I recently saw Michael Stafford hailed as ‘the new Amy Winehouse’. There’s already something wrong with such a comparison: for starters, even at its best, Frank was merely a promising debut album, one that hinted at greatness, which, as we all know, arrived with Back to Black in 2007. On the evidence of Lonely Are The Brave, Stafford has already stolen a march on the late Miss Winehouse, because his debut album has delivered the goods.

There’s no escaping it: as an opening statement, it’s simply magnificent; a supremely confident album that finds Stafford, though most will know him by Maverick Sabre, sticking his fingers into many different pies. It’s a strikingly diverse album that manages to retain an air of cohesion throughout. It is also an intensely personal record whose lyrical content draws attention to its title: he documents much of his own loneliness on it, and must be considered extremely brave for doing so. He doesn’t simply confront his past, he tackles it head-on with an almost unnerving clarity of purpose. The idea of pulling punches is foreign to him.

Then there is the voice. Heavily accented and immediately arresting, it’s his most versatile asset. From his soulful turn on I Need, to passionately chastising an ex-lover on current single No One (‘When I kiss you on your cheating lips, all I ever picture is you with him’), to the rapped delivery of the verses on the unquestionably brilliant Open My Eyes (insistent hook + massive chorus = future single – I’ve done the maths, and this works out), it’s the reason the Winehouse comparisons hold water, and the best thing about it is that you would hardly expect Stafford to possess such a set of pipes.

Appearances can be deceptive, of course, and this is something that extends to the album as a whole. It’s surprising just how uplifting and cathartic it can be, even when dealing with stark and unsettling subject manner. On These Days, he admits that he’s ‘been lost for days, in hopeless, broken hating,’ while on Sometimes, he documents his early childhood, addressing the times when he was ‘bullied, beat up weekly, kicked and slapped away / Clutching onto monkey bars, hoping they’d all go away’ before going on to relate his move to Ireland, a place he describes as ‘the green emerald, a thousand welcomes negative’, and one in which he was ‘a constant outsider’.

By his own admission, he didn’t fit in back then, and his music seems to reflect that, but in the best possible way. Drawing on R&B, soul and pop music, it’s not the sort that can be easily pigeonholed, which is why a song as immediate as Let Me Go can slot in with Memories and Cold Games, a pair of songs that are still accessible yet manage to bring out Stafford’s more experimental side. There are even some hints of dubstep scattered throughout the album as well. It would have been easy for him to draw on the album’s opening trio of songs and create an album that pandered to the pop crowd, but he’s stuck to his guns admirably. There’s even a Sam Cooke cover in there as the penultimate song, A Change is Gonna Come, and in typically impressive fashion, Stafford makes it his own.

Maverick Sabre is brave in a number of ways: he’s not afraid to speak his mind, and Shooting the Stars is a scathing view of police brutality which seems to gain even more resonance when applied to the context of the riots last August. It’s not an easy listen by any stretch of the imagination, and this could also be said of the album as a whole. As debut albums go, though, this has come at precisely the right time, because not only does Stafford speak his mind, it soon becomes clear that he has something quite important to say. Lonely are the Brave filled with references to the past, the present, and also the future, there is nonetheless a sort of timelessness to it. It’s obvious that he hasn’t written his best work yet – he’s only 21 after all – but this is simply thrilling.

Album sampler:

Lonely are the Brave is out now through Mercury Records

Maverick Sabre – Lonely Are The Brave was originally published on The Blue Walrus

I was expecting Lizzie Grant to crash and burn, but the truth of the matter is that her new record does not need to live up to its superlative beginnings. It was never going to be the finished article, despite all the hype (and my god, the hype quickly became insufferable), and what we’re left with is an album that is good. Surprisingly good, in my opinion, and flat-out brilliant in some places. Video Games is a fantastic single and works just as well in album context as it does on its own. It’s a shame that there’s not really any hidden gem present on the remainder of the album, although Summertime Sadness gives the last third of the album a well-timed shot in the arm.

