pop | Music Boats

Jessie Ware: That! Feels Good! review – riotous party album makes for a worthy sequel
14
Aug

Continuing on from the success of her masterful 2020 release, That! Feels Good! is every bit as delightfully danceable as its predecessor, with more cheeky funk bass lines than you can wave a disco finger at.

By 2020, Jessie Ware seemed to have found a comfortable, if unflashy sort of fame. Three albums of dependably listenable pop had earned her a loyal fanbase big enough to secure European and American touring dates and the promise of longevity on the fringes of the British pop mainstream. A label deal with industry giant Island Records gave her access to songwriting megastars like Benny Blanco and Ed Sheeran, and Ware seemed to settle into her place in the British pop landscape, making occasional appearances in the UK Top 40 or even on the One Show. Nonethless, she was rarely talked about compared to the Adeles or the Dua Lipas of the world.

And yet, in the midst of the pandemic, Jessie Ware’s career dramatically shifted course. Her fourth album, What’s Your Pleasure?, did away with her previously broad-brush pop for scintillating, razor-focused dance music that fizzed with a newfound purpose – namely to recreate every inch of the clubbing experience right down to the smoking area and toilet cubicles. Indeed, the magic of What’s Your Pleasure? was in its powers of musical worldbuilding. To listen to those patient, swirling synth grooves and intoxicating bass riffs if so be swept away in a blissfully sweaty club, lost in the ecstacy of seemingly endless dance music. Closing track and soulful standout Remember Where You Are came tinged with the sweet melancholy of the silent taxi ride home.

In many ways, That! Feels Good! feels like an answer to its predecessor’s titular question. This album does away with What’s Your Pleasure?‘s moments of rumination in favour of explicit dancefloor diktats. “Stand up! / Turn around! / Take a bow!” Ware bellows on Beautiful People, seemingly relishing her role as party commander on chief. The title track opens the album and is about as unambiguous as album manifestos come: “Everybody gets a little modest and shy sometimes / Just remember, pleasure is a right!” Ware pronounces us in a lyric that lingers in the mind as the enthralling, pleasure-rich dance numbers start to come thick and fast.

For much of That! Feels Good!, Ware seems to be taking the Vulfpeck approach to music making: music trumps lyrics, immediacy trumps depth, groove is king. It’s a strategy that relies heavily on the quality of the music (for which the lyrics merely play a supporting role), but in the safe hands of an increasingly disginguished industry pro such as Ware, it’s a strategy that pays dividends. Lines like “Free yourself / Keep on moving up that mountaintop” on Free Yourself might sound clunky and clichéd on paper, but it’s difficult (and downright inappropriate) to put a magnifying glass up to the words as thumping piano riff and driving drum groove provides the song an immediate lift off. To listen to such a joyfully retro groove and not get swept up in the self-aware campness of Ware’s vocal performance is like showing up to a mosh pit hoping to find somewhere to unfold your comfortable camping chair. House-adjacent firecracker Freak Me Now is even more innately thrilling, Ware’s punchy hook finding home in a glorious, restless Daft Punk-esque keyboard riff designed to be played long into the night. Even more than the rest of Ware’s discography, this is the sort of roof-raiser that is will be best served live, no doubt to a dense crowd of whooping, carefree revellers. (Undertone‘s tickets are very much booked.)

Like all great dance music, bass is the secret sauce here. Strong bass lines are abound on That! Feels Good! most obviously on the title track and playful Shake The Bottle, a song littered with even more cheeky double entendres than is customary for Ware. A rumbling bass provides plenty of heft to funky highlight Pearls, a track suitably decked out with all the bell whistles – a seemingly endless hoarde of backing vocalists, plus a weighty strings section and excessive bar chime glissandos. Begin Again is grander still, a song that may owe a little too much to Another Star for some tastes but nonetheless provides the same pathos and sense of theatre as the work of His Royal Stevieness. The heavily orchestrated feeling of drama is apt for a song ostensibly about post-pandemic relaunch, and the gospel chants of “can we be who we were at the start again?” come with a tinge of vulnerability as the horns swell into a breathtaking final minute. It’s a song that manages to recreate the staggering magnitude of the world hurtling towards a new way of living, whether we like it or not.

That! Feels Good! is heavy on uptempo party fuel, but an exhausting onslaught of high octane jams it is not. Touching love song Hello Love offers a first chance to catch your breath, the heavy kick drums momentarily swapped out for a delicate bed of simmering congas and gently soaring strings. Lyrically, it’s a blatant attempt by Ware to slot into the newly-wed first dance canon alongside the likes of Thinking Out Loud or Marry You, but it’s also a genuinely heartwarming tale of old lovers reconnecting that’s worth swooning over. Towards the end of the record, Lightning is a more nuanced but no less beautiful change in pace. “I can give you all of me every night,” Ware languishes with trademark sensuality, her silky smooth vocals aided by a soothing wave of R&B backing vocals.

