If you’re in a band, before your next practice, instead of going into your rehearsal space or your basement, head on out to Costco. While there, buy buckets of candy and bubble gum–the sweeter and more artificial, the better. During practice, start eating. Eat between what you’re working on, and don’t wipe your hands or faces off. Then, maybe, you’ll have as much energy as Baltimore’s Ponytail, a young outfit looking as if they rolled straight out of the performing arts high school, pupils pinned with corn syrup and carnauba wax from an hours-long sucrose bender.
Slamming excitable riffage into drumming that blows out of the pocket, Ponytail follows in the tradition of a number of past punk-ish temples to whirling dervish female singers, calling to mind Melt-Banana and the Dog Faced Hermans, borrowing key moods and elements from both. But the clearest influence seems to be Bow Wow Wow, that unclassifiable misfire of Malcolm McLaren’s post-Pistols career: both bands share a diffuse, genre-warping approach to creating something new. You may not have heard a singer like Ponytail’s Molly Siegel before, but on Ice Cream Spiritual (We Are Free, 2008) her wild screeching and whinnying–peppered with exuberant lyrics and a breathless delivery–turns the pitch of this bass-free quartet well beyond where you’d expect. Whether that’s a good or bad thing depends upon your tolerance for youthful expression and all of the walls it bumps along its path. A short runtime makes for maximum impact, though any more might burn listeners out.
That said, any band with a sound this committed to getting free deserves notice. Plangent melodies buffeted by expressions of manic happiness never fail to bring such a sentiment around. Credit Ponytail for even having the stamina to get to that state of mind, not to mention stay there.
If we at The Fix found ourselves at the proverbial dusty crossroads where the Devil spends his down time waiting for desperate souls willing to strike a deal, we would pass on the usual transaction of our eternal destiny handed over for the chance to play guitar like Eddie Van Halen. We don’t actually want to be one of those musical types who lay bare their souls, subjecting it to the scrutiny and criticism of desktop critics and embittered wannabes. No, we are the embittered wannabes, dutifully slinging criticism and casting aspersions. The Fix has prepped an offer for the Dark Lord to exchange twenty over-hyped, way-outstayed-their-fifteen-minutes, ego-infested poseurs for five of the genuine articles. We’re talking five vital artists driven into obscurity and artistic Siberias out of disgust with the music business and all the foul shit they would have had to eat to remain in the mix, or who have been held at bay by drugs, depression or jail. We are willing to trade at a rate of four to one.
We offer for sacrifice, in the Aztec sense of the term, these twenty cultural stains:
1. Coldplay
Following the trail blazed by Klaus Nomi, Yanni and John Tesh, this band is what happens when your only records are ELO and latter-career Elton John and you misheard the few good parts of those. Uh, Mr. Paltrow, we know you’re rich and you look like you were rich before you were famous so quit dressing like an updated Artful Dodger. God invented the electric guitar so we didn’t have to listen to stuffy Europhiles saw away on those hideous violins and cellos, but you have forsworn God’s plan for rock ‘n’ roll and now we cast you out. Away.
2. R.E.M.
Everyone so desperately wanted R.E.M. to make another good record that they went ahead and heralded this year’s Accelerate as a total return to form and bought up tickets for the tour. But like the last seventeen things Michael Stipe and company have released, it is a completely forgettable, tuneless mess, notable only for being slightly louder than the last album. Hardly cause for celebration, especially considering they remain the most self-important, humorless men in rock, who have been lapped in the creative department not only by one-time contemporaries like U2 but even disciples like Radiohead, Coldplay (see #1) and Snow Patrol. It’s time to put the blue eye shadow away and climb the pyramid.
3. Pearl Jam
We could have gone with the Eagles or the Doors, but what about the ‘90s answer to both? These puritanical pollyannas employed hippie business logic–“so, we can bust our asses on world tours, or, we can sit here doing nothing and blame Ticketmaster?”–while their mystic side quickly faded in turn for the same old rock records everybody in the ’70s had ditched by the ’80s. Their laissez-faire jock image resonated with millions of meat heads to the chagrin of those who had peaked back around the time punk broke. Vedder’s vocals–that throaty, steam-powered, full-body contorter known as the “yarl”–went on to inspire cum stains like Dave Matthews (see #10), Creed’s Scott Stapp, and that guy from Nickelback. Pearl Jam’s grand plan to grind shut the gears and restore order following Nirvana’s untimely demise worked like a charm. And by not contributing a single advancement to rock music, they effectively set our musical culture back two decades.
