, both hidden from view but making their presence known as I approached the sanctuary of the pub I had been looking for. I was unfamiliar and unsettled by the street’s quietness, but eager to explore a part of town well-renowned as a funky cultural highlight of the city, with welcoming studenty bar and popular little venue The Cluny at its heart. Only two people walked in before me as I approached the venue shortly before Phoebe Green’s headline show, and both of which apparently knew the bar staff personally. The place felt cosy and communal, but with a distinct lack of clientele (it was, of course, a Monday night, and one lacking in a tasty World Cup fixture) it was clear I wasn’t seeing the Geordie institution at its best.
Two Phoebe Green fans approach the Cluny in foggy Ouseburn
A dispiriting lack of punters came to be the theme of the night. The ticket steward seemed to be nodding off as I approached him and Green and her band ended up constituting a big portion of the front row watching support act Nell Mescal, who tried and failed to get some audience participation going for one song. In the end, a big synthy intro for Lucky Me to start Green’s set felt incongruous without the added sound of at least a few dozen fans cheering in excitement. In a night that should have been full of sweaty dancing and passionate singalongs, the onstage cooling fans weren’t used once, and for the first time at a gig I had no problem keeping on my thick coat for the duration.
Of course, the lack of atmosphere wasn’t entirely Green’s fault, and she was always facing an uphill battle at the Cluny. It was a shame because there’s lots to enjoy in her music, not least that incisive bass riff that tore through the opening number. Sweat had a catchy bounce, and like most of Green’s songs gave her sister Lucy plenty of work to do on synths, but she always seemed completely in control of vast range of sounds her keys produced in every song. Leach was the sort of song that might have whipped up some moshing in front of a more enthusiastic crowd with its restless bass synth and pounding kick drum. A noise rock finale with a wonderfully messy guitar solo played ludicrously fast was one of the night’s highlights. It was early single Easy Peeler that turned out to be the best of the bunch and one of the few songs that sounded as manic and wildly creative as Green’s studio performances. Any of Green’s reluctance to commit to the performance momentarily vanished for the rough-and-ready alt rock track, with the crunchy bass lines penetrating beneath the clutter of competing distorted synths and guitar. It was the sort of simple crowd-pleaser that the rest of Green’s set sorely lacked.
The turnout at the Cluny was disappointing.
Elsewhere, Green’s performance seemed to suffer due to the tepid audience responses. Pulse-raising album highlight Crying in the Club now had frustratingly mumbled spoken vocals that crucially lacked confidence and ended up buried under a heavy kick drum. Green’s vocals when singing were also mediocre, and the somewhat high notes on the chorus were disappointingly swapped for an easier, lower edit. Diediedie was another track that wasn’t helped by Green’s unimpressive vocal performance and, as sharp as Green’s lyricism may be, any sense of building menace on the original was lost in the one-dimensional recreation at the Cluny.
Even Just a Game, on paper the best song from the debut album, felt lacking. A euphoric up-tempo number, the song needed conviction from Green to get the most out of it, but instead there was more mumbled vocals in spoken sections that felt like an afterthought and a tendency to cling onto the mic stand, barely swaying to the energising percussion groove. A clearer duet partner to sing the vocal harmony so integral to that anthemic chorus would have also really lifted the track. The original may be brilliant, but it was remarkable how Green and her band managed to make Just a Game sound like nothing more than bland set-filler on the night.
An encore was clearly out of the question. In fact, it was all wrapped up in a half-hearted 50 minutes, making it undoubtedly the shortest gig I’ve attended to date. The end of relatively strong closer IDK came perhaps as a relief for all involved, and Green was prompt in hopping off the stage during the polite applause. It had been by no means a car crash of a performance and Green’s potential is huge, but there was a lingering disparity between the Green’s in-your-face, delightfully idiosyncratic debut album and the somewhat timid performance she gave in Newcastle. The music industry is brutal and despite some mainstream attention, it seems Green’s days of filling out a buzzing Cluny are yet to come. Until then, I think I’ll stick to Spotify for my Phoebe Green fix.
Bellowhead’s golden years as spearheads of an English folk revival may be well past them, but the strength of their blockbuster renderings of centuries-old tunes remained for an evening coloured by the recent passing of a founding member, Paul Sartin.
The farewell tour began in 2015. After 11 years as part of folk phenomenon Bellowhead, frontman Jon Boden had decided to call time on the project, wrapping up with a grand double tour of the country, culminating in an intimate return to Oxford Town Hall, where it all started for the band. Aged 13, I caught them in Harrogate alongside my mum on what would probably be my first and last gig in the provincial town, having been introduced to the band by a primary school teacher. I remember it was a lively one for such a grand and formal setting, but my residing memory was getting doused in red wine by a lady next to me whose hand-eye coordination was muddled by a combination of a little too much alcohol and one too many of Bellowhead’s stomping sea shanties. A one-off, final reunion came four years later and, like so many concerts that year, was limited to the form of a pay-to-watch video recording, which I lapped up nonetheless.
And yet, another two years later, the inimitable 11-piece are back for a final, very last, definitely-just-a-one-off reunion tour to mark the tenth anniversary of one of their most popular albums, Broadside. The band’s gradual demise seemed so drawn out that at last seeing them appear onstage more or less the same as they’ve always been was something of a shock. Settling down in the cramped folding seats was bearable given the promise of a final few numbers that would undoubtedly raise the audience out of their seats, even if the demographic seemed markedly older than the sort that might turn up at the City Hall to see Sigrid or Declan McKenna. Bellowhead’s music includes almost exclusively traditional tunes that have been passed down through many generations, and when it comes to danceable crowd pleasers it is only the real firecrackers that have passed the test of time. In the words of outstanding fiddle player and support act Sam Sweeney, “if you still have a jumper on after we’ve finished… you’re crazy.”
11-strong Bellowhead’s ability to stir up a crowd remains formidable
That said, the first half was naturally reserved for a selection of Bellowhead’s slightly more laid back tunes, even if it did start with a sequin-suited Sweeney performing a piercing bagpipe solo from atop a plinth. Stormy Byker Hill was a fitting opener with its references to the original coal mining days of Newcastle’s east end, but it along with a handful of other early numbers was severely limited by poor mixing which found Pete Flood’s booming kick drum drowning out a weak-sounding woodwind section. Things improved for Jack Lintel, a surprising but worthy inclusion in the set, with a scintillating three-way fiddle showdown rightly stirring up the crowd. Unapologetically pop-ish Betsy Baker remained one of the band’s finest numbers. A mawkish and clichéd love song it may be, but quite how the various accompanying melodies in the strings and woodwind overlap one another beneath the charming melody is undeniably very pretty indeed. Boden seemed to revel in that not-so-faint whiff of cheese, proudly professing his feelings for dear Betsy with hands held high and head tilted towards the sky before taking a seat in admiration of a particularly delightful instrumental section.
The evening’s main drawback was the fact this was a Broadside concert, and the material within the album in question had its limits. Increasingly I longed for more from Hedonism, Broadside‘s superior, best-selling predecessor (and an integral member of my mum’s modest car CD collection). That said, some of Broadside‘s deep cuts stood out, namely Black Beetle Pies, which might have been forgotten had Benji Fitzpatrick not appeared with a wearable xylophone, with Boden now belting the vocals through a loudspeaker. Thousands Or More was much more tender, and its well-delivered group vocals were one of the night’s most heart-warming moments. Elsewhere there were more questionable setlist decisions. Deservedly obscure Fine Sally over Desert Island Disc-worthy zinger Parson’s Farewell? Fakenham Fair over their disturbing, rousing take on Amsterdam? Cross-eyed and Chinless, a Hedonism standout as fun and memorable as its title was the most surprising and disappointing omission.
Personal gripes about setlist choices were totally irrelevant for the song at the heart of the evening, which was a tribute to one of the band’s most recognisable and founding members, Paul Sartin, who died suddenly in September. After a minute’s silence, Boden introduced a devastating recording of Sartin singing Brisk Lad alone, his baritone vocals stunningly clear and intimate, his words (“I am a brisk lad though my fortune is bad”) heavy with newly implied meaning. After a few verses the band joined with a tasteful accompaniment, ending united in unison a cappella. The entire assured performance of a song sang through many generations of the Sartin family was deeply moving. The spontaneous standing ovation continued well into the next song.
The audience stood throughout the show stopping finale
The transition almost immediately into merry fiddle-led jigs like Dockside Rant / Sailing on the Tide at first felt uneasy after such a heartfelt tribute, but as the crowd pleasers kept coming it became very difficult not to get swept away in the ensuing joy. It all culminated with a raucous one-two of old favourites New York Girls and a triumphant Frogs’ Legs and Dragons’ Teeth, by which point virtually the entire audience had been up off their seats and clapping along for a good 20 minutes. It would have been an even more joyous atmosphere had stewards not tightly policed the aisles, approaching revelers that were having too much fun dancing down the aisles. Quite why dancing was forbidden – surely an essential aspect of this form of old-fashioned dance music – was beyond me. Fortunately no such rules applied to the performers, and Sam Sweeney was particularly energetic, at one stage jumping around the pirate ship set with such enthusiasm he fell face first onto the deck, impressively only missing a few bars of fiddle playing. Lindsey Stirling would be impressed.
