That whole “music used to sound better when I was younger” theory

JULY (40-51)

Janelle Monáe – Q.U.E.E.N. feat. Erykah Badu

I never had anything against disco, ever. If my fellow (we didn’t call ourselves hipsters then) hipsters had something against ‘chart pap’, the invective was rarely aimed in the direction of Niles and Rodgers, Moroder… Gloria Gaynor even. Everyone loves to dance. Everyone loves to strut their funky stuff, white boy. Don’t they?

Les Morts Vont Bien – Das Leben Ist So

Laconic, repetitive, dryly humorous and WRONG. I don’t know why it feels humorous and I don’t really know why it feels wrong. All I know is that one time I sat down for a beer somewhere in the north of Germany and in unison, the whole table started to drink. *The fact that Les Morts Vont Bien are actually French detracts not one jot from the thrust of my argument.

Jenny Hval – Innocence Is Kinky

There’s a vulnerability and self-assurance and intimacy about this performance (this interpretation of the song) that I find very appealing. Also, the music is sexually charged, all tiny thrusts of emotion and whispered entreaties. Perhaps this isn’t the intention, in which case I apologise for any inappropriate interpretations. As I say, a statement like “the sexiest video I’ve seen in years” reveals more about me than the music. Here. Another clue. Two other videos I find erotic (and yes, it’s totally linked to the music).

The Julie Ruin – Oh Come On

It’s a fist pumper of an anthem, a lip pouter. It’s as meaningless and filled with meaning as, “Wave your arms in the air/Wave them like you just don’t care”. The difference is in the detail. Fierce and dorky but militantly joyful. (No, not dorky that way, you dullard.) Female empowered. Fierce staccato stutter. Fierce and human and fun and… fuck this, I’m going outside to jump around. You could play this 20 times straight and still end up massively smiling.

Dog Legs – Cobra Snake

It’s like Brighton’s beaches covered with Daniel Johnston and 5,6,7,8′s fans, having shivery trash can party madness at 1am. It’s a delirious sliver, the slightest of delights. It’s a pop song, it lasts 1.42 minutes and it’s by Dog Legs.

Hop Along – Sister Cities

This is what I would’ve called grunge but no one else understood the term: loose, laconic, emotionally charged, the feedback and joy at playing music spilling over into the sound, a female voice sometimes cutting loose but never shaking free of its moorings and never wanting to either: the song stops for a while but then starts up again even more rampant. It’s Bettie Serveert of course. Everything is Bettie Serveert. It’s also immeasurably American – sometimes I wish I’d never gotten off that random Greyhound coach in the middle of Massachusetts and stayed, flitting from floor to floor, birthday party jar filled with whiskey upon birthday party jar filled with whiskey, until eventually someone had stumbled across my lifeless body wreathed in smiles and bruises, indecipherable messages scrawled across my bloodied brow. Classic rock, but classic rock doesn’t automatically equate with stasis.

Thee Open Sex – Light Of Love

Listen to it. Go on have a listen. Righteous. It’s like the ghosts of Spacemen 3 only not. It’s like The Black Angels, only even more so. It’s claustrophobic and compelling and repetitive and hypnotic and a solid gone blast. Fuzz-drenched. Circular. Mesmeric. Compelling. Have I said that already? You could listen to this chainsaw-good music for hours on end, hook it up through your veins, and it still wouldn’t be enough. You never want this glorious coruscating mess ‘a noise to stop, don’t want the oscillations to quit them oscillating, don’t want them guitars to quit them trembling, don’t want those vocals to quit them calling, don’t want them drums to quit them pounding, don’t want for nothing ‘cept more of the groove, more of the righteous groove. This, my friends and errant dog-lovers, is maximum rock’n’roll, maximum escape velocity but with such a steady relentless gravitational pull. Trad as fucking Dave Graney’s underwear but… you know. That ain’t no insult, not at all, not round these parts sister.

Hookworms – Away/Towards

Bangs fuck. However great you were thinking that Thee Open Sex track is… and Bangs alive, it is it is… then… Wait. Let’s not reduce Song of the Day to mindless “better than” stanzas. Thee Open Sex rock as hard as The Black Angels, and Hookworms rock as hard as Mudhoney. And all four bands rock as hard as 13th Floor Elevators and Spacemen 3 and Boo Frog and… Wait. Let’s not reduce this to a simple litmus test. Hookworms are that nagging insistence deep inside your head that you will NEVER hear all the great music that’s going to be made, that you will never quit experiencing that buzz, that wonder that drew you fatally in towards rock’n’roll in the first place, that you will NEVER lose faith no matter how grim and sunny the world outside is, that actually the grimmer the world becomes and the more mundane, the more magical music like this will sound.

Ballet School – Heartbeat Overdrive

‘Heartbeat Overdrive’ occupies the fertile middle ground between early Kate Bush, 80s Madonna and the portion of Cocteau Twins’ back catalogue I’m familiar with. To be honest, until I heard ‘Heartbeat Overdrive’ I had no idea there was any particular middle ground between those three artists, let alone that it was so fertile. But there is and it is. It clearly is. The type of song you’ll hear in a year’s time and go… wait, who the fuck is this again? This is totally WONDERFUL.

Mirror Parties – Bear Vomit

In this great game of smoke and cowards, everything reminds me of something else, and today it’s the turn of The Wolfhounds, a deadpan-smart sardonic band from Romford, Essex to be dragged mewling into the light, there to blink a few precarious times in the faded spotlight as everyone admires the cut of their jib, the thrust of their fret-boards. The emotional pull of the music. The lanky heckling.

Fat Creeps – Daydreaming

his takes on new dimensions, played louder. Played louder it’s like I’m transported out of these grey (green) surroundings and away from listening out for the garage door opening to some dingy backwater club on the East Coast (America), where I’m huddled uncomfortably on a bench listening to drums belch out during soundcheck, shuddering but not caring because I know that in an hour or two, a shot or 10, life is going to start over and become vivid again. Close harmonies like the Vivian Girls showed the world once more existed and heavy guitars, a thudding back beat.

Blludd Relations – Even Steven

This passes the Kid Koala test. So laidback it’s beyond horizontal. Chilled. Woozy. Wonderful.

(continues overleaf)

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by Everett True

My name is Everett True. I am a music critic. This is what I do. I criticise music. The clue is in my job description – music critic. I do not consider myself a journalist, as I do not research or report hard news. I do not consider myself a commentator as I believe that everyone should be a participant. I criticise people and in return I am not surprised if other people criticise me. It is part of the whole deal of being in the public arena. I am Everett True. Believe in me and I have power like a God. Quit believing in me and I no longer exist.