4. Green Day
The M. Night Shyamalans of pop music might have busted out of the gate, way the hell back when, brandishing enthusiastic re-takes on classic models, but what the fuck have they done for us lately? People now listen to the McPunk of Green Day out of drone habit. Growing more pretentious and sadly self-important by the year, it’s enough already with the political lecturing from a dude pushing forty who wears eyeliner and buys his rags at Hot Topic. We liked them better when they didn’t give a shit. Now, it’s our turn to not give a shit.
5. Kanye West
His artless flaunting of a primitive and novitiate distaste for whitey is just so quaint, and may be his only compelling characteristic. Touted in the lineage of Wu Tang and KRS-1 as an educator-rapper, this halting babbler of pop culture fixations has done nothing that holds a smidgen of value three weeks after its release. His ill-begotten sampling and foolhardy blasphemies of soul and R&B classics denotes a clear break between his reprehensible “school” and all that is decent in music. Iconoclastic punkers deconstructed horse shit false idols and struck back at heinous industry constructs that had gutted the musical landscape of its vitality; and there are plenty of sycophantic music critics who will credit West’s evil doings to artistic license and cultural idiosyncrasy, but his reckless layering of tuneless yammering predicated on random references to shit you can read off of billboards and see in movie ads over the top of Ray Charles and Otis Redding treasures is unforgivable. This poster child for ADD will soon fade from memory and hopefully all public record, but we would just as soon give his ass back now for somebody who will try and make the world a more musical place.
6. Sonic Youth
You had us at EVOL and you really should have fucking stopped when Kim started to look old. But then, do you even have a picture where she could pass for forty-five? Your A&R skills ‘plied to tap winners like Beastie Boys and Nirvana out of obscurity hardly makes up for the pretentious musical jack-off sessions and onerous multi-disciplinary European art exhibitions. Now we hear about a self-release of experimental instrumentals from an hour-long improvised show in Denmark from 2005. What the fuck did the Danish ever do to you? They make delicious pastries for chrissakes! 3 out of 4 Abu Ghraib prisoners chose to be the subject of an experiment in hooded sodomy rather than be subjected to one of your experimental EP’s in a cushy hotel room. Props for that Starbucks compilation, though; it shows you have the presence of mind to know your place, right next to Paul McCartney’s aural vomit (see #20). After innumerable offenses, your artistic licenses are hereby revoked.
7. Smashing Pumpkins
The same argument implicating Pearl Jam goes backward for Smashing Pumpkins, who were lucky enough to gain notice but stupid and egotistical enough to blow it on miserable excess and rehashings of the failed experiments of others. The balls on this Corgan guy. But he couldn’t even back ‘em up by at least making a show of eschewing the successes. And their handful of moments, aligned in a truly spaced, sun-dappled afternoon whomp of guitar resin, sink without trace into all of their puddle-deep platitudes. To think that these guys used the punk and indie rock networks to make such an obvious grab for fame and money constitutes unmitigated blasphemy, which is irrelevant of course to these soul sellers. Generations ahead are already forgetting you. The world is a vampire, Billy. May you go insane alone. Or at least go away.
8. Ryan Adams
Being prolific doesn’t necessarily mean being great and since he fell off the stage in London, breaking his wrist in January 2004, Adams has been anything but. He and his backing band the Cardinals released three albums of watery Grateful Dead style jams in 2005, before Adams joined up with Phil Lesh and hit the hacky-sack circuit. Next, he took to the Internet, using his website to release 18 albums worth of novelty music. He spent 2006 hoovering heroin, cocaine, booze and pills. His comeback efforts, Easy Tiger and the Follow The Lights EP, are so banal they make the Counting Crows sound like Pitchshifter. Lately, Adams has been blogging his adolescent poetry in an effort to win back his last girlfriend and denying he’s hooked up with tween has-been Mandy Moore, even though everyone knows he totally has.