I say well-timed, because even though all the songs on Born to Die are ‘good’ to various extents, the production becomes a bit samey after a while: strings are present across the entire album; the beats, when present, are all cut from the same cloth; and there is a considerable amount of reverb on Del Rey’s vocals throughout. That last technique is necessary, however – despite Del Rey having a good voice and an agreeable singing style, her range seems limited, to the extent that she has resort to things like the semi-rapped delivery on Off to the Races (and borderline yelping during the chorus).

When using her lower register, the results are better, as Radio and National Anthem attest to – even if the latter suffers from poor lyrics (a criticism that could be levelled at several songs on the album; more on this later): ‘Money is the reason we exist / Everybody knows it, it’s a fact (kiss kiss)’. Really, Lizzie? there are a number of similar declarations on the album, and the only conclusion that can be drawn from that is that she’s drawing from a fairly shallow pool of lyrical content. On that note: I can’t tell whether ‘Pabst Blue Ribbon on ice’ from closer This is What Makes Us Girls is amusing or cringeworthy.

So: melodramatic production, lyrics that often enter clichéd territory and pacing issues. This must mean it’s bad, right? Obviously, your mileage will vary on that (and this is an opinion-splitting record), but the songs themselves are the best thing about Born to Die, which is the way it should be. Stripping away all the bullshit about her contrived image, and nervous live performances (of course she’s going to be nervous – riding a wave of hype for six months will do that to most anyone), the end result is an album that is consistently enjoyable.

Say what you want about her, but when it comes down to the songs, there is enough evidence here to suggest that Grant is not dead yet. You can call her a guilty pleasure if you want, but  I don’t do guilty pleasures. I like what I like, and I like this album. Is it flawed? Definitely. Has she got work to do? Yes she does, without a doubt. Has she got potential? Absolutely. Whether you love her, hate her or are completely indifferent towards her, Lana Del Rey is here to stay.

Lana Del Rey – Born To Die was originally published on The Blue Walrus

Repetition works. I didn’t particularly need any reminding of that statement – after all, certain sub-genres of music have already established repetition as their foundations, such as some forms of electronica, not to mention krautrock – but when it’s used by a band to deliberately rein themselves in, it is so much more effective. Atlanta, Georgia’s All the Saints [Facebook] would know all about that, because their impeccable sense of restraint is what makes their second album, Intro to Fractions, such a compelling listen. It’s not the most immediate album around by any stretch of the imagination, but it’s packed with melodic urgency and drive.

Had its creators wanted to go all-out, their new record would have been overwhelming. They’re much better off with crafting a different kind of intensity, though – the songs on this album rarely, if ever, cut loose, the band preferring to build on what’s already been laid down rather then veering off into new tangents. The changes in texture and dynamics are incredibly subtle, meaning that Intro to Fractions needs to be listened to quite closely. It’s a very rewarding 35 minutes, and the group’s shoegaze-inspired compositions reveal themselves over multiple listens. It’s the kind of album that needs to be paid attention to, even if, in relative terms, not that much goes on. Are you following?

Gradual crescendos seem to be the order of the day: opener Half Red, Half Way gets by on one chord for most of the song, spiralling towards a speaker-shredding climax that the likes of My Bloody Valentine would be proud of. The production is far more refined, however – things aren’t maxed out, and are given plenty of breathing space, meaning that when things get loud – as the close of Alteration proves – they have double the impact.

Some songs here are deliberately left in an unpolished state. The hazy psychedelia evident on 4H Trip is meant as a segue into the next part of the album; as a sort of interlude after the claustrophobic feel of its opening songs. It bleeds nicely into Host, one of the more menacing-sounding songs on the record, reverb-soaked vocals underpinned by simple yet potent drumming and a chill-inducing bassline.

There aren’t really many criticisms that can be levelled at Intro to Fractions. One would probably expect an album like it to fall off on the back half; the opposite is true, and it ends up getting better as it goes on, the result being a promising beginning, an intriguing middle (with the band making sure to keep things as diverse as they can manage) and a rewarding end. It may be a little difficult to stomach for some people, but the important thing is that it remains focused throughout. With very little – guitar, bass, drums and vocals, no trimmings – it gets rather a lot done.