A dozen undoubtedly exhausting back-to-back shows into their tour and as many years playing the same set of uptempo winners, it was reassuring to see that Bellowhead still have the ability to ignite a frenzied ceilidh wherever they go (jobsworth stewards aside). Decades may have passed since their inception in Oxford, but there’s still no clear contender to fill their space in the English folk scene, and it seems likely to stay that way. Bellowhead, with their daring and vivid reinventions of old songs and their unusually large number of instrumentalists, are a one-of-a-kind, and the English folk resurgence they spawned alongside the likes of Kate Rusby and Laura Marling is already dwindling without them. Whether this tour really is a final reunion is now anyone’s guess, but in Newcastle Boden left us with a tantalising tease. “Perhaps we’ll see you again sometime,” he smirked, before hoisting up his fiddle one last time for a roof-raising final refrain. Whatever happens next to this wonderful band, I’m still not ready to see them go.
Presented with a once in a lifetime chance to witness one of Europe’s most renowned orchestras in all their pomp, Undertone had no choice but to grasp the opportunity with both hands. Still a relative newbie to the classical world, there is surely no better way to hear Mahler’s stupendous First for the first time.
It was mid-November and the stars seemed to be aligning. I had secured what was essentially a week off university (in my course, ‘reading week’ involved surprisingly little actual reading), and I secured myself a four day gap free from any obligations at all at the end of the week. One bored Saturday I was habitually clicking through Skyscanner when I noticed a convenient £30 return flight to Riga that slotted neatly into those four days and all of a sudden my stomach started to flutter with the excitement of borderline reckless spontaneity. A couple of hours later the parents had been called, Ryanair tickets snapped up and a well-reviewed hostel booked. To add to my giddiness, I checked online for any local concerts (just as I had done for similar adventures in London and Dublin) and found exactly what I was looking for: a proper orchestra in a proper traditional venue playing proper classical music (none of that trashy Four Seasons rubbish I had attended in London). I excitedly rushed through the booking process so quickly I misinterpreted the Latvian-language webpages and accidentally bought tickets for the following night of LNSO’s tour, which would have involved a eight-hour return train journey across rural Latvia; even I conceded that was probably an adventure too far. Still, the prospect of the Riga concert was so perfect I wasn’t as fussed by the unnecessary financial contribution as I perhaps should have been.
Even though the most well-known fixture in the evening’s programme, Gustav Mahler’s Symphony No. 1 in D Major, was unfamiliar to me, the feeling of trepidation as I joined the crowds approaching the ornate, immaculate cube of the Great Guild was electrifying. This was no Brudenell Social Club: I was given a funny look when I asked a suited attendant whether the cloakroom was free (it was, and the Latvian bourgeoisie had plenty of thick winter coats to be stored despite the unseasonably warm weather) and the small, glossy bar seemed to exclusively serve expensive wines, so I decided trying for some Coke was a non-starter this time. Feeling out of place by the unusually lavish surroundings and the older, far more sophisticated and well dressed concert attendees all around, I eventually worked out where my seat was, acquired a programme and took my place, smiling politely to the old lady who seemed to say something in Russian to me as she settled down into the next seat along.
Concertgoers approach the Great Guild in Riga, home of the LNSO
I had picked a good seat given the relatively affordable ticket price, and had an aerial view of the huge orchestra from my balcony perch. Andris Dzenitis’ Preludium. Light, a warm up opener by a local Latvian composer who was in attendance, gave an intriguing introduction to the collective musical might of the scores of instruments in front of me. Strange and deeply atmospheric, the piece started and ended in a whisper, but built into successive waves of enormous tension. Trumpets and violins strained and squeezed themselves ever higher, the clashing semitones piercing through an accumulating, earthy rumble of timpani. The eventual, ear-splitting crash from the cymbals was a reminder to stop holding my breath with enthralled anticipation. The piece lacked a clear melodic direction, instead slowly ebbing and flowing like tides, transitioning from a subtly unsettling flute solo to hideous cacophony and back again, the higher instruments always within opposition with one another. The few moments a huge, decisive chord was agreed upon by the orchestra felt monumental. Above all, the prelude was an apt introduction to the sonic capabilities of a top class European symphonic orchestra; no other genre of music can even come close to the range of volume and emotion within the realms of the group in front of me. Most excitingly of all, the night had only begun.
Osokins was not the sort of pianist to miss an opportunity to pointedly flick back his coattails at the start of a more involved section.
I was fairly unfamiliar with his music, but it was somehow reassuring to hear fellow Brit Benjamin Britten making an impact so far from home with his 1938 BBC-commissioned Piano Concerto completing the first act. The musicians discreetly shrank in number for the less ambitiously orchestrated piece, allowing extra focus on Latvian pianist Andrejs Osokins, who gave an assured if somewhat ostentatious performance behind the keys. In fairness, flamboyance seemed to be exactly what Britten’s score called for, and Osokins’ fingers spent much of the thirty minutes blurrily fluttering up and down the keys, occasionally summoning pianistic thunder with a deft flick of the wrist when delving into the piano’s meaty lower register. There was a limited display of tenderness too, particularly in the intricate Impromptu, which was only appended by Britten seven years after the concerto’s original publication. Not the sort of pianist to miss an opportunity to pointedly flick back his coattails at the start of a more involved section, the attention was inevitably drawn to Osokins, although there was plenty to see and hear amongst his accompanists. Still a newcomer to the symphonic world, I was in awe of the comically large mute produced by the distant tuba section in the second movement, which returned in the finale to contribute to a regal march of horns. It was that final March that turned out to be the most orchestrally interesting too, with Osokins’ confidence finally finding its match in a muscular, pulsating final few minutes from the orchestra. A broad smile to the audience and the first of the night’s interminable applauses concluded an engaging first half. Despite the strong performances, it was clear the best was yet to come. Mingling amongst concertgoers during the break and wandering down the pristine corridors leading outside into the biting Baltic air, the sense of anticipation for the night’s main event was palpable. Leaving early was unthinkable.
Some attendees got some fresh air during the interval
Sitting on a bench in the picturesque Livu Square a few days prior, my pulse quickened as I read about the unfamiliar piece that would be the headline number on Friday night. As far as Tom Service was concerned, Mahler’s First Symphony was one of the greatest of all time, and a career high from a composer renowned for his groundbreakingly ambitious orchestral melodrama. I knew I was in for some “stunning symphonic shocks”, but Mahler’s First started, thrillingly, with a whisper. That spellbindingly quiet unison opening note – a seven-octave spread on A – provided the sort of magic that makes hairs stand on end when witnessed in the flesh. Exquisitely controlled, that initial drone provided a thin mist through which the symphony’s many memorable ideas gradually emerged. First came a slow, foreboding woodwind melody, then an incongruous brass fanfare that felt so atmospherically distant I briefly assumed the brass players were performing from a nearby practice room. An oboe gently mimicked a cuckoo above menacing low strings, its melody propogating out amongst the dozens of violins. Delicate pizzicato eventually established an image of cheery springtime forest in the early morning. It was of course entirely wordless, but the images conjured by this multifaceted first movement came to mind effortlessly. As the volume receded once more, a sublime, guttural long note from the tuba provided a seismic shift in mood towards the sinister before the movement built into its dazzlingly loud conclusion. Already, I was gripped.
The introduction of a mellifluous second theme in the oboes was so sublime a man beside me audibly gasped.
Part of the challenge with classical music is that, unlike pop, it requires a degree of effort from the listener to keep tabs on the various motifs as they are brought in and out of view in their many guises. However, sat in such a beautiful venue amongst other attentive listeners, getting familiar with the memorable, sprightly main theme of the second movement, for example, hardly felt like a challenge. It was at about this point that it became clear why Mahler had earnt a billing higher than that of Dzenitis and Britten; the intricacy of the exchanges between strings and brass in the opening felt more packed with detail than anything I’d heard all night, and the synchronicity of the strings in the bold, demanding scalic passages was spectacular, their bows rising and falling with the same breathtaking beauty of a densely-packed flock of starlings making a swift change in direction.
The third movement opened with one of the First Symphony’s most famous moments: a rare double bass solo outlining the tune of Frère Jacques in a haunting minor key. A chilling funeral march followed, made all the more grotesque by the repurposing of an innocent children’s nursery rhyme at its heart. The introduction of a mellifluous second theme in the oboes was so sublime a man beside me audibly gasped, prompting a furious shushing from a woman in the row in front. The skill in which Mahler twisted and manipulated that new melody, its sound echoing sonorously through the strings and deep brass before emerging high above in a shrill blast of flute and piccolo, was remarkable. Although technically the most straightforward movement and certainly the least outwardly theatrical, the third movement was one of the most compelling passages of the whole evening.