Satisfyingly, this sequel to What’s Your Pleasure? has a closing track that’s a worthy match for Remember Where You Are‘s unique allure. These Lips is the peppier, perhaps more optimistic of the two album closers, but nonetheless showcases Ware’s uncanny ability to create an instinctive sense of ending. There’s no need to process the words she is singing; the yearning of These Lips is palpable in the chorus, before Ware reigns herself back into a cheeky funk groove, never one to over-egg it. “I wanted the fade-out to go on for fucking ever,” she told Rolling Stone of the final moments, and who could blame her? The highs of the mellifluous grooves prior make tearing yourself away from the technicoloured fantasy world of That! Feels Good! a struggle. No, this album doesn’t reinvent the wheel, nor does it provide much lyrical meat beyond the joys of dance and sensual pleasure, but equally there is absolutely no reason to for anything more from Ware. This album is a fun, unapologetic burst of escapism so visceral the outside world feels a little less vibrant in comparison when that final bass line disappears towards the horizon.

Rianne Downey live at Oporto review – bigger stages await
10
Jul

Her songwriting ability may be still developing, but Rianne Downey already owned the stage at Oporto, a low-key venue that felt far too small for a vocal talent of this calibre.

It was to be a quiet night for the merch stand attendant at Oporto, a relatively low profile bar in central Leeds that is yet to find its feet amongst the famed venues of Leeds’ independent music scene (namely cosy Hyde Park Book Club, the lovably grungy Key Club and my beloved Brudenell Social Club). The presence of the up and coming Scottish singer had attracted a surprising number of blokes who I suspected were more here for the Guinness available than the popstar’s latest batch of t-shirts. Downey will no doubt face bigger crowds than the one that greeted her in Oporto, a venue small enough for drinks in glass to be permissible and for acts to unceremoniously hop off the front of the stage and into the crowd after their sets simply because there is no backstage area to go to. Still, the fact that Downey sold out Oporto – just like the rest of her headline UK tour – shouldn’t be knocked, and there was a feeling during a set filled out by unreleased material that we were witnessing the very first steps of a promising career.

Perhaps even more impressive than the dense crowd that Downey had summoned at Oporto was her remarkable stage presence. If Downey is a small fry in indie pop circles, clearly no one’s informed her; dressed in dazzling white amongst a greenery-strewn set, Downey was a magnetic performer, engaging the crowd with a flash of her giant sleeves during the songs and delivering relaxed banter between songs. “If you want to, you can meet me at the merch stand later… and if you don’t yous can fuck off!” she blurted out at one point in her Glaswegian twang, triggering a roar of laughter from the crowd.

If Downey is a small fry in indie pop circles, clearly no one’s informed her.

Downey was an engaging performer. Image credit: Rianne Downey via Twitter

Luckily Downey also has the voice to match her outstanding stage presence. Her vocals exuded the sort of confidence emerging artists aren’t supposed to have and her vibrato was unusually well controlled, occasionally delivered with a musical theatre sheen. There’s plenty of scope for songs with grander climaxes and more challenging melodies to exploit her vocal talents further, but even on the more straightforward tunes Downey’s vocals were the most impressive part of her act.

And so to the songs, which offered a mixed bag. Vibrant, chugging country rock opener Stand My Ground got the gig off to a strong start, with Downey’s three band members offering bulk to the acoustic twang that supported her memorable chorus. Later, Fuel to the Flame was also a poignant highlight, Downey’s endearingly simple chorus wisely given space to shine with a straightforward, unfussy accompaniment. At times, the only problem was that Downey’s voice was a little too good. Paper Wings, one of a large contingent of unreleased songs, had a lovely melody at its heart but an attempt at a showstopping vocal climax awkwardly received only a few half-hearted whoops from the audience. A weedy, undercooked piano backing didn’t help Downey’s cause, and made for a puzzling match to her glitzy vocal performance. It was the accompaniment that also let Downey down on recent standout single Hard, during which the pre-recorded backing track was played so quietly I wondered whether it had cut out completely mid-song. The result left one of Downey’s most assured tracks feeling rather hollow, dragged along by a few bare guitar chords.

Downey’s vocals alone deserve the nationwide attention she is just beginning to receive.

Where Downey can most improve is in her lyrics, which invariably operate in clichés and observations lacking in insight. “You’re a life jacket on a rainy day,” was one particularly clumsy moment in unreleased Dancing In the Rain, and Start Again boils down to gems like “there’s no point in grudges,” and “resentment’s never worth it.” Her magnetic personality – so evident in the inter-song chat – stopped short of the songs themselves, many of which could be about anyone, performed by anyone. It was telling that the line “it’ll be alright, just give it time,” was considered a lyrical highlight enough to be plastered onto the t-shirt merchandise beside me.

The scene at Oporto during Rianne Downey’s set

Home, an undemanding ode to, well, home, was particularly one-dimensional, but got a surprisingly heartfelt performance in Leeds. Whilst the song had an odd reluctance to build towards a proper, anthemic finale that the percussive guitar strumming begged for, the quietness did at least offer a chance to hear Downey’s fans audibly singing along to the charming little melody. At that moment I realised I had been soundly proved wrong – this wasn’t just a room of men looking for some light entertainment as they down their pints, and Downey’s core of fans very much exists and is no doubt growing. Oporto is undoubtedly humble beginnings but the roots of Downey’s fanbase (which is more varied than my stereotypes allowed) seem firmly set, and her vocals alone deserve the nationwide attention she is just beginning to receive. If she can equip herself with songs that offer a bit more musical bite and lyrics that emulate her exceptional stage presence, much bigger venues and keener crowds await. Takings may be modest for now, but it’s a matter of time before that merch stand becomes a two man job.