All The Saints – Intro to Fractions was originally published on The Blue Walrus

There is something about the cover art for the new Twilight Sad [Facebook/Twitter] record that is disturbing. Even for a band who deal in almost exclusively dark imagery, the eye-catching sleeve for No One Can Ever Know is a whole other level of scary. Its intrigue is increased when paired with the album’s title. The phrase ‘no one can ever know’ hints at dark secrets, deeds committed in the dead of night that must never be spoken of. It’s just the kind of thing you’d expect them to call an album, in fact, but their third album is about the furthest thing from a ‘typical’ Twilight Sad release as it is possible to get – and it might just be their best one yet.

I realise I’ve just put my head above the parapet, but bear with me, because I’ve been living with this album for the best part of six weeks at this stage, and I am not making that statement lightly. In my preview piece last month, I likened the album’s sound to the peaks of the careers of Nine Inch Nails and Manic Street Preachers: The Downward Spiral and The Holy Bible, and since then, my initial reaction’s proved correct; it has the cold production of the former and the hooks of the latter, but this is no mere homage. It’s still very much The Twilight Sad, and it couldn’t really be anyone else.

Thanks for this must go, at least in part, to James Graham’s lyrics, which are a paradox of cryptic imagery and detailed scenarios, leaving the listener to fill in the blanks; it’s like he’s an artist who produces a complex sketch but deliberately leaves it at that, and the viewer is left to imagine what else might be. Just one example of this is album opener Alphabet, where, over relentless drumming and a soaring synth line, he captures the desperation of a relationship (I say relationship, but this is my own reading of the lyrics, and they are open-ended enough for any number of meanings to be discerned from them): ‘So sick to death of the sight of you now / Safe to say I never wanted you more.’

Having set out its stall, No One Can Ever Know immediately becomes more intense. The bass riff on Dead City is downright evil, and the song itself is six-and-a-half minutes of the band at their most claustrophobia-inducing. Even when the chorus hits and the song shifts to a major key, it’s only a brief respite, and after the second chorus, anchored by that riff, the song builds to a stunning climax, establishing itself as perhaps the darkest thing the band have ever done – though it’s given a run for its money by album closer Kill It In the Morning, which is driven by yet more menacing bass, and has the most impressive finish on the entire album.

The singles chosen from the record so far are arguably the most accessible songs on it: Sick is reminiscent of The Antlers, albeit with more electronics and a vocalist with a Scottish accent, while the propulsive rhythm section on Another Bed (not to mention a huge chorus) make the song immediately arresting, masking the fact that Graham’s lyrics are at their most menacing, loaded with ominous threat: ‘You’re breaking your back in the new low / I’ll find you, don’t worry.’

The album is nine songs long, and doesn’t mess about, each one of them composed to the highest standard, and containing at least one moment that is shiver-inducing. There are multiple layers to these tracks, too: in that respect, the new record is business as usual for The Twilight Sad. In most others, however (I can’t honestly say I thought they had a song like Nil in them), it’s something new, brave and completely brilliant. They always make an effort to experiment with their sound on each album, and they’ve pushed themselves so much that they’re almost like a totally different band now. They say change is good, but rarely is change anywhere near as good as this.

No One Can Ever Know is released on February 6th through FatCat Records.
[PRE-ORDER] The Twilight Sad – No One Can Ever Know @ FatCat | Amazon

Another Bed

Sick

Kill It In the Morning

The Twilight Sad – No One Can Ever Know was originally published on The Blue Walrus

They say necessity is the mother of invention, and this maxim would seem to be the reason for the existence of a band like Django Django, boldly going where few of their contemporaries would dare, making the kind of joyful music that fully deserves all the acclaim it gets. It’s taken them two-and-a-half years for them to get to where they are now: on the cusp of releasing what is, hands-down, the most inventive British debut in quite some time. The music the quartet makes is not the kind that defies description, not ‘weird’ for its own sake, yet it is suitably eccentric for a band who can put themselves behind a record whose cover art can succinctly be described as bizarre.