9. Modest Mouse
In Conan O’Brien’s “Bizarro World” these guys are the dilution of the post-Slint/Shellac-lite school of indie malfeasance. Too cacophonous to dismiss as innocuous, this coagulation of feckless groupies-with-a-record-deal do not warrant extensive exposition. So, let’s dispense with the formalities. You guys go away and we won’t dispatch a Fuzz staff detail to hold down your “singer” for a round of Cleveland Steamers.
10. Dave Matthews Band
Talk about lyrically challenged. 1000 monkeys on 1000 typewriters for 1000 years would not churn out drivel as inane as DMB’s choicest moments. One more quarter-assed metaphor for getting high and/or boning and we might literally die. Plus, their milk-the-fans-of-every-last-penny scheme, with twice the live releases (12) as studio albums (6), requires a positively sociopathic combination of cheek, greed and laziness.
11. Usher
There are at least twenty-five of his ilk that should suffer this fate but he will suffice as the stand-in. We have to start somewhere with this abominable gaggle of pseudo-crooning pussy beggars. Chicks give this guy ass just so he’ll shut the fuck up about it. And that obviously doesn’t stop him from maintaining a running commentary during the bedroom activity. If he actually liked girls he would know that most of them aren’t all that interested in “making love,” they just wanna fuck, and without a bunch of bloated, observational banter while in the act. You’re getting a little nippy there lover boy; better put a shirt on and Usher your ass the fuck outta here.
12. Cat Power
Hard to remember now, but there was a time when Chan Marshall was interesting. Her most awe-inspiring shows usually ended abruptly with her running off stage in a stream of tears. Her records offered a glimpse into the mind of an artist battling real demons. But a few years ago Cat Power cleaned up her act, became the face of Chanel and hit the road with a bunch of veteran studio musicians, effectively turning herself into the indie-rock Norah Jones. Compare 2000’s adventurous The Covers Record with this year’s Jukebox, another covers record that only manages to summon up the most pedestrian takes on songs by Bob Dylan, Hank Williams and James Brown. She approached each Jukebox song as if sleepwalking, like she did through her most recent tour, just a ghost of the volatile singer that once made our hearts race with meltdown classics like “What Would The Community Think” and “Moon Pix.” Enough.
13. Dinosaur Jr.
We could almost give J Mascis a pass based on the whole pity tip but he was remaking the same record over and over back when he was purportedly lucid. Offering him for sacrifice is not really fair since it amounts to more of an indictment of the endemic laziness of music fans than it does a denouncement of Mascis’ idiot-savant like pre-occupation with his 2-and-half chords. But then games with the Devil are hardly ever played fairly. Suckers play fair and suckers lose. Later J.
14. CocoRosie
The pu-pu platter of every weird thing that’s gone down in pop music since Kate Bush and the Residents, all rolled into one deplorable costume. CocoRosie have crammed so many disparate identities into their music it sounds like nothing at all, despite their desperate, clingy reaches into diabetic levels of gooey sap. It’s like watching a child’s doll collection try to rap–and poorly, we might add––serving as a pointed and prescient warning against raising your children without boundaries. If you see someone over 21 in your neighborhood who looks like these people, expect a rent increase soon. An eternity on roadside trash detail should be their fate. Nah, just go away.
15. Gnarls Barkley
Weren’t these guys calling themselves OutKast or Black Eyed Peas like last week? A publicist can post any bio they possess the gall to claim as legit, attempting to sell this construct as a human act, but GB are quite obviously a botched student multi-media project. Grade: F. Now delete those files from the school’s hard drive and don’t enroll in this class next semester.
16. Euro Techno Re-mixes
We are not aware of a concept more shamelessly odious than some boner calling himself something like “DJ Bart Simpson Blue Revolution Snapple” putting dance beats behind “My Heart Will Go On” or “Losing My Religion” and feeding them across language barriers to the oppressed. Mindless, yet archly commercial, we’re not sure pop music has ever sounded so despicable. May food riots plague your festivals until you flee for your very lives.