Florence + the Machine live at first direct Arena – cult queen reassembles her army
9
Jun

Florence Welch’s outstanding 2022 album Dance Fever dominated proceedings for a thrilling, theatrical Saturday night performance in Leeds. Knowingly the subject of cultish devotion, Welch’s return was a celebration of collective pandemic persistence.

Five songs passed before Florence Welch addressed the elephant in the room. “What the fuck is this?!” she asked, mimicking all the understandably baffled new Florence + the Machine fans in the room. “Is it a cult? Is it safe?” she bellowed with a distinctively melodious voice that has helped secure herself as a mainstay of British pop-rock for over a decade now. The confusion of the uninitiated fans she was gently mocking was easy to understand; virtually every other fan amongst the 13,000 that stood before Welch donned flowy dresses and delicate flower crowns that gave a certain Midsommar undercurrent to proceedings. The adulation in the room towards Welch was not the usual flavour of popstar devotion, but instead a deeper, softer sense of worship, with those that got a close brush with the star on her frequent jaunts off stage preferring to stare lovingly and intensely into her eyes rather than paw at her in desperation or lob a tampon à la Harry Styles. Often alone on the stage in a stunning, flowy white gown, Welch sang of grand Biblical images: resurrections, sacrifices, prayers, demons and societal collapse, her army of followers clinging on to every sharply crafted lyric. For all the new fans worried they’d signed up for some sort of indoctrination, Welch was quick to provide plenty of reassurance. “You’ll be absolutely fine as long as you do everything I say,” she informed us, letting a maniacal giggle slip out.

Experiencing such universal respect for one woman made it easy to forget that Welch’s cult didn’t form overnight. Since instant smash debut album Lungs in 2009, Welch (and it is, for all intents and purposes, just Welch – “the Machine” keep such a curiously low profile I didn’t realise they even existed before researching for this post) has been a regular in UK charts, her success powered by a handful of hits from that first album that hopped onto the broad late-noughties folk revival with its endearing hand claps and prominent harp plucking. Things turned up a notch last year in 2022 with the release of Dance Fever, a No. 1 album and probably her finest to date, with its gritty classic rock bangers balanced skilfully with introspective pandemic-era hymns.

Dozens of feathery white chandeliers rose about Welch during King

Much of the night was rightly dedicated to Dance Fever, the show opening with the fanfare-like chant of Heaven Is Here, Welch appearing with angelic spectacle thanks to the blinding white lights behind her. It was a spectacular start despite coming minutes after I’d assured my friend Isaac that the huge message of “CHOOSE LOVE” displayed on the screen beforehand was not just a message from Welch but the name of a second support act. Perhaps I still wasn’t mentally ready when spine-tingling album opener King kicked into gear, the soaring, earth-shattering finale not sounding as all-encompassing as I had hoped – at least from our perch at the first direct Arena’s third floor. It didn’t help that Welch’s mic cut out mid-song, shattering the sense of grand, serious theatre generated by Heaven Is Here. Welch of course had plenty enough poise to deal with the situation as a panicked stagehand rushed on to help – falling off stage and fracturing her foot didn’t stop her from finishing an entire show in November last year – but the gig had nonetheless got off to an unnervingly shaky start.

The dust of the unsure opening settled to reveal a beautiful, neatly choreographed 100-minute set. Perhaps most beautiful was the stage itself, which had been adorned with an elaborate gothic altar of feathers and bleached white flowers that nicely highlighted the golden sheen of Welch’s silky dress. Thin black sheets of fabric that descended from the roof to surround the isolated singer during Big God were less effective; not opaque enough for a sharp, backlit silhouette but thick enough to leave her peculiarly obscured from view and separate from the front row fans that so craved some sort of personal connection with their queen. It was Welch herself that offered the most visual drama, throwing up her fists (and enormous sleeves) with malice in time to the strobe lights in an awesome rendition of Daffodil or spinning around with glee on dancier numbers like appealing slow burner Choreomania.

It was the Lungs era hits that invariably got the crowd around me up on their feet with the immediate willingness of devoted followers

As enthralling as Dance Fever‘s melodramatic offerings were, it was the Lungs era hits that invariably got the crowd around me up on their feet with the immediate willingness of devoted followers. Dogs Days Are Over was the evening’s first real party starter, a gently plucked opening harp prefacing the stomping folk rock chorus to come. There was subtlety too, with Welch shushing the revellers just in time for a impressively elastic vocal delivery of that fiendish second verse. Isaac and I looked at each other in thrilled shock when original Florence megahit You’ve Got the Love made a surprise appearance later on, even if these days the song doesn’t quite have the same glorious freshness it had when it became a soundtrack to our childhoods. It was also a slight shame that You’ve Got the Love‘s inclusion came at the expense of recent stormy Fleetwood Mac-esque belter Cassandra, which formed the highlight of the latest live album with a bruising new extended cut.