However, it’s also rather colourful, and as such does a good job of describing the album’s contents. The twelve songs that make up the London-based band’s debut all strive to make an impression, one way or another. Their debut contains such a mixture of sounds that, on the whole, it shouldn’t work as an album. Instead, a record like this should be all over the place, and in the hands of a less talented group of individuals, this would no doubt be the case. In the hands of Django Django, though, their diverse approach to music is what makes their debut so cohesive, not to mention addictive.

It’s pretty ambitious, too, a testament to their songwriting skills. Not many bands would choose a song like the two-part, six-minute Hail Bop to open their debut album, but Django Django laugh in the face of convention, producing one of the finest album openers I’ve heard in quite some time. From there, the album goes straight into breathtaking recent single Default without so much as a pause. By the time the album gets to its third track, a distinct impression is created that nothing is beyond the band. This is an album that takes a whole lot of risks (as songs like Waveforms and Zumm Zumm attest to), and I’m delighted to report that every single one of them pays off.

The band’s earlier material makes up the bulk of the middle section of the album, and works very well indeed in context. There are few who would argue that a song as good as WOR would struggle to be a highlight on an album like this. It’s still up there as one of the band’s finest moments, flanked by Love’s Dart and Storm either side but losing absolutely none of its power. The sole new song around this point of the album is the acoustic-guitar led Hand of Man, which faces stiff competition but rises to the challenge admirably.

The appropriately summery Life’s a Beach opens the album’s final third, before the intense penultimate track Skies Over Cairo makes way for Silver Rays, one of the many songs on the album on which their inventive approach to rhythm shines through, and the staggering potential of the band to develop is made clear. They’ve produced an astonishing debut album, one that is nakedly accessible yet not afraid to push boundaries. Some will call it a ‘pop’ album, but Django Django’s debut defies easy classification. It’s a lot to take in, but there isn’t a single missed opportunity on it – they’re clearly making the most of what they’ve got.

Django Django’s self-titled debut is released on January 30th through Because Music.
[PRE-ORDER] Django Django – S/T @ Amazon  | iTunes

Default

Waveforms

WOR

Django Django – Django Django was originally published on The Blue Walrus

How right I was. The idea of something being ‘country-tinged’ puts most people on their guard anyway, but regardless of its influences, it is unquestionably a contender for most beautiful album of 2012, and we’re scarcely two weeks in. The fact that it namechecks some genuinely great country songwriters on second track Emmylou (named for Emmylou Harris and referencing Judith ‘Juice’ Newton, Gram Parsons and Johnny Cash) as well as having that song touch on all the staples of a country song right down to the use of a damned slide guitar doesn’t take anything away from it. It’s one of the high points on a record that is truly special.

Kicking off with the title track, a five-minute journey that does a very good job of summing up what the album is about, its windswept arrangement and jaw-dropping climax signalling that it is only the tip of the iceberg – seriously, that was a brave move; if I had been sequencing this record I would have suggested they close with it, because with most other bands it would be extremely difficult to follow - The Lion’s Roar is filled with naked honesty and intimacy, and it’s quite an impressive feat for an album like this to sound intimate even when it is at its most raucous, like on the joyful (actual) closer King of the World, which contains my favourite set of lyrics from the year so far: ‘I’ve seen everything I ever want to see / Screaming “FIRE!” in a theatre of people taking their seats’.

Its massively uplifting finale is a well-deserved payoff after an album that deals with plenty of darkness. Blue matches an optimistic, xylophone-featuring melody with a set of despairing lyrics, telling the story of someone who has given up on love and life, and who sees ‘a stranger in the mirror’: ‘The only man you ever loved, who you thought was gonna marry you, died in a car accident when he was only 22; then you just decided love wasn’t for you, and every year since then, that’s proven to be true.’ Such sentiments are already hard-hitting enough, but the harmonies that Johanna and Klara Söderberg employ to express them increase their impact ten-fold.