17. Morrissey
The very reason we have to put up with all this goddamn emo music nowadays. Were it not for Johnny Marr would we have ever even heard of this guy? Unredeemed save for his long gone collaboration with Marr and a scant few accidental comic moments (e.g., “I would go out tonight but I haven’t got a stitch to wear”), Morrissey has been pissing and moaning about God knows what all for twenty odd years. We’ve been force-fed eight albums of angst so melodramatic it wouldn’t be out of place in an 8th grade girls bathroom (nor likely would Morrissey be), so yeah, we’re starting to get a little sick of it. And by a little, we mean the sound of his voice makes us want to eat a pipe bomb.
18. Amy Winehouse
Crack. Yeah Amy, you like crack. All right, you really, really like crack. We all do. The shit’s popular for a reason. Could you just not let your videographer friends (and husband) follow you into the bathroom every time you smoke it? Or, how about you just drop the tabloid-ready antics altogether and focus all your time and energy on ripping off ’60s artists. Oh wait, then you’d be Lenny Kravitz. Forget it, Amy, just go with what you know. Promise you’ll stay hydrated, and for God’s sake get yourself some Bactine or something before all those open sores get infected. And as for you, Lenny, the only thing that’s saved you from a good cockpunching all these years is that your mother used to live next door to George Jefferson.
19. Madonna
Seems like a million years ago that Madonna was relevant. That’s because it was. She’s a million years old. And instead of aging gracefully she’s going for the marathon-runner-that’s-been-skinned-alive look. If not for her career-saving decision to re-hash an ABBA song, we’d be coming on 20 years since Madonna brought us something other than an utter embarrassment to anyone involved. Now she resorts to kissing girls (so edgy!) and dry humping Justin Timberlake (edgy! again!) to stay in the news. We get it, Madge. You’re cool. Now stop making out with the kids and scram.
20. The Beatles
The seminal blight on the history of rock-and-roll since their fey little asses came skipping out of whatever grotesquely verdant, throbbing and respiring pod spawned them back in Liverpool. Their second record, With the Beatles (1963), is rife with unabashed emasculations and mal-renderings of milestone R&B hits and signaled the beginning of a decade of serial brazen mockery, especially with their injustice to Barrett Strong’s “Money (That’s What I Want).” The Beatles were to rock-n-roll what Enron was to the working man. They were arrogant, elitist, dilettantes who–even though now diminished by half–just won’t go away. Well boys, the Devil’s here and he’s got a past due notice for what’s left of your hollow, wheezy souls. Once and for all, Go Away!
…and these five we want back, please:
Neutral Milk Hotel
Jeff Mangum clearly ascribes to the George Costanza philosophy of going out on a high note. Fuck protecting your legacy and throw us a bone here. We’re drowning in assholes. We’d trade some vital organs (in addition to the afore-mentioned) for just one EP.
Shuggie Otis
Could the impossibly precocious (age fifteen at the time) lead guitar player on father Johnny Otis’ raunchy blues classic Snatch and the Poontangs and author of “Strawberry Letter 23″ deliver us from this latter-times R&B desert?
Bitch Magnet
The name alone warrants a comeback, Soo Young. Let that nasty bass guitar show us who our daddy is. You, Shellac and My Bloody Valentine at All Tomorrow’s Parties? Just the thought makes us feel naughty. You’re the coolest dorky-looking post-punk rock songwriter since, well…forever. Your tension-and-release ferocity is sorely lacking in this age of kids with no sense of dynamics or restraint. Return to make ‘em all bow, keel and grovel.
Captain Beefheart
Duh.
Sly Stone
Double Duh.
17 year-old Jamie-Lynn Spears, little sister to Britney and star of Nickelodeon’s Zooey 101, gave birth to her first child, daughter Maddie Briann, on June 19, 2008, at Mississippi Southwest Regional Medical Center. The father is longtime boyfriend/fiancé Casey Aldridge,
Maddie Briann joins her cousins Sean Preston and Jayden James as the littlest members of the Spears clan. One hopes these sisters don’t stop producing offspring until the two have enough kids to populate a baseball team. Or a baby pop supergroup.