And so, the end was here. The fourth and final movement, it seemed, occupies a special status as one of the most spectacular finales in the history of music, and a monumental achievement from a composer renowned as a producer of classical at its loudest, stormiest, most earth-shattering. Fittingly, it began with a shocking crash of cymbals – a rude awakening immediately following the hushed finish of the third movement. The first three movements had been memorable in their own right, but if I was to leave the concert hall (and indeed, Latvia) with one lasting memory, it would be of the quite unbelievable 20 minutes that concluded the symphony. The three previously established main themes coalesced magnificently above the awesome din of 40-odd enraged violinists slaving away at their instruments, stray bow hairs flying wildly amidst the chaos. The monstrous passages were balanced by two delectable slow sections in which solemn low strings took the spotlight with a lugubrious melody. A final build into another apocalyptically loud section – evoking planets colliding or a battle between gods – was followed at last by fanfare and a rousing brass melody in a deeply triumphant major key. The sense of relief was so strong I still find myself welling up when I listen back to it.
The sense of relief was so strong I still find myself welling up when I listen back to it.
For a brief moment before that final chord the room was filled with nothing but percussion – timpani boiling over, a shimmering snare, the sparkle of a trilling triangle. The final note landed with a decisive thud, like the closing of an epic fantasy novel once and for all. A man behind gave an apparently involuntary shout of “bravo!” in the instant before we began clapping and cheering during a lengthy but deserved standing ovation. The LNSO had done it, and done it in style. A formidable masterpiece was over, and a precious memory had been made. Live music doesn’t get more magnificent than this.
Stuck in an under capacity students’ union and struggling to whip up excitement in the crowd, Cassia’s catalogue of uplifting indie pop tracks will have more successful airings than their trip to Newcastle. Patches of effervescent Mancunian calypso gave a taste of just how brilliant the trio could be.
Showing up to Newcastle University’s gloomy students’ union buildings an hour after doors opened for Cassia’s gig, the near silence on campus was a cause for concern. I had seen online earlier that there hadn’t even been enough ticket sales for the stocks to be marked as ‘low’ on the band’s website, and frontman Rob Ellis had taken to Instagram to remind any last fans in the city that there would indeed be plenty of tickets available on the door. After meeting friend Lily – who I hadn’t been to a gig with since the time we foolishly missed Wet Leg play as support act mere weeks before they became one of the biggest bands in the country – there were so few people we struggled to even find out where the actual venue was. Finding ourselves in an abandoned Co-op, I had to resort to asking a security guard for help.
Of course, there was little queueing when we did locate the venue, which turned out to be a rather uninspiring black box two storeys underground, with a barrier two metres in front of the stage ensuring there would be none of the can-practically-touch-them intimacy I love with small venues. A bar was plonked at the back and a large empty space out of view of the stage occupied one half of the room. There wasn’t even a glitterball. In fairness, the audience steadily grew as the night wore on, although not before two support acts had been and gone. For a relatively small band, you begin to hope that this tour will be financially worthwhile for the musicians.
It was a shame because Cassia produce the sort of joyful music that comes alive in front of a large, receptive audience. The band started out as a curiosity, selling themselves as a unique Mancunian calypso-pop band, bringing the carefree, sun-kissed sounds of the Caribbean home to the drizzly northwest. Since their easy-going debut Replica they’ve morphed into a more traditional indie pop boyband, delving into a trendy if somewhat overpopulated genre currently led by the likes of Foals and easy life. It’s true that in the process the band has lost a lot of their original flair and uniqueness, but the good news is that Cassia’s pop songs are often very solid with their litany of watertight hooks and lyrics that invariably look on the brighter side of life.
The current state of Cassia was well captured in set opener Drifting, a track that gently hummed away with its relaxed clean guitars and unobtrusive bass, plus a chorus good enough to get the handful of Cassia superfans at the front singing early. Do Right, with the typically heartening Cassia-esque lyric “do right and let the rest follow” at its centre, was even better but struggled to inspire much in a largely static crowd. Perhaps the fans were waiting for tracks from the latest album, but with Do Right‘s effortless vocalised hook and clattering cowbell, I found little to dislike in the song. Powerlines was less contentious thanks to Lou Cotteril’s muscular bassline that, amplified to concert volumes, resulted in a song one falsetto flourish from unadulterated funk. Ellis seemed to feel the funk too, launching into a quick guitar solo at the end and perhaps getting a little excited, tangling himself in knots with a fuzzy mess of indistinct twanging as he attempted a climax. The intricate instrumental jam section that followed offered a much better display of his skills, sounding pleasantly Parcels-like in his dexterity and tight connection with Cotteril.
A bit more of that spirit of experimentation would have helped add variety in a set where the band’s vast number easily digestible, upbeat pop songs slowly began to feel stale. Piano ballad Boundless was “Cassia’s one sad song” in Ellis’s words and was rolled out in Newcastle by necessity. Vaguely pretty and as inoffensive as the rest of the band’s tracks, it was inevitably talked over by the audience, although the delicate vocal harmonies were worth listening to. A mid-set slump promptly ensued. Cumbersomely titled 16-18 – Why You Lacking Energy? had potential on the album but fell flat in the flesh, Ellis’s scratchy guitar having none of the earthy bite that was required to help the track stand out from a set of smooth guitar pop. Other songs, like Dreams of My Past, might have gone by entirely unnoticed had Ellis not tried so hard to get the crowd somewhat involved, instructing us to clap along and throw our hands in the air at one point. As the band’s good tracks seemed to be running out and mid-track chatter amongst the crowd grew louder, Ellis asking “Newcastle, are we still there?” sounded perhaps more desperate than he’d intended.
Cassia built momentum towards the end of their set
The night wasn’t a complete lost cause, however, and the solution to the dullness turned out to be a return to Cassia’s calypso roots – exactly what separates Cassia from the mass of the UK’s other radio-friendly pop boybands. Moana, the band’s 2016 debut single, landed like a breath of fresh air, Ellis’s acrobatic guitar riffs as cheerful as morning birdsong over Jacob Leff’s gently simmering cauldron of bongos. The harmonies on the chorus were gorgeous and Cotterill’s energetic bassline was finally getting the crowd moving. Within seconds, teens clutching empty beer cups were aloft on the shoulders of friends, much to the disapproval of party pooping venue security staff. An exciting percussion break gradually introduced the delightful reggaeton of Small Spaces, perhaps early Cassia at their compositional finest. All of a sudden, keeping both feet still on the ground was very difficult indeed.
Momentum continued to build for a very strong finish. Right There, objectively the best of the pop side of Cassia’s discography, was given the late billing it deserved, and at last Ellis didn’t seem to have to try hard to get the room singing along for the song’s final build. The breakout hit 100 Times Over rounded off the evening and at last found a sweet spot neatly between calypso and pop. A song that I have returned to again and again over the years as a sure-fire mood booster, the effect was magnified in person, filling the room with very happy young music fans dancing the night away. “Freedom, it is all around me / Get up, sit down,” we sang together, hand gesturing accordingly. No Cassia song leaves quite the same residual feeling of joy as 100 Times Over, regardless of where you’re listening to it.
“Goodnight Newcastle, you’ve been unreal,” Ellis told us before skipping off stage with his bandmates. Had we, really? The trio had indeed figured out how to appease the NUSU crowd for the final fifteen minutes, but for much of the night Ellis’s showmanship had been tested, resulting in plenty of forced “make some noise” and “how we feeling?” moments that felt a little grating. True, it was a tough crowd, but some greater variety in the set list – some sort of meaningful way to break up the glut of samey mid-tempo pop songs – would have helped the show progress a little less precariously. Sunshine pop is all well and good, but unless the genre is absolutely nailed, a wider range of emotion is needed to add some more interest. A bigger, fuller, less utterly lifeless venue would help too. At the very least, next time they ought to book somewhere with a glitterball.
Bursting onto stage with trademark energy and buckets of charisma, when Sigrid found her stride in Newcastle she had the place well and truly bouncing. It was the more tender numbers that needed the most refinement.
Since arriving in the city two months ago, I’ve learnt one thing: Newcastle loves football. Walking through town on a Wednesday evening I soon found myself fighting against a thick swarm of many thousands of black and white shirts, bypassing overflowing pubs and cars plonked onto pavements presumably by fans who concluded the parking wardens must be going to the game too. It seemed a fair assumption, given that everywhere else outside the immediate vicinity of St. James’ Park was so eerily quiet. Even the streets leading up to O2 City Hall that I remembered had been so packed with punters when Declan McKenna was in town had no queue to speak of, and I breezed through the security and tickets checks in a matter of seconds. Inside I found what seemed to be the remaining few Geordies that had managed to pry themselves away from a Newcastle United home fixture for the sake of their chosen popstar. An hour before the evening’s two events took place, that crowd of outliers numbered only a few hundred.