Those harmonies. I don’t want to say they’re the band’s defining feature, because The Lion’s Roar is musically accomplished enough to draw attention away from the sisters’ voices, but every so often – actually, scratch that, there’s a ‘moment’ in every song – you’re reminded just how much of a difference they make, such as on sprawling album centrepiece To A Poet (which I think should be a single at some point; it’s certainly immediate enough), and penultimate track New Year’s Eve - which is also the point at which optimism begins to make itself known on the album, leading wonderfully into the aforementioned King of the World and bringing the album to an extremely satisfying finish.

First Aid Kit’s second album is magnificent. Again, far be it from me to suggest that it leaves their debut in the shade – The Big Black and the Blue still holds up very well, even two years on  – but they’ve come on so much since then that it’s hard not to feel that way at times. It relies on contrast and is quite a dark album, despite what it sounds like, but there is beauty to be found in every moment. At 21 and 18 years of age, respectively, Johanna and Klara are still young, but have produced something that displays wisdom and talent far beyond their years.

The Lion’s Roar is released on January 23rd through Wichita.
[PRE-ORDER] First Aid Kit – The Lion’s Roar @ Wichita | iTunes | Amazon

First Aid Kit – The Lion’s Roar was originally published on The Blue Walrus

Inti Rowland (facebook/bandcamp) caught my attention during an afternoon spent exploring Soundcloud a couple of months ago. A few clicks took me to his website, where I found a video of him singing his song ‘Eyes of a Starling’, unaccompanied, perched on the edge of a bath, sounding haunting and magnificent. It is that song which gives its name to, and opens Inti’s excellent new 6 track Ep, a delightful, folk-inflected record which stands out from the glut of twinkly, indistinct, acoustic music that seems, albeit gently, to assail one these days.

Inti’s voice has a kind of choir-boy purity to it, yet isn’t lacking in emotional texture, his guitar-playing is bright and subtle, and his song writing is sophisticated, particularly in terms of structure: the timing is beautifully measured, and there are plenty of well-judged pauses and spaces. For all but two of the songs he is joined by cellist Sam Rowe and violinist Megan Jenkins, both of whose thoughtful playing greatly enriches the record. They sing on it, too.

A new, fuller version of ‘Eyes of a Starling’, starts proceedings. Beautiful though it was in aforementioned, unadorned, “bath” form, the song is deepened by its treatment here. It bursts forth after a minute of rustling, somnolent instrumental music which seems to describe the forest setting in which the record was made (somewhere next to a mountain in Wales), and is all crescendos and peaks, interspersed with gentler moments that let Inti’s voice to shine through. Those more heavily orchestrated passages never sound congested, and the melodies and harmonies of the strings are unusual and don’t simply follow the main theme (this is true of the whole record, in fact). Megan’s occasional singing provides a neat counterpoint to Inti’s spare vocal style.

Megan sings with Inti throughout the second song, ‘Merchant Men at the Windows’, a simple, plaintive duet. It is, save the final, hidden song, the barest track on the Ep, sweetened by warm vocals that disguise the tenor of what’s being told. The following three tracks are more elaborate. ‘A Purse of Copper Coins’, passes through various transformations: its melancholy opening theme, wrought over by a weaving violin part, clears to reveal Inti singing alone with his liltingly-strummed guitar; the strings rejoin him and everything builds up for a cavernous-sounding middle that is, dare I say it, epic… it works though, and soon enough the song resolves, quietly winding down with just the man and his guitar.

‘Cotton Dandelion Dress’ conjures a wonderful atmosphere, seemingly awash with autumnal evening light. This feeling is reinforced by the cello and violin, which accompany Inti through most of the song (I am reminded of the string playing on parts Jeff Buckley’s album Grace).

‘Arabian Dolls’ continues in the same vein, with Inti’s sweet tune richly embellished by the sung and bowed harmonies of his cohorts. It ends unexpectedly, underpinned by a deep, reverberating note on the cello. Twenty seconds later comes the (hidden) closing track of the Ep. It is quite lovely, a simple ditty, just solo voice and guitar, and sounds like it was recorded in one take. For all the wonderful, imaginative enhancements on the rest of the record, and they really do make it a varied and rewarding listen, the final track exposes the real nub of Inti’s talent: his beautiful voice and considered approach to song writing.