Jamie-Lynn has stated that the father of her unborn child was Aldridge, 19. Because Spears was under the legal age of consent in California, questions came up regarding their age difference, and whether Aldridge would or could be charged with statutory rape. However, The Department of Motor Vehicles of Mississippi confirmed that Aldridge was born on April 29, 1989, making him slightly less than two years older than Spears. In California, it is illegal for an adult to have intercourse with a person under the age of 18, but it is only a misdemeanor if the child is less than three years younger than the adult. It still isn’t known where Aldridge had sexual intercourse with Spears. Depending on the location, this may or may not have been illegal. Neither California nor Mississippi have pursued charges against Aldridge so far.
Another Spears family offering set to “drop” at some point in the near future is a book written by their mother, Lynne Spears. It’s a memoir of parenting, or something. Through the Storm: A Real Story of Fame and Family in a Tabloid World will be released on September 16, according to book publisher Thomas Nelson, which publishes inspirational books and Bibles. The book is not intended to give advice to parents.
Critics have questioned the validity of such a book penned by Brit-Brit and Jamie-Lynn’s mom. According to the tabloids (which aren’t always incorrect, just exceedingly cruel) her daughters have tenuous relationships with their mother, and clearly make questionable, non-traditional choices in their own lives (see Britney shaving her head and attacking a car, or driving down the Pacific Coastal Highway with her baby on her lap). We will consider the book to be great entertainment, though you can’t dance to it.
Tilly and the Wall are like the musical equivalent of unicorns and mermaids. The first time I heard of this Omaha, Nebraska fivesome I was convinced they were a fictional sonic beast, or something closer to the imaginary friends I always wished I had. First off, with such a storybook-esque moniker–appropriately borrowed from a children’s book–and the whole whimsical notion of a tap dancer as percussionist, I was afraid that this musical entity might evaporate into a rose-colored cloud of smoke before I had a chance to revel in their musical happy ending.
On their decidedly poppier third effort unofficially entitled O (Team Love Records, 2008)–named for an O-shaped frame that will be eventually filled with album cover artwork–Tilly and the Wall sound as ethereal and carnivalesque as ever. They have abandoned some of the more folksy elements for an indie-pop mélange, incorporating drums as well as screeching electric axe action and frenzied blasts from an old-school horn section. Kicking things off with a rock n’ roll edge, “Pot Kettle Black” is a furious psych-influenced track that recalls the sinister stomp of the Sonics with bratty vocals and fervent handclaps, while “Cacophony” is Tilly and the Wall’s signature toe-tapping, multi-dimensional pop that would fit perfectly in both a club setting or a circus dress rehearsal. While there might not be unicorns or splashing mermaids, Tilly and the Wall provide the right amount of musical escapism on O that will give me–and my slew of imaginary peeps–a perfect soundtrack for a dance-filled fantasyland.
Back from a six-year hiatus, German electronic pop outfit Notwist shows a softer side on their latest effort The Devil, You + Me (Domino, 2008). With a muted austerity, these sonic shape-shifters prove that subdued sounds can still make an impact. Although The Devil, You + Me is a far cry from the more frenetic electro-pop of 2002’s Neon Golden, there is a certain drowsy etherealness that feels somehow more refined and thoughtful without being overly cerebral.
“Good Lies” opens with melodic strumming and breathy vocals, which recall New Order’s delicate synth-fueled dance dirges, while the title track combines a chiming lullabye-like harmony with barely audible reverb flourishes. The moody “On Planet Off” is driven by an ominous bass line and hollowed out percussion, making for an aural experience that resembles a futuristic eulogy, while “Gravity,” with its glitchy beat and noise chirps, sounds like the music equivalent to weightlessness–a clever sonic pun, perhaps.
How do you follow up to an album whose signature track decried its subject as a “bloody motherfucking asshole?” This is a cheeky way of pointing out that Martha Wainwright is nothing if not an adroit observer, weaving her pointed tales of love and its aftershocks with a voice that straddles the divide between wounded and warrior. On her 2005 self-titled debut, “B.M.F.A.” (an abbreviation that may have appeased some, but fooled no one) may not have been the strongest track, but it was the most memorable, and undoubtedly what introduced many to the singer’s sound. Would it turn out to be Wainwright’s equivalent of Liz Phair’s “Fuck and Run,” the bruised woman’s screw-you anthem, a calling card by which she’d be defined even if her music had segued elsewhere?