Sigrid may not have been the biggest act in town, but sure enough the O2 City Hall filled up nicely as support act Tommy LeFroy’s set came and went. Like her Norwegian peer AURORA, Sigrid has found a second home over here in the UK, and a string of feel-good hits in recent years has earned her regular appearances in the UK Top 40 and popular repeat appearances at many of Britain’s biggest summer festivals. Where AURORA is an artsy and occasionally experimental Björk descendent, Sigrid deals squarely with no-nonsense, party-ready pop hits. At her best, her exuberant hooks and uplifting lyrical themes of love and self acceptance are easily good enough to overcome any need for added profundity; any critic who listens to sure fire pop bangers Strangers or Mirror and bemoans a lack of lyrical depth needs to go out more.
Sigrid hardly stood still all evening.
A huge part of what makes Sigrid such dynamite at those summer concerts is her radiant stage presence. Never one to stand still, her renowned tirelessness was in full display at Newcastle as she skipped from one side of the stage to the other, hopping on and off monitor speakers and boogieing alongside bandmates with more hip movement than a Strictly final. Her connection to the audience was ever present, often dishing out knowing winks or discreet waves mid-verse to specific concertgoers, invariably triggering an adorable little forest of arms vigorously waving back in the dizzying excitement of being looked in the eyes by Queen Sigrid. The result was a lovely, congenial atmosphere in the City Hall, as if the universally liked friend had gone up in karaoke to sing our favourite tunes along with us.
And, as karaoke singers go, Sigrid turns out to be a pretty great one. She was already belting out an unscripted high note in punchy opener It Gets Dark, her voice piercing and crystal clear, with a well judged hint of grit when the soaring melodies demanded it. Early highlight Mistake Like You also provided an example of Sigrid’s vocals at their genre-leading best, and a dynamic performance from her backing band helped elevate the ballad well beyond its lacklustre studio recording. By far most extraordinary aspect of Sigrid’s performance was how well she managed to keep the standard of vocals so consistently strong in spite of all her onstage athletics. Attempting to sing along to the hits whilst bouncing along in the crowd, I can vouch that breath control like that takes serious skill, and far from all popstars possess it.
It helped too that Sigrid’s band are not your typical karaoke backing track, and clever edits often turned good songs into great ones. A deserved reprise of It Gets Dark‘s deliciously scratchy guitar solo gave guitarist Sondre Berg Abrahamsen – who spent much of the night humbly lurking in the shadows of stage left – a few more glorious seconds to twiddle away till his heart’s content, and the crowd rightly lapped it up. Burning Bridges, the finest example of Sigrid’s punchy, 80s-hinting brand of pop, had an even more surprising edit with a new outro driven by a pummelling techno synth. A track blessed with an anthemic chorus and a sensational strings melody, placing Burning Bridges at track two of the evening set a very high bar that was never quite overcome for the remainder of the show.
Sigrid took to the piano for a selection of acoustic ballads
Her opening numbers may have been a bit too good for her own good, but the momentum was never completely lost. Even the piano ballads at the show’s heart offered a nice change of pace, and Sigrid’s choice to accompany herself on piano, alone under the spotlight, added a degree of drama and earnestness on a night of straightforward pop earworms. Dynamite was poignant but a simplified piano part made it rather unmemorable, and follow up three-chorder Bad Life lacked any of the songwriting or lyrical quality necessary to stand up to the scrutiny of the solo piano treatment. Drab and trite throughout, the song remains easily her most overrated. The inclusion of Bring Me the Horizon’s clichéd pop punk guitars found on the original would at least have added an iota of interest. Unremarkable Dancer followed and lacked an emotional climax for it to stand out amongst the pack of similar pop songs. Sucker Punch was more warmly greeted by fans but – let’s admit it – its verse, with its bumbling, unintentionally comical synth bass and cheap-feeling drum machine, already feels hopelessly dated. Perhaps the song belongs to an era of pop that sounds deeply uncool now but will be in vogue once the early 2010s sound begins to be considered ‘retro’, but, listening in the year 2022, something about Sucker Punch just doesn’t quite work.
Luckily there was still plenty of safer hits in Sigrid’s locker to deploy in a breathless final few tracks. Don’t Feel Like Crying was a quintessential Sigridian self empowerment anthem and surely a direct offspring of Call Me Maybe with its sprightly strings chords. Old faithful Strangers was improved further with some monumental fills from Kasper Waag, who was enjoying his best moments of an outstanding overall performance behind the drum kit. Even relatively unknown encore track Grow was a success, serving as Sigrid’s most affecting love song by far. “Take me anywhere… I’m home,” we sang together softly under the light of our own phone torches, Sigrid’s hips no longer gyrating but instead swaying gently to the reassuring lilt of the acoustic guitar. Basking in the warm glow emanating from behind Sigrid, the only disappointment was that the ballad had to eventually draw to a close.
Unquestionably the song of her career so far, flawless pop smash Mirror was the only choice for the evening’s set closer. “I love who I see looking at me in the mirror” was Sigrid’s simple but effective self love philosophy distilled into the perfect chorus hook, and a wonderfully uplifting mantra to live by. Unfathomably still with plenty of dancing energy left in the tank, Sigird’s passion had those in the stalls jumping up from their seats and bobbing along with the rest of us amidst a dazzling multicolour light show.
Mirror marked a triumphant finish to a somewhat imbalanced performance. Nonetheless, the buzz of deeply satisfied fans in the room after Sigrid had left the stage was heart-warming. Squeezing onto a packed double decker on my journey home was one of the more brutal returns to reality after a gig I’ve experienced. Thickly-woollened men thoughtfully discussed why exactly Miguel Almiron didn’t take that penalty whilst scantily clad young women loudly replayed endless recordings of the Sigrid back catalogue on their phones. So, which was the more fulfilling occasion, an uplifting night dancing the world away to the tune of rejuvenating self affirmation or a 0-0 draw with Crystal Palace? For me, it’s a no-brainer.
Just in time for the end of 2022, it’s time to complete our countdown of Undertone’s top songs of the year.
20.Got Weird
from Hot Mess by dodie (pop)
I’m wary of giving in to bias on this one. dodie was here last year with I Kissed Someone (It Wasn’t You), and the year before with Cool Girl, and was also responsible for one of my favourite gigs of all time, even if I find her music often a little saccharine and lacking in a certain oompf. But this song, I insist, deserves some attention. After years of making do with flawed-but-fun In the Middle, July’s Got Weird at last ended the wait for a genuinely danceable dodie song with a strong backbeat. The production is meticulous (new tiny elements of percussion and little vocal interjections are revealed with every repeat listen) and the chorus hook is one of her strongest to date. dodie’s development as an artist is showing no sign of slowing, and whilst Got Weird isn’t quite top ten material, there’s no denying she’s getting closer.
Also listen: Hot Mess
19.Wishbone
from Incantation by Emma Rawicz (jazz)
20-year-old jazz newcomer Emma Rawicz didn’t pick up a tenor saxophone until she was 16. Listening to her assertive solo in the bold and brilliant Wishbone – a jazz fusion number that proudly announced herself onto the UK jazz stage in May – that fact seems beyond belief. The song’s agile but catchy head is delivered by Rawicz (and, importantly, a crisp electric guitar) with all the confidence and panache of someone twice her age. A concise solo packs an even more impressive punch, Rawicz’s tone enjoyably blunt-edged and vibrato-free. By far the most impressive aspect of Wishbone, however, is the quality of the composition. Shifting chords sit naturally with a busy drum part, and Rawicz’s engaging melody ties it all together very nicely. A gripping drum solo at the end also makes for a satisfyingly no-nonsense finale of her debut album. With a starting point as great as Wishbone, big things seem to be ahead for 2022’s brightest rising star in British jazz.
Also listen: Voodoo
18.Esperanza
by Hermanos Gutiérrez (latin, ambient)
Like many of the more obscure artists I’ve discovered over the past year, the Gutiérrez brothers found me in an unexpected place – specifically an independent coffe shop in Ullapool (that is, their music through a speaker, not the Swiss-Ecuadorian musicians themselves, who I would assume are infrequent visitors to the far north of Scotland). It turned out to be a good place to discover Esperanza, a hypnotic, strangely affecting guitar duet that would serve as a quite magnificent soundtrack to the scenic car journeys through remote Scotland in the days to come. The song possesses all the beauty and tranquility of a long, pleasantly uneventful drive through endless hills or, as María Medem’s companion animation vividly portrays, a surreally sparse desert. The musical chemistry of the two brothers is a big part of the song’s success. It’s often difficult to pick out one guitar from another, and the intricacy of the plucking ensures there’s plenty to listen to even as the final, haunting refrain settles into its many meditative repeats. Whether on a physical road trip or not, to listen to Hermanos Gutiérrez is to be taken on a powerfully visceral musical journey. I’ve never heard anything like it.