I am told that Inti and Megan will be playing some gigs soon, to find out when and where, check his Facebook.

If you would like to buy the record, which as you may have realised I heartily recommend, you can do on his Bandcamp.

Inti Rowland – Eyes of a Starling was originally published on The Blue Walrus

I’ve just read the news: The Maccabees are apparently set to hit the lofty heights of #1 in the UK album charts this coming Sunday with their new album. Excuse me a moment while I punch the air in delight. This review was going to highlight the reasons why Given to the Wild deserved to be the band’s breakthrough album, anyway, but having my suspicions confirmed is something rather thrilling. Unless you’re the kind who feels that the bands they love are ‘precious’, there’s always that feeling of joy when you see them become noticed, and even though the thought of them becoming ‘big’ (as it were) more often than not scares certain sections of their fanbase, success of any sort should not be begrudged.

Consider The Maccabees’s situation: in five years, they have made the jump from being (somewhat unfairly) lumped in with the UK landfill-indie ‘scene’, to becoming a force to be seriously reckoned with. The local boys are going nationwide, to borrow from All In Your Rows, from 2007′s Colour It In. However, the new record is so expansive and textured that it will test fans’ abilities to grow, just as the band have done. Being given a Markus Dravs-assisted shot in the arm with Wall of Arms three years ago worked wonders for the band. It was a huge step forward, and the band have changed just as much again for their third outing… meaning that Given to the Wild sounds nothing like how they used to be.

The album’s lyrical themes deal with change, too, Orlando Weeks’ style having matured even further in the wake of the break-up that influenced his band’s second album. He reminds us that ‘nothing stays forever’ on album centrepiece Forever I’ve Known, reflecting on the transient nature of existence on sparky lead single Pelican (in what is an amazingly effective contrast), marrying lyrics like, ‘Before you know it, we’re pushing up the daisies’ to an insistent guitar line and sky-scraping hooks. Speaking of the latter, the keyboard line from Went Away has the capability to get stuck in a listener’s head for days.

Its appearance is one euphoric moment among many; Given to the Wild is absolutely chock-full of them, meaning this is quite comfortably the most optimistic and uplifting Maccabees record so far, despite the weightiness of its themes. However, it is not without its darker moments. Unknow is another album highlight, yet it inhabits murkier territory with its brooding bassline and jerky guitar blasts, a perfect counterpoint to Pelican, with which it has noticeable similarities in composition, even if the songs’ moods couldn’t be more different.

It has been said of the album (by the band themselves) that it possesses a sort of cinematic quality, and this is clearly audible in its structure; it has a sort of overture in the title track, before leading into Child, a song which introduces the main themes of the album: change, growth and maturity. Things draw to a close with Grew Up at Midnight, the stunning final track which ties things up nicely, giving the record a nice sense of closure. It ebbs and flows wonderfully, ensuring that not one of its 13 songs is passed over. Its 53-minute running time may seem questionable at first, but as the album grows on you – and it is definitely a grower, nowhere as immediate as their previous work – and its true depths are revealed, you sense that it is the perfect length. Far away from where they started, The Maccabees’s wild ride of a third album looks set to take them places – places they perhaps never dreamed of seeing.

Given to the Wild is out now via Fiction/Polydor
[BUY] The Maccabees – Given to the Wild @ Amazon | iTunes | Norman Recs

The Maccabees – Pelican

The Maccabees – Given to the Wild was originally published on The Blue Walrus

As I write this, it is nine months to the day since Hannah Clark, alias FOE [Twitter/Facebook], released her debut EP, Hot New Trash. When you consider that most bands take a number of years, from conception, to release an album, one conclusion can be quickly reached: damn, she moves fast. The last time I tackled a record that had been released anywhere near that quickly (trivia fans: it was Red Light Company’s Fine Fascination, released ten months after their first EP), I said that the band had potential and would do well to capitalise on it. (Sadly, they are no more, having split two years ago.) By contrast, FOE’s Bad Dream Hotline comes to light almost fully formed.