The numerous louder danceable numbers were the most suitable vehicles for Florence’s barnstorming vocals. Hooky singalong Ship to Wreck was an early highlight, and good old fashioned blues rock stomper Kiss With A Fist refreshingly broke out of all the heavy religious imagery with a healthy dose of rock for rock’s sake. Dance Fever standout Dream Girl Evil reached its climax with an astonishingly long vocal note, Welch putting to bed any idea that her distinctive, soul-piercing wail is nothing but exceptional as slippery guitar riffs and a menacingly chugging bass engulfed her. It might have been even more powerful had Welch not spent the entire song holding hands with stunned front-row audience members – touching at first, but static after a few minutes, particularly for the guy watching from the third tier. Welch’s pained cry of “I am nobody’s moral centre!” demanded some suitably monumental shift in staging or lighting that never quite materialised.

Almost all of Dance Fever was given a long-deserved airing in an arena setting. Gently bubbling Free‘s chorus (“picks me up, puts me down”) leant itself nicely to some coordinated crowd hand movements. “You’re too sensitive they said / I said okay but let’s discuss this at the hospital,” Welch delivered with a knowing smile, ceding to the audience to scream those final words back at her in affirmation. An extended version of scintillating dance pop hit My Love turned out to be the highlight of the whole night, with Welch’s onstage dancing and gorgeous chorus melody both delightfully uninhibited.

Morning Elvis was so profoundly serene that one fan near the front fainted.

As strong as Welch’s voice may be, she offered an exquisite softer side too. We were, after all, encouraged to “choose love” and embrace the “collective experience” which, in practical terms, meant Welch imploring us between songs to put down the iPhones and focus on living in the moment. She was, of course, largely obeyed, and the result was an emotional intensity few artists can pull off. With thousands listening in intently, gentle ballad Morning Elvis was so profoundly serene that one fan near the front fainted. Welch’s framing of the song as a mid-pandemic prayer – a manifestation of the very 2020 fear that nights like these may never come again – understandably made the song too poignant to bear for one of us. What’s more, Welch had plenty more affecting ballads up her immaculate flared sleeves. We were encouraged to hold on to each other to absorb the stunning melody at the heart of June, while The End of Love offered a breathtaking strings section. By the time it came to the encore, Welch had to briefly halt proceedings as stewards lifted several stricken superfans over the barriers, cheerily waving goodbye as they left in total awe of their popstar.

It all culminated, naturally, in a mass sacrifice. “We are so well fed this evening!” Welch crooned as fans climbed onto one another’s shoulders as “human sacrifices” before a stellar blast through underrated early hit Rabbit Heart (Raise It Up). “Leave every last piece of you on the dancefloor tonight,” came Welch’s final dictum before a spine-tingling, arena-sized dance piano riff saw the concert home. Far beneath me, thousands of heads bobbed and hands clapped, enthralled and with their phones now long forgotten about. Even up with Isaac and I, many including myself pogoed along, our euphoria tempered slightly by the several-storey drop in front of us (one man near us had already taken a tumble a few feet down the stairs amidst the joy of You’ve Got the Love).

With a final flutter of harp Welch floated off stage, her spell successfully cast upon another arena of worshippers. In the few times she had broken her cult leader persona, Welch had powerfully reminded us that not so long ago this precious, quasi-religious gathering of like-minded souls we call a pop concert had been under threat, and even temporarily destroyed completely. Seeing the ease in which Welch spread a deeply human sense of belonging and loving connection around Leeds Arena reminded me just how important concerts can be in bringing people together. This Florence + the Machine gig had been an excuse to party, yes, but more importantly a chance to heal the scars of loneliness left by the pandemic for all in attendance. That is, all that could remain conscious for the duration.

Songs for solitude: alone on a mountain with Phoebe Bridgers’ Punisher
28
May

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.

Phoebe Green live at the Cluny review – strong material fails to come alive
12
Apr

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 live at O2 City Hall review – somehow still dancing
24
Mar

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.

Lizzy McAlpine: five seconds flat review – indie-folk star raises the stakes
15
Apr

She may be yet to firmly establish her own distinctive sound, but Lizzy McAlpine strikes gold on several occasions on this sophomore LP destined to be one of the more compelling and consistent breakup albums of the year.

There’s a remarkable moment about seven minutes into Lizzy McAlpine’s second album, five seconds flat. After two verses and choruses with building menace, a bridge sees McAlpine’s belted vocals almost entirely consumed by a pair of battling, distorted synth lines that switch violently from one ear to the other and back again. Supported by the throb of an electronic kick drum and a gunshot-like snare sound, the result is a gutsy minute or two of industrial-leaning electronic music before McAlpine takes back control by way of an acoustic guitar breakdown, bringing the various musical strands of the masterful erase me back together for the big denouement. This meshing of acoustic and electronic instrumentation – often considered risky or plainly wrong by much of the modern pop industry – is totally uncharted territory for McAlpine, an artist much more used to the comfortable, folk constraints of an acoustic guitar and perhaps the occasional upright piano. Take her excellent 2021 project, When The World Stopped Moving, which unpacked the global trauma of the pandemic with intimate, acoustic solo recordings, putting a spotlight on McAlpine’s outstanding vocal ability in the process. To hear just a few moments of her now delving into electronic pop with such spectacular results is hugely promising.