Also listen: Tres Hermanos is the highlight from the duo’s strong recent album El Bueno Y El Malo, which continues in much the same vain as Esperanza.
17.Victory Dance
from Where I’m Meant To Be by Ezra Collective (latin jazz)
UK jazz frontrunners Ezra Collective have been flirting with latin jazz for a while, but they took the plunge spectacularly earlier this year with raucous samba track Victory Dance. Beyond Ife Ogunjobi’s radiant trumpet solo, it’s pianist Joe Armon-Jones who steals the show by providing one of the performances of his career, charging up and down the keys with characteristically spiky cluster chords. It culminates, as all good piano solos should, with multiple glissandos and passages so mind-blowingly rapid at one point the solo threatens to unravel completely. Armon-Jones just about stays on top of it all in time for a nut-tight horns hook to see the song out. Ezra Collective remain at the peak of their powers no matter what genre that have a crack at (2020’s hip hop-styled Dark Side Riddim was equally brilliant), and as a contemporary British jazz keyboardist, Armon-Jones is virtually unmatched.
Also listen: Ego Killah, Siesta
16.Dream Girl Evil
from Dance Fever by Florence + The Machine (rock)
Choosing a song from Florence Welch’s sixth and quite possibly best album was one of the harder decisions I’ve had to make for this list. For now, I’ll go for brooding Fleetwood Mac stomper Dream Girl Evil. Here, Welch’s sheer power both as a vocalist and lyricist are at their clearest. “At least you’ll sanctify me when I’m dead,” she wails to cue an army of female backing singers that contribute to the song’s snowballing menace. The formidable “I am nobody’s moral centre!” – accompanied a magnificent bass fill – is perhaps the most spine-tingling ten seconds of the whole album.
Also listen: subtle opener King concludes with musical fireworks; instant dance-pop classic My Love always seemed destined to be Dance Fever‘s biggest commmercial hit, and rightly so.
15.Concrete Over Water
from I Love You Jennifer B by Jockstrap (electronic)
Duo Jockstrap achieved the most uncategorisable album of the year with the dauntingly multifaceted I Love You Jennifer B, a feverish collection of bizarre musical beasts that delivered a sonic gut punch when I saw them live on a memorable autumn night. Concrete Over Water is as good a representative as any for the work, and exposes why even a label as vague as ‘electronic’ doesn’t quite fit here: a lo-fi acoustic piano bridge is intensely personal and Georgia Ellery’s impressionistic lyrics are some of the most strikingly beautiful I’ve heard all year. It culminates in a strange stomp of stuttering snares and Taylor Skye’s ethereal synth arpeggios, soon joined by an equally extraterrestrial violin melody. In the end, it’s nigh on impossible to distill everything that makes Concrete Over Water so brilliantly unique into a handful of sentences. Like the rest of this terrific debut album, this is a song that must be heard to be believed.
Also listen: Greatest Hits and What’s It All About could so easily be good, simple pop and folk songs respectively, but instead Jockstrap’s idiosyncratic electronic manipulations lift them to a higher artistic level. Hellish Debra and 50/50 are only for those familiar with what they’re letting themselves in for.
14.Just a Game from Lucky Me by Phoebe Green (pop)
It’s been a big year for indie pop upstart Phoebe Green, who’s daringly original debut album Lucky Me earned deserved critical acclaim. In the middle of it all, Just A Game crashes into gear with a thump of cymbals and cowbell, and continues with much the same conviction. The two-part vocal harmonies are effortlessly pulled off and Green is just as on the money in spoken, confessional interludes. Just A Game manages to sound both deeply personal yet expansive and inescapably moving. “I don’t want to be in love until I know it’s worth my time,” Green tells us amongst a swirl of soaring synths. It’s this flash self-confidence – by no means abundant in the rest of the album – that helps Just A Game shine higher than anything else Green has produced to date.
Also listen: Crying in the Club
13.Blame It on the Water
from Sir Woman by Sir Woman (pop, soul)
Everything about Sir Woman’s Blame It on the Water oozes quality modern soul music, from the tasteful backing vocals to the squirty synths and deliciously funky bass. Kelsey Wilson may have just transitioned away from the world of folk and county as part of Glorietta, but she seems to have no qualms leading the charge for a large and varied band on this number. Underpinning it all is, of course, faultless songwriting, plus a titular hook so intuitive you can practically sing it as soon as you’ve read the song name. A piano-led breakdown in the bridge ensures Sir Woman sticks the landing.
Also listen: Party City is similarly easy to love.
12.This Is Why by Paramore (rock, post punk)
The return of much-loved, now rather nostalgic pop punk favourites Paramore was always bound to be a much talked-about event, but the sheer quality of this comeback single, This Is Why, triggered giddy mania amongst the many thousands of Paramore superfans around the world. Delightfully, the sound of This Is Why is quite clearly distinct from the band’s previous hits. Gone is the now dated pop punk (essentially anthemic pop songs but faster and louder) in favour of the trendier post punk: slinky, minimalist grooves and smarter, sharper choruses. This Is Why‘s chorus in particular packs one hell of a punch, with Hayley Williams’ gang vocals slotting in between a choppy guitar riff like a jigaw piece. There’s a few signs of the Paramore of old: a playful synth shimmer towards the end harks back to Hard Times, and Williams impassioned vocals are no less potent than on old classics such as Misery Business or Still into You. But make no mistake, this is not the Paramore of the 2000s. The big hits may be great, but what lies on the horizon for Paramore may be even better.
Also listen: The News
11.Angel from Palomino by First Aid Kit (folk rock)
First Aid Kit was one of the many bands I discovered whilst glued to my TV on a glorious Glastonbury weekend. It was good timing ahead of their fifth album, which wasn’t short of highlights: the anthemic bliss of Out of My Head, the unmissable narrative three-chord country romp A Feeling That Never Came; charming folk chugger Turning Onto You. It was lead single Angel, that resonated with me the most. Featuring a gorgeous melody perfect for sunset drives home across the countryside, in Angel Swedish sisters Johanna and Klara Söderberg solidified themselves as queens of the two-part vocal harmony, their voices blending with an ease only siblings can pull off. The song comes off as a bittersweet but ultimately liberating admission of unrequieted love. “I love you, even if you don’t love me,” Johanna sings plaintively before a quite glorious trumpet solo takes over. There’s a strong undercurrent of melancholy throughout Angel but in the end this song is an unavoidably joyful piece of self-expression.
Also listen: A Feeling That Never Came, Out of My Head, Turning Onto You
10.CUFF IT from RENAISSANCE by Beyoncé (pop, soul)
As the album of the year lists keep coming its becoming increasingly difficult to find something new to say about Beyoncé’s seventh high-budget, chart-storming studio album. It was arguably the biggest cultural moment in pop this year, and the name recognition of Beyoncé wasn’t the only reason behind the clamour this album generated. A bold change in direction towards the world of dance music in all its forms, RENAISSANCE‘s tracks wove into one another brilliantly, Beyoncé serving up EDM, house and even hyperpop with equal mastery. Exhilarating hit CUFF IT was the album’s soul offering and had my hairs standing on end with excitement when I heard it on a first listen through of the album on a long, jet-lagged night in Bangkok last summer. Principally CUFF IT is home to a glut of superb funk bass lines which only grow more emphatic as the song develops. Beyoncé’s vocals – as world class as ever – ensure momentum is never lost, and every little addition (sublime group backing vocals, a gleeful horns section, a squelchy rhythm guitar) is mixed in with the precision of an artist of unmatched pop pedigree. A perfectly good chorus is ditched after just two outings, but the riveting funk jam that arrives in its place makes such reckless regard to traditional pop song structure more than excusable. CUFF IT, along with it’s eye-watering 300 million streams, has repositioned Beyoncé at the very top of modern pop. She’s never sounded funkier.
Also listen: PLASTIC OFF THE SOFA, VIRGO’S GROOVE, BREAK MY SOUL
9.Still Feeling You from COUCH by Couch (pop)
If writing a good pop song was a box ticking exercise, then Couch have all their bases covered with Still Feeling You. The band are fresh out of various music colleges across the US, and it’s a song that has all the hallmarks of being written by an enthusiastic, very capable student of music. There’s a contrasting pre-chorus, trendy anti-chorus, clever harmonic shifts and even a strikingly knotty big band-led bridge. The ingredients of success are all there, but Tema Siegel still holds nothing back vocally, in particular by belting out a phenomenal high note after the bridge that still sounds spine-tingling on the hundredth listen. It’s a challenge to find anything to fault here. Still Feeling You is ambitious in its relative complexity, but the execution couldn’t have been more nailed.
