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 Everett True

The return of Everett True | 36. Hospitality

The return of Everett True | 36. Hospitality
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It takes me a while to get round to listening to stuff, y’ understand? Especially when bands seem to compete to find the most anonymous name around, like they should be embarrassed about what they do.

After all, it’s only music. Not a real job.

This song. Well, they had me from the opening 2 seconds, y’ understand. Like a Breeders cleaned-up for the present age. (I show my preconceptions with a statement like this, nothing else.) It has a smoothness that I used to love about The Concretes that does not jar or irritate me the way smoothness often does.  The vocal is just enough off the beat to please. There’s a touch of the Eleanor Friedberger‘s about it, by which I mean it reminds me of something released by Stiff Records in 1978. (Age, against.) Some folk would doubtless use the word ‘twee’ here as a compliment, but it NEVER is. I don’t even know how this came to be in my iTunes folder, the demeanour is so nothing. These days, though. Often these days, I listen to music late at night through my headphones, and this is late-night headphones-listening music: music to comfort and nurse the chill at my core. Music to hug me when no hugs are forthcoming (and these years they never are). Like my own personal Beatles (I know I’ve used that line before… but here I’m using it to signify traditionalism, the fact that what to other people is Oasis is to me Hospitality).

Everything is in place. (I’m talking Hospitality’s second album here.) (NOTE TO MUSIC REVIEWERS: why use the word sophomore when you can use the word second. It just marks you out as a sorry creep.) It grows quiet when it should. It breathes when it should. The irritating, pointless displays of musicianship and virtuosity all happen where they should. (I guess these are supposed to indicate moments of soulfulness or moments for reflection, or something. They sure don’t to me, though. I fucking HATE preciousness.) She keeps repeating the same vocal trick, which isn’t even hers. But what is?

I cried, listening to a song today. It wasn’t any of these. It was this one.

I cried, remembering my factory job at the age of 18. I thought that was all there was to my life, all my friends away to college and university. “Didn’t your parents offer any comfort?” Charlotte asked. Why would they have done? It was a job. That is what young people are supposed to aspire to: doesn’t matter on what level, or how bad. A job. Welcome to… no, I can’t write that.

Don’t get me wrong. Those opening 2 seconds are fine. I’d kill for 2 seconds like that to happen in my life.

I suspect this is what’s called indie-pop in America these days. A rarefied audience.

DISCLAIMER: I did like one Vampire Weekend and one Vines song, too.

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