Elsewhere on the singer-songwriter’s sophomore effort there are plenty more surprises to enjoy. all my ghosts, for instance, finds itself wading deeper and deeper into indie rock territory as the song progresses, culminating in a spectacular final minute. The saccarine sentimentalism of McAlpine’s debut album still lingers (“You got a Slurpee for free / I caught you lookin’ at me in the 7-Eleven”), but this time its accompanied by musical fireworks by way of sparkling performance from McAlpine’s band. By contrast, an ego thing‘s quirky minimalism wouldn’t sound out of place on a Billie Eilish record, with Eilish’s uncomfortably close ASMR whispers traded for McAlpine’s bell-clear, Broadway-ready vocals.

Besides showcasing risks that McAlpine’s debut album so sorely lacked, five seconds flat excels as an album clearly thought out and smartly executed. Halloween themes are established by stark opener doomsday and crop up throughout the following 13 tracks. It’s a strong, excellently produced opener, although the obvious extended funeral metaphor for the breakup in question comes across as somewhat lazy. The driving metaphor of reckless driving is even more laboured and uninspired (“Would you hold me when we crash or would you let me go?”), but an exciting crescendo to finish before a abrupt finish (presumably the car crash in question) partly saves the song.

Spacey follow-up weird feels appropriately like an exploration of the afterlife, and the intimate vocals and distant percussion and guitars lend it the same vaguely comforting feeling of a Phoebe Bridgers song with slightly less poetic lyrics. ceilings is a much better display of McAlpine’s lyrical ability, describing an idyllic young love that turns out to be entirely imaginary by the time we reach a devastating final chorus. The country-tinged instrumentation – complete with a beautiful strings arrangement – is utterly gorgeous, and McAlpine’s delicately sung melody floats above it all like a butterfly. Compositionally, it may be the least ambitious moment on the whole album, but it also happens to be one of the most exquisite acoustic ballads McAlpine has ever written – and she’s written many.

Just when the album begins to get a little emotionally heavy, McAlpine hits us with firearm, a power pop left hook that attempts the success of similar recent attempts at noisy rock from both Eilish and Bridgers. five seconds flat‘s rock moment is not quite as explosive or expansive as Happier Than Ever or I Know The End, but it does still pack a punch, with McAlpine at one point asking whether a breakup was over “fame or the lack thereof”, having been convinced that she was loved. As McAlpine returns to her usual acoustic guitar moments later, there’s a sense that the pure anger just showcased hasn’t gone away completely but has rather been bottled back up inside her, ready to be unleashed again whenever she sees fit. I can only hope McAlpine lets her inner anger out more often on future releases.

nobody likes a secret and chemtrails are much less stylistically interesting, but the latter is a particularly heartbreaking elegy to McAlpine’s father. “I see chemtrails in the sky, but I don’t see the plane,” McAlpine sings poignantly, reflecting on the impact her father has made on her, even after his passing. Wistful home audio recordings close the track, and the goofy “goodnight!” from a young Lizzy feels like a more permanent goodbye. Fast-pased indie pop track orange show speedway ends the album nicely, suitably restrained in its cheeriness in the wake of chemtrails.

Looking back on the album in its entirety, McAlpine’s musical style is consitently interesting and varied, almost to a fault. We are yet to hear McAlpine’s definitive sound or hear much to distinguish her from the plethora of similar female American singer-songwriters. That said, this female American singer-songwriter is producing more impressive songs than most, and the sharp stylistic shifts and attention-grabbing production decisions that crop up throughout five seconds flat deserve plenty of praise. Her full potential hasn’t quite been realised yet, but judging by her current forward momentum it won’t be long until McAlpine is producing records even more exciting than this one.

Cory Wong live at Manchester Academy review – utterly tireless
1
Apr

On his first post-pandemic UK performance the prolific funk guitarist aptly delivered a vast amount of music with flair, showmanship and boundless enthusiasm. A strong entourage of improvisers helped compensate for weak songwriting on a night when objective critique became difficult.

Perhaps I haven’t learnt my lesson. Just like a few weeks ago, I found myself sitting in a Mancunian branch of McDonald’s with a familiar posse of friends, fuelling up before another gig for an artist I’ve never quite been convinced by. I didn’t realise it at the time, but I should have seen a potential repeat of my middling experience with Samm Henshaw coming from a mile off.

One thing that I was certain of was that Cory Wong would give us a proper show and a proper horns section (Matt did well to spot the saxophone on stage ahead of time). The rubber wristed guitarist doesn’t seem to do anything but perform, be it on one of his extensive UK and US tours or on his own high-budget YouTube talk show. He’s already got a staggering six live albums under his belt (plus a not-too-shabby 12 studio albums). To keep this man away from any sizable venue for longer than six months – let alone the nigh-on three year gap since his last visit to Manchester – is no mean feat. Such a massive output of songs makes it hard to keep on top of it all even from a listener’s perspective, and even the most eager Wong fans amongst my friends happily admitted that listening to every Wong album was a level of commitment they were not quite prepared for. Picking out songs to watch for was made doubly hard by the fact Wong is such a frequent collaborator – standout tracks Golden and Cosmic Sans required surprise appearances from Cody Fry and Tom Misch which, despite our crossed fingers, never quite came to fruition.