Also listen: Saturday
8.Leader of the Pack
from Cub by Wunderhorse (rock)
Within five seconds of hearing Wunderhorse’s Leader of the Pack last October I knew I had a top ten contender on my hands. The song opens with the grittiest guitar hook I’ve heard all year; the sort of hook so simple yet brilliant it makes you wonder why no one has written it before. Newquay-based Jacob Slater gets stuck in with an growling, distorted vocal performance good enough to launch his career towards the mainstream. Slater can’t resist the temptation to throw in a screaming, old school classic rock guitar solo towards the end, and the end result is a spectacular piece of loud, dirty, crowd-pleasing rock ‘n’ roll.
Also listen: Teal
7.When You Know You Know
from Expert In A Dying Field by The Beths (rock)
Standing in front of the Beths in a underfilled Brudenell Social Club in Leeds, I heard their soon-to-be-released A Real Thing and got worried. It was their first big misfire in a while, including an ungainly, awkwardly choppy chorus that simply didn’t work. As a first taste of an upcoming third album, it was disappointing. By the time September had rolled around, however, a Kiwi indie rock miracle was upon us. With A Real Thing apparently ditched from the tracklist, Expert In A Dying Field was unquestionably the best album the Beths have released to date: packed with cracking singalong choruses, versatile and hooky songwriting and more face-melting guitar solos than you could shake a Brudenell homemade pasty at. Pleasingly straightforward hit When You Know You Know was my pick with its clever melodies often accompanied by silky backing vocals. Jonathan Pearce’s concise guitar solo is also a joy before Elizabeth Stokes charges another rollicking chorus. Almost right under our noses – and annoyingly right after I saw their middling live show – the Beths have reinvented themselves. My tickets for their next UK tour have already been bought, and with material as strong as When You Know You Know now at their disposal they are bound to tear the roof off.
Also listen: thrashing A Passing Rain has the Beths’ punkiest chorus to date; Knees Deep, Head In The Clouds, Your Side and I Told You That I Was Afraid all feature Stokes at the peak of her songwriting powers.
6.The Loneliest Time from The Loneliest Time by Carly Rae Jepsen feat. Rufus Wainwright (pop, disco)
While Carly Rae Jepsen has never been doubted by the critics, a long time have passed since genuinely iconic hit Call Me Maybe, her first and arguably only global hit. That finally changed in 2022 with the pitch perfect disco track The Loneliest Time. The magic’s in the sprightly strings parts (incidentally arranged by former Cory Wong collaborator Cody Fry), as well as the irrestible vocal chemistry between Jepsen and fellow Canadian Rufus Wainwright. That’s not to mention the TikTok viral bridge, which is enormous fun and will no doubt be screamed by the superfans (myself included) when Jepsen rocks up to Leeds Academy in a little over a month. “And in the morning sun hits the water / Is this nirvana?” they sing in harmony to mark a stunningly beautiful coda. Carly Rae Jepsen’s latest pop smash may not amount to spiritual enlightenment, but it’s not far off.
Also listen: Talking to Yourself, Beach House
5.FAMILY VAN from BUMMER by cleopatrick (rock)
FAMILY VAN is a rock song not for the faint of heart. Heard in its natural habitat from a sweaty mosh pit in Leeds last March, it sounded apocalyptic. Genius production has a big part to play here: there’s only one guitar, but the deafening bridge sounds like an army of rockstars, and Ian Fraser’s kick drum is never anything but chest-poundingly explosive. Frontman Luke Gruntz channels his rage through heavy vocal distortion, at one point his vocals so angry he can hardly finish an expletive ridden sentence before the cacophony engulfs him. FAMILY VAN isn’t just raw noise either. Gruntz’s lurching opening riff is nicely repurposed throughout, most effectively in an awesomely triumphant finale. Fraser is shrewd behind the drum kit, saving his earth-shattering fills for the big moments and delivering an impressive whirlwind of cymbals in that remarkable bridge. Music can be a vessel for all emotions, and FAMILY VAN is unequivocal about which one it attempts to recreate: this is pure, unadulterated fury, delivered in its most potent form.
Also listen: GOOD GRIEF, OK
4.They Gave Me A Lamp
from Every Valley by Public Service Broadcasting feat. Haiku Salut (art rock)
I was lucky enough to come across intriguing Derbyshire ambient trio Haiku Salut at a small venue in York last May, and since then I’ve been hooked on the delightful They Gave Me A Lamp. It’s a song helmed by Public Service Broadcasting, a band that have made a name for themselves by setting evocative historial soundbites to music. Fascinating album Every Valley covers the rise and fall of the Welsh mining industry, and They Gave Me A Lamp specifically looks at the issue from a feminist slant, following one woman who describes being undervalued in the jobs she is assigned. It’s an incredibly niche premise for a song, but even if you let the moving interview recordings wash over you, there’s something unmistakbly powerful about the musical accompaniment. Trumpets, guitars and glockenspiel weave around one another, rising and falling in sync before a chugging bass guitar heralds an inspiring fanfare finale. With the endearing vocals on top of it all, They Gave Me A Lamp makes for a spellbinging artistic package.
Also listen: All Out covers the miners’ strikes, and sounds about as brutal and earthy as you could hope for.
3.I’m Happy You’re Here
by Ugly (alt rock)
Coming in at just over eight minutes, I’m Happy You’re Here is a song that rewards patience. For the most part, tension is built slowly and carefully. Samuel Goater’s vocals are nervy and introspective, and over an unsettled chord progression and ghostly backing vocals his baritone is a commanding presence. “I’ve come a long way to destroy you,” he warbles at one point like an anime character preparing for the final boss as electric guitars threaten to cut loose. The set up is exquisite, but the payoff is even more so: an electrifying new hook, rapid, stuttering drums and an unbelievable saxophone solo that tails off into the stratosphere.
Fresh Cambridge alt rock outfit Ugly have only just embarked on their careers, but I’m Happy You’re Here is an inimitable piece of art and a quite staggering achievement for a band that only have an EP of jangly punk three-minuters to their name. The song provides an instrumental depth that’s not supposed to come from a ragtag-looking bunch of university students whose gigging tours are yet to head much further north than Bedford. The verses are imbued with all sorts of sonic wonders: an eery, distant honky tonk piano, an unnervingly sudden intake of breath, a wispy high-frequency synth, some sort of exotic bird call. In the end it’s all pulled together in a denoument that evokes a grand Shakespearean tragedy. Like Hamlet, I’m Happy You’re Here may takes its time to reach a conclusion, but embrace the undercurrent of strangeness and stick with it. I promise the final act makes it all worthwhile.
Also listen: spiritual followup single Sha is a much less experimental chamber rock track, but just as effective in getting its hook lodged in your head.
2.Hold Me Closer
by Cornelia Jakobs (pop)
Cornelia Jakobs may have finished a disappointing fourth in the 2022 Eurovision Song Contest, but her song deserved so much more. Hold Me Closer is a devastating reflection on doomed love, with Jakob’s pained, smoky vocals an ideal match for lines as heartbreaking as “I found the right one at the wrong time, but until the sunrise, hold tight”. Critics at the time said Hold Me Closer was too much a typical Swedish pop entry, lacking in any ambition to extend beyond the familiar constraints of the commercial middle-of-the-road crowdpleaser. Sure, Hold Me Closer is not lacking in traditional pop tropes, but every single one is executed with undeniable perfection. Synths may fill out the choruses, but they sound not tacky but propulsive, creating a swell of emotion behind Jakobs. The bridge is concise enough to comply with the ESC’s three minute constraints, but still provides a precipituous crescendo to get the confetti cannons firing in earnest. On paper the lyrics are trite and saccharine, but sung with the passion and heartbreak that exudes Jakobs, every word is crushingly believable. I have no qualms saying Hold Me Closer musically trumps Ukraine’s victorious Stefania and even the UK’s high-scoring Space Man in virtually every category, but alas Cornelia didn’t quite land the biggest crown in European music. Perhaps inevitably, it seems a case of the right song at the wrong time.
Also listen: Fine is a just as emotional but more intimate and intiguing ballad; Late Night Stories was the best I could find from Jakobs’ back catalogue.
1.Concorde
from Ants From Up There by Black Country, New Road (chamber rock)
“I was made to love you, can’t you tell?!” Isaac Wood begs at one point during Concorde. It’s a lyric that neatly sums up Black Country, New Road‘s masterpiece in Ants From Up There, an album that runs like a contemporary Tennyson’s Maud as an analysis of one man’s doomed and completely unreciprocated obsession with a woman, all told from the perspective of the unreliable narrator. The February release has since become my very own obsession. Not one song on Ants From Up There from the Cambridge septet fails to pack a punch, and the outstanding musicianship (Lewis Evans and Georgia Ellery make for a memorable partnership on saxophone and violin respectively) plus Wood’s deeply personal and often bizarre lyrical style had me returning to Ants From Up There again and again and again throughout the year. For this list the difficulty was not in whether a song from Ants From Up There would be a winner, but which one.