On her second full-length album, I Know You’re Married, But I’ve Got Feelings Too (Rounder, 2008), Wainwright plays with her identity of feminine rage. The title is the first indication of a new lightness of being–it’s tongue-in-cheek, cognizant of the narcissism that confessional songwriting can emit, but comfortably and unapologetically seated within expressive terrain. That is to say, the often sorrowful Wainwright isn’t afraid to be more contented here, often striking a Cure-ish paradox between pleasure and pain. An uptempo song like “Love Is a Stranger” wails with honesty, but it also is jangly and twangy in a stomp-your-feet kind of way. “Bleeding All Over You”–the song that contains the album’s title in its lyrics–is unpredictably fast, somehow turning its narrator’s destroyed heart into pop fodder without seeming false. Even when she does straightforward, emotionally raw fare like “I Wish I Were,” it feels like just another aspect of Wainwright’s multifaceted identity, as necessary as the cover of Syd Barrett’s “See Emily Play” that the album also includes. She’s successfully diversified her subject matter while maintaining allegiance to her sound and philosophy.
Now that singers like Amy Winehouse, Kate Nash, and Lily Allen have fully mainstreamed (not to mention rendered campy) female acrimony, Wainwright makes a good call pulling out an album like this, a clear indication that she has always been more than the sum of her parts. Put another way, she won’t settle at being defined as the girl who called him a “bloody motherfucking asshole”–even if he still might be one.
Video of British “soul” singer Amy Winehouse, under the influence and singing some juvenile ditty replete with racial epithets, surfaced over the weekend on the world wide web, courtesy of News Of the World. The video, recorded by her husband, Blake Fielder-Civil, shows Winehouse and a female friend in an apparent advanced state of inebriation starting to sing a song that begins with the word “Blacks.” The duo halt their saucy rendition and implore the husband-cameraman to assure them that he is not actually taping the scene. After they are satisfied that they are enjoying utter privacy, they go on to sing a verse and a half of some jingle that is consists mainly of a string of familiar racial slurs. Winehouse accompanies the shocking display with at least one hand gesture that involves her stretching the corner of one her eyes back while singing a word that is often construed as derisive toward Asians.
The troubled star Winehouse has since claimed that there was nothing racist about her or her behavior saying, “I’m the least racist person going.” Photos of Winehouse among an array of drug paraphernalia are also available with the NOTW story.
Don’t have time to search out this week’s essential new music? That’s why we’re here.
Fleet Foxes “White Winter Hymnal”
If only every band with beards could pass through Detroit on its pilgrimage to Laurel Canyon, swallow a big gulp of baroque pop with its nightly intake of Beach Boys, and genuinely embrace the weirdness then maybe–just maybe–they would all sound as wonderful as this Seattle five-piece does on this little taster from its spectacular full-length debut.
MP3: White Winter Hymnal
The Futureheads “Broke Up The Time”
Their no-holds-barred cover of Kate Bush’s “Hounds of Love” will remain The Futureheads’ crowning moment, but with this choppy post-punk throwback they’re getting pretty close to having another.
MP3: Broke Up The Time
Ed Harcourt “Revolution of the Heart”
Ed Harcourt hasn’t given up his lifelong pursuit of making every single one of his songs as epic as The Beatles’ “A Day In The Life.” This one packs on the pianos, handclaps and swooping vocals in several layers, sounding quite massive in its own right.
(via Dovecote Records)
Wolf Parade “Language City”
Wolf Parade is trying hard to escape the “prog-rock” tag. We can’t speak for the rest of the group’s second album, but this bouncy piano-driven rock track can only help. It turns out they’re actually just a new-wave band in search of the perfect John Hughes movie in which to make a cameo.
MP3: Language City
Bo Diddley “Who Do You Love?”
This rock and roll classic has been covered by everyone from Eric Clapton and The Band to The Doors and Jesus and Mary Chan, but never better than by the man who originally wrote it and released it in 1956.