There was nonetheless a strong lineup in support of Wong in the uninspiring black box of Manchester Academy. Kevin Gastonguay, for instance, was a machine both on his Nord keyboard and Hammond B3, his improvisations often adding a pleasant touch of adventurous jazz fusion to the set. Petar Janjic was also a standout performer on drums, delivering thunderous solos occasionally followed by a triumphant flip of the sticks or a knowing smile to Wong. Then there was saxophonist and former BBC Young Jazz Musician of the Year Alexander Bone (Wong claimed he was a local to the crowd’s delight, but after a bit of research I’m not so sure), the best of a three-part horn section. His solos steered clear of showy high notes of rapid passages, instead offering tastefully controlled builds that melded well with Wong’s compositions.

Wong himself, model-like with his pearly whites and showbiz suit that nicely matched his signature stratocaster, of course provided an impeccable performance on guitar, refusing to stop moving on even his softer, calmer tracks. His solos tended to be the most expansive and often headed for scratchy classic rock finales before slick transitions back to rhythm guitar playing. Home and Meditation were some of the more spectacular slow burners, even if the material Wong was basing his solos on was rarely particularly compelling.

Therein lies the problem with Wong’s music: attempting to put the texture-building discipline of rhythm guitar front and centre is a challenge he has never quite lived up to. Too often his guitar hooks are colourless and repetitive (take Lilypad for example) and his funk-by-numbers grooves tend to have few defining features. Often it took a standout performance from the rest of the band for the show to reach its best moments. Frenzied Assassin, for instance, was an exciting listen impressively performed by Bone, but tellingly a tune which saw Wong’s guitar sit behind the more interesting horns section. St. Paul was another highlight that nicely showed off just how unbelievably tight the rhythm section was, with its razor sharp stops and showstopping drum fills. Gastonguay’s bluesy piano solo was also one of the best of the evening. On no song did it feel like the band had even a frissen of sloppiness – this was funk at its most crystal clean, and the level of sheer talent onstage was dazzling.

Screeching guitar solos often had Wong squirming

The gig’s biggest challenge was just how long it was. In typical Wong style, we were dealt well over two hours of funk, which got tiring even despite the interval. The show wasn’t completely without light and shade, but much of the runtime was spent with so-so funk numbers that had a tendency to merge into one. It was all easy listening, but such a long show demanded a little more variety. Perhaps a solo number from Wong might have been what the evening needed; that or a larger selection of sure-fire hits, which Wong seems to be lacking, at least without the support of a surprise guest vocalist. What was impressive was just how well Wong and his band maintained their high-energy displays of musicianship. Never did it feel like any single player was tiring throughout the night, and Wong bounced around like an excited toddler both at the very beginning and very end of the performance.

I found myself struggling as the show grew to its finish, but not just due to my reservations about Wong’s performance. I was feeling increasingly ill and in need of water, and my nausea fuelled panic which fuelled more nausea. Once Wong had finished a particularly lengthy-seeming song I shouted an explanation over the loud applause in my friend Manon’s ear and queasily made my way to the bar, hands beginning to tingle.

Sitting on the floor in the nicely chilled foyer with a pint of water beside me I felt some relief, although I was missing the entire climax of Wong’s set. It took fifteen minutes and a familiar song to get me back on my feet and to the back of the crowd. If there was a bass line that could cure any ailment it would be that of Dean Town, a Vulfpeck cult classic and the ultimate crowd-pleasing set closer. I was a little sad as I watched the tune come and go from a distance, the audience singing the through-composed bass line note by note as is Vulfpeck tradition. It should have been an ecstatic highlight. Instead I was glad it was time to head home.

The crowd was jubilant as Wong and his band performed Dean Town at the end of the set

My aim is to keep my overall criticisms on Undertone as objective as possible, and I’m trying my best to ignore my minor illness on the night when I say that Cory Wong’s show genuinely won’t go down as one of my all-time favourites. The musical ability was undeniable, but more compelling songwriting and a much more concise set were needed if I was to have any hope of ignoring the increasing unease in my stomach. I can see why the crowd around me (and my friends in particular) seemed to love every second of it, but for me this night was one that will live in the memory for mostly the wrong reasons.

Undertone’s artists to watch for 2022
7
Jan

Every year, a handful of artists cross the threshold from “you should check them out” to “how did you miss this.” Undertone’s 2026 watchlist focuses on that specific inflection point — artists with enough recorded output to evaluate seriously, not so established that the discovery feels hollow.

This is not a guarantee of viral success. Streaming numbers shift, hype cycles collapse, and predicting breakout years in music is harder than any editorial track record suggests.

Why Treating Artist Discovery Like Portfolio Management Actually Makes Sense

The passive listening model has a low ceiling. A song surfaces in a playlist, you save it, follow the artist, then forget them inside a month. The active model — the one that compounds over time — looks different. You identify interesting artists before the critical consensus forms, track their development across releases, and make deliberate decisions about where to invest sustained attention.

This isn’t about clout. It’s about the quality of your engagement with music. Getting into an artist’s catalog before the discourse hardens around them means you form your own opinion — one that isn’t pre-shaped by the first ten articles Google surfaces when you search their name.

The Window That Actually Matters

Discovery value peaks at a specific moment: after an artist has produced enough material to evaluate their range and consistency, but before they’ve crossed into widespread mainstream attention. That window closes fast for some artists and stays open for others.