I’ve settled for Concorde, which seems as good a representative as any for the album, with the title one of the album’s most memorable recurring metaphors. Concorde is an ever-shifting composition, with Luke Mark’s reassuring guitar riff leading the way. The choruses build and fall and build again like waves, coloured by a plucking mandolin and Evans’ evocative rising saxophone melody. The final build into an extraordinary instrumental section – starting with the hum of Tyler Skye’s lone bass guitar – is as stupendous as they get. “Concorde and I die free this time!” Wood yells with deluded triumph, rounding off a lyric sheet that would quite easily be dived into and mined for nuggets of metaphorical insight by any enthusiastic student of literature. Now in the knowledge of Wood’s abrupt departure from the band in the days before the album’s release, it’s a line that makes for uneasy, but gripping, listening. Perhaps Wood simply put too much of himself into his music. Perhaps such frank and poetic outpouring of emotion became too much for him. With a song as formidable as this one, who could blame him?
Also listen: Good Will Hunting is almost a normal rock song (and one of the few songs barely under five minutes), and a brilliant rock song at that; beautiful, lilting The Place Where He Inserted the Blade also deserved top spot; mind-blowing art rock epic Basketball Shoes‘ reputation preceeds itself – whatever you do, cherish that first listen.
It’s time once more to run through Undertone’s 40 favourite songs of the year. As ever, it’s a list that’s been meticulously – almost obsessively – curated over the course of 2022, with each song’s position chosen by a combination of rigid methodology (in this case, dozens of randomised one-to-one comparisons with other songs) and subjective emotional pull; the top songs are invariably the ones that resonated with me for reasons music and lyrics alone can’t explain. The rules are the same as before: no covers or live performances and strictly one song per album, even if chosing the best song on certain albums can trigger a week of lost sleep. Unlike more professional lists from critics, this collection of songs reflects my personal consumption of music this last year and I have made no attempt to identify the best music globally released in 2022, since I simply don’t have the time or patience to digest the vast amount of new music there is to enjoy in any given year. Instead this list simply reflects the best music I’ve become aware of this past year. Most, but not all, songs in this list were released in 2022.
This post covers positions 40 to 21. Check back on the blog next Friday for my favourite 20 songs of 2022.
40.About Damn Time
from Special by Lizzo (pop, disco)
With its throbbing bass line and a second verse smooth enough to send TikTok into a frenzy, Lizzo’s most recent pop smash made a strong case for 2022’s song of the summer. She may have tipped her toe into the enticing waters of the new disco zeitgeist with unavoidable 2019 breakout hit Juice, but About Damn Time was Lizzo going all in. Virtually every box on the disco bingo card is checked – a Nile Rodgers rhythm guitar, a purring slap bass, a titular vocal hook so simple a two-year-old could sing it back after hearing it once. There’s plenty of fun beyond the box ticking too, namely in a silly but effective flute hook undoubtedly performed by Lizzo herself. About Damn Time is a song that will be lighting up dancefloors the world over for many years to come.
Also listen: 2 Be Loved (Am I Ready)
39.Carta
from Marchita by Silvana Estrada (folk, singer-songwriter)
Silvana Estrada’s beautiful Marchita is the sort of album that deserves to be sat down with on a quiet Sunday afternoon and given your full attention. The Mexican songstress’s earthy, strikingly delicate sophomore release is beautiful from start to finish, her pristine acoustic compositions sounding as delicate as finely-crafted origami. It’s an album not short on solemn, introspective moments (album closer La Enfermedad Del Siglo constitutes a quite breathtaking trombone solo), but lilting, uptempo number Carta is perhaps Estrada shining at her brightest. Her exceptional vocals as clear and refreshing as sunshine, Estrada performance is a joy to behold over a charming accompaniment of acoustic guitar and double bass, plus the occasional lyrical cello intermission. Endearingly understated, Carta may not demand your attention like the big rock tracks in this list, but within the quietness is a beauty few artists can conjure.
Also listen: La Enfermedad Del Siglo, Sabré Olvidar
38.Prosecco
by Rachel Maria Cox (pop)
It’s a shame Aussie alt-pop singer Rachel Maria Cox has yet to find her followup hit after this sure-footed disco-pop number that came out back in 2019. A big, big song helped by an uninhibited vocal performance, it’s difficult to fault Cox’s bold chorus hook, and the competing forces of cowbell, synth, bass and guitar in the verses are well managed. Topped by a phenomenally effective bridge, the hope is that Cox’s career will progress one day to decent-sized gigs where this dance track will surely find a receptive audience.
37.Hold U
from Any Shape You Take by Indigo De Souza (indie pop)
Listening to Indigo De Souza’s enjoyably gritty alt rock album Any Shape You Take late last year, there must have been a part of me that stopped listening by the time I reached Hold U at track eight. It was summer 2022 by the time I gave Hold U another chance to discover it was like nothing else on the album. De Souza’s vocals, previously ragged with intense emotion, were softened for one track only, allowing for an enticing indie pop track imbued with intricate guitar lines and the gentle hum of an electric organ. The song deserves its place on this list for the ingenious mid-chorus groove entry alone, but beyond that point momentum is never lost. “It’s gonna be alright,” she reminds us with refreshing chipperness, before unleashing a series of exquisite high notes in an expansive finale. It’s such an effective genre switch that it makes you wonder why De Souza chose to make a name for herself with jangly guitar chords and yelped vocals about death. With a song like Hold U, however, I won’t be complaining.
Also listen: Pretty Pictures, Die/Cry
36.Sidelines
by Phoebe Bridgers (indie pop)
After releasing one of the albums of 2020 with the mult-faceted masterwork Punisher, Phoebe Bridgers returned in style this year with Sidelines, which sees her as subtly brilliant as ever. A downcast melody meets a gently muffled drum machine halfway through, and the tasteful strings throughout complement Bridgers’ pristine vocals perfectly. It’s a song in no hurry to reach a firm conclusion, instead choosing to languish in melancholy and give Bridgers’ gorgeous lyrics room to breathe. There’s a depth of emotion here that Bridgers is a real specialist in tapping into. “Nothing makes me cry,” she tells us at one point, seemingly wishing she had more emotion. Many listening to a song as affecting as this may well feel the opposite.
Also listen: Bridgers’ most recent addition to a series of charming Christmas songs, So Much Wine
35.Rock Bottom
by Mathilda Homer (indie pop)
Rock Bottom is the best song of Londoner Mathilda Homer’s still-blossoming career so far. It’s in that memorable chorus where Homer’s smoky vocals are at their strongest, the melody stretching into her upper range and allowing for an outburst of emotion that propels the track forward. The gradual inclusion of a spacey lead guitar and shimmering synth add some pathos to this self-assured pop track, and by the final minute the feeling of catharsis is palpable. Surely even bigger hits await for Homer.
34.Law Hill
from Forest Floor by Fergus McCreadie (jazz)
Highland-born jazz pianist burst onto the scene this year with Forest Floor, a dazzling jazz trio debut that landed him a spot on the Mercury Prize shortlist. Infused with the immediacy of folk melodies but still providing plenty for seekers of wild, extended improvised solos, Forest Floor is an engaging listen and restless opener Law Hill is perhaps the most interesting track of the bunch. It features an outstanding performance from McCreadie, who launches into a blistering solo, somehow staying on top of the rapid, ever-shifting groove provided by David Bowden and Stephen Henderson on bass and drums. The track concludes spectacularly with a stuttering, Snarky-Puppy-esque riff that gives Henderson the freedom to whip up an enthralling storm of drums and cymbals. It’s an ambitious way to open your debut album, but this risk has marvelously paid off.
Also listen: The Unforrowed Field, Glade
33.After All
from God Save the Animals by Alex G (singer-songwriter, pop)
Now deeply experienced singer-songwriter Alex G came out with perhaps the album of his career in 2022 with God Save the Animals, and After All is a good introduction to his haunting blend of vocal manipulation and electronics with a more traditional band set up. An understated but expertly composed and produced track, Alex G shifts up a gear for a soaring chorus melody in which his squeaky, echoing vocals manage to highlight the strength of the melody rather than serve as a distraction. Like the album that follows, After All is a curious piece, but one that reveal more and more of its magic with every listen.
Also listen: Runner, Forgive
32.BASEMENT
from MAYBE IN ANOTHER LIFE… by easy life (pop)
After years of pumping out consistently catchy pop numbers and delivering memorable performances at festivals up and down the country, Leicester five-piece easy life now find themselves firmly in the position of one of Gen Z’s most beloved boy bands. Heavy funk party-starter BASEMENT was my pick from a strong batch of songs from the most recent album. Murray Matravers’ coolly under-sung vocals are a fitting match for a song with this much menace, and a wonderful choice of squirty synth for the chorus hook sounds like something pulled straight out of the Doctor Who theme. It’s songs like this that fuel my excitement to see them live next February: surely that bass line belting out of the bulky O2 City Hall speaker system will be electrifying.
