I seem to have been tongue-tied for the last half of last year; I couldn’t find the words. So I’ve only just got round to writing about these beauties from 2013, some of the fifty or so tracks I’d collected and had intended to prune into a Best Of… I’m not going to write about […]
Isn’t that the way a love song – and indeed love, and indeed religion – works? Takes the internal intangible and makes it audible, physical, present, be it a 7” single or a cathedral.
Wake up you lucky bastards! This is transformative, inspiring, innovative stuff, all of which are dull-as-ditchwater words for music which is really, really anything but.
A review of ‘Arc’ by Everything Everything that absolutely takes issue with everything the NME and the Tories stand for
The words come tumbling out of Jonathan Higgs’ mouth like so many bright bees, clouds and clouds of them buzzing about, so numerous and sharp such that their ingenuity, volume and ambition remind me of Joanna Newsom’s meticulous verses. He conjures up drone strikes, billionaires, footballers’ wives, broken war-heroes, landmines, volcanoes, rioters, pterodactyls, post-apocalyptic landscapes, revelatory visions. Not a waistcoat in sight.
It’s leather trousers worn by men in pubs. It’s an OAP still piling the remainder of his hair into his Teddy Boy quiff, which has over decades thinned to the point where it’s just a flimsy hint, a ghost of a style.
I want to hear Beck songs played by elephants and by wind sculptures and London taxi cabs. Make it so!
“Mumford & Sons’ singular importance in rock’s current moment cannot be underestimated,” is not a sentence I ever imagined I’d read.
Sparky, desperate, rough-edged, delirium-fuelled, defiant, shouty boy pop. There’s a place for it, you know.
Fuck it, Art: your licence is revoked. And Pierce: you’re a cunt.
Seriously, the best thing I have ever seen.