Ethel Cain self-released “Inbred” and “American Teenager” in 2026 with under 50,000 monthly Spotify listeners. By the time Preacher’s Daughter landed in May 2026 on Prism Trine Records, that number had cleared 800,000. The music didn’t change. The access window did. More to the point: the conversation around the music changed. In late 2026, you could simply listen. By mid-2026, you were entering a fully formed critical debate about where she sits in the American folk lineage. Neither situation is wrong — but they’re different experiences, and Undertone’s watchlist targets the earlier one.

What Separates Real Trajectory from One-Single Hype

Three signals that matter more than raw monthly listener counts or press volume:

Catalog depth: Enough material to evaluate range, or just one viral track? One great single is not a trajectory.
Live conversion rate: Artists who turn skeptical room audiences into committed fans hold listeners long-term. The algorithm cannot fake that.
Label economics: Signed to a major with full marketing spend, or on an indie with creative control? Both paths work. But they produce different hype curves, and knowing which you’re dealing with adjusts your expectations accordingly.

The Case Study That Makes This Concrete

Bartees Strange hit all three signals heading into 2026 — two albums in with a growing live reputation and a 4AD deal that provided resources without creative compromise. Most artists generating similar press coverage in 2026 did not. The difference wasn’t talent. It was catalog depth plus infrastructure. That combination is what Undertone’s watchlist screens for before anything else.

Bottom Line: The best discovery window opens after enough output exists to evaluate and before the consensus locks in. That’s the window this entire list is built around.

The Full 2026 Watchlist: Six Artists, Honest Ratings

Different genres, different risk profiles, different upside ceilings. Here’s the structured breakdown before the deeper analysis.

Artist	Genre	Key 2026 Release	Approx. Monthly Listeners (2026)	Hype Risk	Undertone Rating
Wet Leg	Indie Rock	Wet Leg (Domino Records)	~2.1M	Medium — already buzzing widely	Buy. Debut delivered.
Ethel Cain	Dark Folk / Southern Gothic	Preacher’s Daughter (Prism Trine)	~800K	Low — undervalued relative to output quality	Strong Buy. Highest conviction.
Yard Act	Post-Punk / Spoken Word	The Overload (Island Records)	~450K	Low-Medium — UK-heavy, thin US base	Buy. Best live value on the list.
Bartees Strange	Indie / Alternative	Farm to Table (4AD)	~350K	Medium — critical darling, mass crossover unproven	Buy. Two strong albums already in catalog.
Horsegirl	Noise Pop / Indie Rock	Versions of Modern Performance (Matador)	~180K	Low — cult ceiling is real	Hold. Niche but consistent.
Wednesday	Country-Rock / Shoegaze	Mowing the Leaves Instead of Piling ‘Em Up	~90K	Very Low — barely on the radar	Speculative Buy. Highest upside.

The hype risk column is more useful than most people treat it. An artist with 2 million monthly listeners heading into their debut album has almost no upside left on hype — the question becomes whether the music sustains the ceiling already set. An artist sitting at 90,000 has room to grow into the attention. Risk and opportunity live in the same number.

Wet Leg and Yard Act: Two Very Different Bets from the Same Pipeline

British indie and post-punk generated disproportionate critical attention in 2026-2026. Wet Leg and Yard Act are the two clearest names emerging from that moment — but they represent entirely different propositions and should not be evaluated the same way.

Wet Leg: The Most Reliable Entry Point on the List

Rhian Teasdale and Hester Chambers released “Chaise Longue” in 2026 and it moved faster than almost any indie single in recent memory. The self-titled debut on Domino Records arrived April 2026: 12 tracks, most running under three minutes, built on deadpan humor and guitar arrangements that sit somewhere between Elastica and early Alvvays. It debuted at number one on the UK Albums Chart — rare for any independent act’s first LP.

The skeptic’s counter is reasonable: this level of pre-launch hype inflates first-week performance, and the real test is second-album retention. Fair concern. But the debut holds up on repeated listens in a way that most hype-driven records don’t, which suggests the audience is built on substance rather than pure marketing momentum.

For listeners newer to independent music who want a single reliable entry point in 2026: this is it. Accessible, fully formed, critically validated without being critically suffocated.

Yard Act: The Longer, Riskier Hold

Leeds four-piece Yard Act operates in a narrower lane. Frontman James Smith delivers most of The Overload in a dry spoken-word style over tight post-punk arrangements. Either it clicks immediately or it doesn’t land — there’s almost no middle ground, which is both its strength and its commercial ceiling.

The Overload runs 36 minutes and covers class anxiety, consumer culture, and British social performance with more wit per line than most lyricists manage per album. The rhythm section is the record’s most underrated feature: the bass and drum interplay is precise in a way that rewards headphones over speakers and repeated listens over casual ones.

Their US listener base is thin heading into 2026. That’s the risk. It’s also the entire opportunity. Every major UK act that crossed over in the past decade had a period where their North American numbers looked underwhelming. The live show is reportedly where Yard Act converts skeptics faster than the recorded material does — that’s the signal worth tracking into touring cycle announcements.

Bottom Line: Wet Leg if you want accessible, immediate returns. Yard Act if you’re comfortable with a longer hold and a narrower audience for now. Do not treat them as interchangeable picks.