Also listen: CALLING IN SICK, OTT, MORAL SUPPORT
31.Party Trick
from Marginalia by ella jane (pop)
ella jane realised her full potential with Marginalia, in particular with Party Trick, which shows her creative approach to modern pop at its finest. A retro-leaning synth chugs away like a idling motorbike in the chorus, providing some interesting texture underneath a hooky chorus. A bridge topped by a simple but effective drum fill seals the deal nicely. Pop songs that follow the same outline as Party Trick have undoubtedly been written before, but rarely are they delivered with this much creative flair.
Also listen: Time On, I Wanna
30.Cure For Me
from The Gods We Can Touch by AURORA (pop)
During a lovely evening with AURORA at Leeds’ O2 Academy in April, Cure For Me was the most successful performance of the night, and predictably so. No AURORA song distills her infectious sense of fun quite so clearly. A slightly silly three-note synth riff leads the charge for a rowdy chorus packed with plenty enough percussion to get any concert hall of fans bouncing along enthusiastically. The message – who you are is not something that needs to be fixed or ‘cured’ – is simple and effective, and the a big dramatic crescendo in the bridge somehow manages to intensify the joy even further.
Also listen: A Temporary High, Blood In The Wine
29.Las Panteras
from Let the Festivities Begin! by Los Bitchos (cumbia)
One-of-a-kind cumbia four-piece Los Bitchos delivered one of my favourite gigs of the year when they visited Newcastle in September with a set stuffed to bursting with irrestibly danceable grooves and exquisite guitar hooks that sounded more anthemic with every repeat. Las Panteras tore the roof off on the night and that energy is well-bottled in its studio cut, which features an exhilarating build after a tempo change half way through. It’s not overly complicated, nor – like all of Los Bitchos’ music – does it have any lyrics to muddy the picture. Las Panteras is simply a joy from start to finish. These days listening to it takes me right back to that wonderful night.
Also listen: The Link Is About to Die, Pista (Fresh Start)
28.KEEP IT UP
from WHO CARES? by Rex Orange County (pop)
Mentioning anything about Alex O’Connor is not as striaghtforward as it once was. In October it emerged that the immensely popular British songwriter, who had gained himself an image of the winsome, endearingly introverted indie lad, had been accused of six counts of sexual assault, provoking intense discussion about the state of his career and the familiar conundrum of whether the music of a disgraced star still deserves to be listened to. Seemingly much less talked-about was the dropping of all these charges just this week, and so fortunately appreciating his pop is no longer so controversial. It’s just as well because it had been such a promising year for the star with the release of his fourth album, which marked a huge improvement from the decidedly lackluster Pony. Lead single KEEP IT UP was his finest three minutes of the year, an endearingly understated little pop track with a gorgeous strings hook and cheery chorus about persisting through difficulty. The business-as-usual bumbling bass (a wonderful melody in itself) and chirpy upright piano make for an uncomfortable juxtaposition for the storms ahead for O’Connor in the second half of the year, but KEEP IT UP deserves to be heard above the media frenzy of the allegations, simply by being such a classy pop song.
Also listen: OPEN A WINDOW, AMAZING
27.Mistress America
from This Is Really Going To Hurt by Flyte (folk, pop)
Listening to Flyte’s Mistress America, it’s difficult to believe that the alternative folk band are actually from London. Everything about this song screams America, from Will Taylor’s pensive croon to the relaxed, country-leaning guitars and loose drumming. Lyrically, there’s even some smart, dark satire of present day America (“Mistress America / I’m gonna get a gun and learn the words to all your songs”) which finds a nice home over a wistful descending chord progression that seems to yearn for the semi-mythical ‘great’ America of long ago. The standout performer is Nick Hill on a prominent picked bass, who unleashes a genius bass line in the chorus that McCartney would surely be proud of. The American twang running throughout Mistress America may be artificial, but the poginancy of this track remains perfectly untainted.
Also hear: Losing You
26.Disco Living
from Discover Effortless Living by Bull (rock, pop)
I’ll try not to speak with too much bias when I say local York favourites Bull have a cracking song in Disco Living. Positioned at the end of a consistently great debut album, Disco Living has all the ragged triumph of a live set closer, complete with somewhat gratuitous key changes, multiple scratchy guitar solos and the most anthemic chorus (and verse, for that matter) they’ve ever written. They even throw in an extensive outro and yet another guitar solo for good measure, milking that good old fashioned four chord loop for all its worth. With a tune as glorious as this, who could blame them?
Also listen: Bedroom Floor, Eugene, Green
25.Kerosene
by Biig Piig (electronic)
2020 was an unfortunate time for incomporable Irish artist Biig Piig to come up with a dancefloor primed funk pop banger in Feels Right, but now she’s finally able to give the song the airing it deserves alongside a promising batch of new singles. Choppy and wildly inventive Kerosene is more adventurous than Feels Right but no less groovy. Jessica Smyth’s vocals are sliced and repitched to remarkable effect in a striking chorus, but the basics of a strong pulse and reverberating synth bass line are all there too. There’s a change in musical direction every eight bars or so, with every corner of the two and a half minutes packed with a new piece of production magic. No one in the pop world seems able to create like music quite like this: fresh, exciting and punchy. Kerosene‘s christening on Biig Piig’s UK tour next spring will no doubt be explosive.
Also listen: This Is What They Meant
24.mememe
by 100 gecs (hyperpop, punk)
The Gecs are back, and their music is as radical and raucous as ever. It’s been a few years now since they popularised the brand new genre of ‘hyperpop’; that is, pop taken to its logical extreme with intensely processed vocals, ramped up tempos and instruments turned up so loud their sound ends up mangled in distortion. mememe is arguably their most straightforward earworm to date: a short, looping hook and an even shorter chord loop, plus a chorus that dives headfirst into the wild world of uninhibited punk music. It’s an utterly lethal track, made more potent by its volatility. Nothing quite makes sense; the punk chorus (nostalgically led by a 8-bit synth as if from a retro video game) gives way suddenly to a relatively tame ska verse, and there’s even the appearance of a deceptively harmless baroque fugue take on the hook at one point. Of course, the genius of 100 gecs is that their ideas are so outlandish no one has dared to try them out in a song before. Instead, the duo stand out on their own on pop’s wild side, with mememe their most reliable mosh pit igniter.
Also listen: Torture Me, Runaway
23.Dead Inside Shuffle
from Quality Over Opinion by Louis Cole (funk)
This year also saw the return of immensely talented jazz and funk musician with a mammoth 20-song fourth album that struck a balance between crude funk silliness (Park Your Car on My Face was a genuine highlight) with more earnest personal confessions. Dead Inside Shuffle is a bit of both, with Cole’s general weariness of the world played off like a self-deprecating joke behind a sticky swing drum groove and a quite outrageously funky clavinet. This is Louis Cole at the peak of his powers, offering up not just an unforgettable groove but an impactful lyric sheet to match.
Also listen: I’m Tight, Failing in a Cool Way, Park Your Car on My Face
22.the dealer
from PAINLESS by Nilüfer Yanya (alt rock)
Whilst much of London indie upstart Nilüfer Yanya’s critically-acclaimed third album felt frustratingly restrained, piercing, no nonsense alt rock opener the dealer felt anything but. The jittery drum groove and Yanya’s ominously wispy vocals are both great, but it’s the sparingly used bass guitar that steals the limelight here, ripping into the first chorus with an spectacular melody that charges up and down the octaves. Every time it gets reintroduced feels monumental. the dealer‘s biggest strength is in how it ends up sounding so nasty desipte so little raw material to work with: Yanya, a guitar, bass and drums are all there is to it. Lead singles to blockbuster albums like this one hardly come more resourceful.
Also listen: stabilise, belong with you
21.ceilings
from Five Seconds Flat by Lizzy McAlpine (singer-songwriter, folk)
ceilings is a song that’s been waiting for Lizzy McAlpine to write it. Such is the assuredness of the warm acoustic guitar and lilting melodies, the track almost comes across as a cover of some famed country rock standard from decades ago. But no, this is all McAlpine’s, and it’s all brilliant. Her crystal clear vocals cut through to the soul thanks to a movingly romantic set of lyrics that include a soul-crushing plot twist right as the song reaches its emotional apex. Beyond that acoustic guitar, the instrumental backing is tastefully restrained, with a woody bass landing with aplomb in the second verse. With only two choruses, ceilings comes and goes in a flash but perhaps that’s intentional; the song ends up with an ethereal quality, as if soundtracking an intimate moment briefly frozen in time.