I don’t want to take that leap and say Clark has her sound completely nailed – for all I know she could release other new music this year that’s completely different – but in terms of this being her debut album, it ticks all the boxes: no weak links, plenty of variety, and hooks to burn. She hasn’t been on the scene all that long, but her opening statement is, in a word, fantastic. Even if her dark lyrical style will prove divisive, the 12 songs present on Bad Dream Hotline present a sonic palette that’s wide enough to provide something for everyone.

As evinced by lead single Cold Hard Rock, she has a knack for writing gargantuan choruses, and there are plenty of those on offer, the best of which is arguably present on The Black Lodge - coincidentally I’m going to stick my neck out and call that song the best thing she’s written so far - as possibly the most uplifting moment on the album: ‘There’s a breeze in the trees, singing, “Your black heart, your black heart needs a transplant.” Acting as the centrepiece to a song that is an altogether darker take on certain classic fairytales, the fact that it’s so unexpected makes its appearance all the more impressive.

There are plenty of other notable moments, too; Mother May I? deals with Clark’s feelings of being an outcast when she was young, evocative lyrics like, ‘I spy something in the desert of my mind / Mother may I play games with the bigger kids?’ married to a fizzing grunge-pop tune that establishes the album’s theme quite well after the breathtaking introductory salvo of Ballad For the Brainkeepers. The latter’s title is misleading – it’s not entirely a ballad, anyway, building from quiet beginnings to a cacophonous finish, with Clark giving herself life lessons: ‘Get to the top / Get all the way up, just don’t fall off’.

There’s no danger of that happening; while her rise has been surprisingly fast (again, it took nine months for her to get to where she is now), she’s only just getting warmed up. Maybe she can learn to shake the insecurity that is so clearly documented on this album. She describes her body as a Jailhouse, opening up about her isolation; on A Handsome Stranger Called Death she reveals the fear she used to have of ‘being another dead-at-20 something-or-another’; and on stunning (actual) ballad Dance and Weep she relates her frustration at not being noticed enough: ‘Was I selfish again? Well, I can’t help that / I do it all for you and I get nothing back.’

Older songs Genie In a Coke Can and Tyrant Song also feature; it would be foolish to call them weak songs, as they certainly fit in quite well on the album – and on that note, there is no Deep Water Heartbreaker, which might not have fit the context of Bad Dream Hotline anyway, so that was a good move – but the newer stuff eclipses them both. Clark has come a hell of a long way in a short space of time, and it sounds like she has plenty more up her sleeve, but, to say the absolute least of it, Bad Dream Hotline will do for now. This is one hell of an introduction.

FOE – Cold Hard Rock

Bad Dream Hotline is out January 16th; pre-order here.

FOE – Bad Dream Hotline was originally published on The Blue Walrus

What exactly is ‘pop’ music comprised of nowadays? Anything that resonates with the public consciousness, it seems. The charts are dominated by dance music and R&B, but I think there could be room for bands who are ‘pop’ at their core, yet try to mask it with quirks and unusual production. Just ask Django Django. When last I’d heard from them, they were about to release a double A-side single of WOR and Skies Over Cairo. This was early 2010. They hadn’t been on my radar that much since then, but recent single Waveforms indicated the wheels were once again beginning to turn in Django Django-land. All three of the aforementioned songs will feature on their forthcoming, long-awaited, self-titled debut, out January 30th, but the record is being trailed by Default, and it’s arguably the most immediate song the quartet have released so far, featuring an unshakeable hook and breezy guitar line and immediately memorable lyrics like, ‘You thought you’d set the bar, I’d never tried to work it out / We just lit the fire and now you want to put it out’. Their music may portray them as oddballs, but a song as good as this cannot be messed with – they clearly know what they’re doing. FAO fans of Hot Chip: here’s your new favourite band. Everyone else would do well to sit up and pay attention, too, because this lot are going places.

Django Django – Default was originally published on The Blue Walrus