Tip: Build a Discovery Playlist with Actual Structure

One catch-all “new music” playlist gets stale fast — everything accumulates, nothing gets evaluated. A better system: maintain two separate playlists. One for artists under active evaluation (rotate in, remove after three weeks if nothing clicked), and one for confirmed long-term favorites. The separation forces actual decisions instead of passive accumulation that tricks you into thinking you’re discovering music when you’re just hoarding it.

Ethel Cain Is the Highest-Conviction Pick on This List

This is the clearest position Undertone holds for 2026: Preacher’s Daughter is the most complete debut album of the year, and the listener base still hasn’t caught up to the output quality. That gap is the opportunity.

Hayden Silas Anhedönia built Preacher’s Daughter as a unified narrative — Southern gothic, religion, violence, grief, and the specific texture of American femininity in declining small towns. That description sounds dense because the record is dense. But it earns its 75-minute runtime in a way that almost no debut album does. “American Teenager” works as a hook-driven pop song. “Gibson Girl” is slow-build folk. “Ptolemaea” runs nearly nine minutes of ambient horror. They cohere because the thematic logic holds them together, not because they sound alike. That kind of structural ambition on a debut is genuinely unusual.

The streaming numbers tell the valuation story directly. Roughly 800,000 monthly listeners at peak 2026 attention sounds meaningful until you compare it to contemporaries releasing demonstrably thinner work at three to five times that listener count. The discrepancy between output quality and audience size is exactly the signal Undertone’s watchlist exists to flag.

The skeptic’s argument against Ethel Cain is the runtime: 75 minutes is a real ask in a fragmented attention environment. That’s true. But it also filters for committed listeners over casual ones — and committed listeners are the ones who sustain an artist across multiple release cycles, show up for tour dates, and build the word-of-mouth that keeps a career alive between albums. A smaller committed base often outlasts a larger passive one.

Bottom Line: For anyone willing to engage with a long-form album, this is the highest-conviction name on the 2026 list. The ceiling from 800,000 monthly listeners has nowhere obvious to stop. Start with “American Teenager,” then commit to the full album front-to-back before forming any opinion.

What Most Artist Watchlists Get Wrong

Most lists confuse critical attention with audience building — they are not the same metric, and treating them as equivalent produces bad picks. An artist can collect Pitchfork’s Best New Music designation, land a BBC Sound Of nomination, and generate three months of press coverage, then see streaming plateau within a year because the catalog didn’t hold casual listeners past the initial hype event. One strong promotional cycle is not a trajectory. Before committing sustained attention to any name on any list — including this one — verify there’s enough recorded material to evaluate across different moods and listening contexts. If the entire case rests on a single or an EP, wait for the full album.

Where to Focus in 2026: The Ranked Verdict

Ranked by confidence in their 2026 trajectory — the combination of current undervaluation, catalog depth, and upside against hype risk. Quality in absolute terms is not the ranking criterion; several artists not on this list made better individual songs this year.

Ethel Cain — Highest conviction. Preacher’s Daughter is already a fully realized artistic statement at a fraction of the audience it should have. The catalog supports sustained engagement across many repeated listens, which is a rarer quality than it sounds.
Bartees Strange — Farm to Table on 4AD confirms the range shown on Live Forever. Two albums in and both hold up. Genre fluidity — indie rock, R&B, post-punk, folk — is working for him, not against him. The question of mass crossover remains open, but the core catalog already justifies sustained attention.
Wet Leg — Lower upside given existing press saturation, but the debut actually delivered on the “Chaise Longue” promise. The most reliable pick for listeners newer to independent music who want clear confirmation before committing. Not the most interesting bet, but the most dependable one.
Yard Act — Predominantly a UK proposition heading into 2026. The US breakthrough depends heavily on live touring and whether North American indie audiences respond to spoken-word post-punk on its own terms. Watch for 2026 North America touring announcements as a catalyst signal specifically.
Wednesday — The speculative position. Approximately 90,000 monthly listeners and an Appalachian shoegaze sound — country distortion, dream-pop textures, noise-rock velocity — that doesn’t exist at this quality level anywhere else right now. High upside, high uncertainty. If the next full-length maintains this, the trajectory could change significantly.
Horsegirl — Matador Records, Chicago noise-pop, fully formed debut at ages 18-19. The ceiling is probably dedicated cult status rather than mass crossover, and that’s an honest read on the market for that sound, not a criticism of the music. Versions of Modern Performance is excellent for what it is. Calibrate growth expectations accordingly.

Tip: The Three-Song Test Before You Commit

Before adding any artist to your regular listening rotation, hear three non-single tracks from their catalog. Singles are selected for accessibility. Album cuts reveal whether the songwriting holds past the obvious moments. Every artist on this list passes that test — which is more than most comparable watchlists can honestly claim for their full roster.

Where Undertone Finds These Names Before They Break

Bandcamp’s New and Notable section, KEXP session archives, and Pigeonhole’s weekly posts are the three most consistent early-signal sources that aren’t driven by algorithmic or label spend. All six artists on this list appeared in at least one of those channels before landing on mainstream radar. If you’re building your own discovery pipeline beyond editorial recommendations, those are the starting points that actually return value over time.

Of the six names here, Ethel Cain is the one Undertone is most confident will reward sustained attention across multiple release cycles. Start there.