MP3: Who Do You Love?
Don’t have time to search out this week’s essential new music? That’s why we’re here.
Spiritualized “Soul on Fire”
Not quite finished messing with our heads, Jason Pierce returns more determined than ever on Spiritualized’s sixth album, Songs in A&E. Ease into it with this gently rocking psychedelic epic in which he sings, “I’ve got a hurricane inside my veins.”
MP3: Soul on Fire
I Love Math “Josephine Street”
Did picking up the Juno soundtrack make you long for old school indie-pop with jangly guitars, frail male voices and starry-eyed lyrics? Then get on board with I Love Math, a group that features members of Apples In Stereo and the Old 97s and on this track from its debut album, Getting To The Point Is Beside It, sounds like the cardigan clad lovechild of Belle & Sebastian, the Clientele and Yo La Tengo.
MP3: Josephine Street
Sigur Ros “Gobbledigook”
The Icelandic band most famous for singing songs in its own invented language doesn’t disappoint with this taster from its forthcoming fifth full length, With a Buzz In Our Ears We Play Endlessly. They sound more upbeat than ever thanks to the scratchy acoustic guitars and hasty rhythmic changes, but no less delirious.
MP3: Gobbledigook
MGMT “Time To Pretend”
Is this grinding, impossibly catchy electronic tune a mindless celebration of hedonism or a jaded look at the fast life? We’re not sure but we sure like the part where the vocoded voice goes, “I’ll move to Paris, shoot some heroin and fuck with the stars/ You man the island and the cocaine and the elegant cars.”
MP3: Time to Pretend
Coldplay “Songbird” (Oasis Cover)
With anticipation for the new Brian Eno-produced album now at a fever pitch thanks to that omnipresent iTunes commercial, maybe it’s best if we all just step back and take a breather with this understated cover of this Liam Gallagher penned ballad.
MP3: Songbird
The Tallest Man on Earth “I Won’t Be Found”
Our editor Jose Ramirez says, “It’s the best American folk since Devendra Banhart stopped being poor (and he’s Swedish).” Who are we to argue?
MP3: I Won’t Be Found
Some bands take delight in being mysterious; others don’t have a choice. It’s never been exactly clear which of those two categories France-via-New York, avant-folk sister duo CocoRosie falls into more. Their songs contain elements of hip-hop, opera, folk and nursery rhymes, and their concerts rival Broadway productions–or better yet, Cirque du Soleil–in their runny makeup, creative wardrobes and rainbow-washed sets. The only thing that seems certain is that Sierra and Bianca Casady, who have answered our questions below in tandem, don’t see the world the same way as anyone else.
Their latest release, a jangly single titled “God Has a Voice, She Speaks Through Me” (Touch and Go, 2008), only promotes their enigma. With vocals that recall Cher, contemporary R&B-tinged keys, and an infectious, carefree melody that goes on for days, the siblings have crafted their version of the summer jam. Full of religious dogma among other indecipherable lyrics, it probably won’t become as ubiquitous as “Umbrella” last year–but then again if everyone figured out the mystery, it wouldn’t be nearly as much fun.
Fuzz: What is the significance to you of the title “God Has a Voice, She Speaks Through Me”?
CocoRosie: That God is a female not a male.
What guided you into taking this direction on this release?
She did.
Why is this song decidedly upbeat?
We are obviously trying to sell out.
What inspired the song’s lyrics?
Our disgust with patriarchy.
There are five Muslim women in the beginning of the video, and other items are grouped in fives throughout, too. Why five?
Their is nothing special about five. The five Muslim women are out for a swim and when they get deep enough no one can see that the water is lifting their veils.
What went into making this video? How did you come up with the ideas for it? What didn’t work?
Lots of hair. And hair brushes. And long tranny hours of editing at night.
What field recordings exist on this song?
Whales and other water things.
What events have shaped your lives since Ghosthorse?
Playing with the greatest orchestra in the world, having a solo show at Deitch in New York, opening a gallery in Paris, etc…skinny dipping.
How will your next album sound?
Britney Spears in church.
I found a video of a new song with many different cell-phone ringtones on it. Are you for or against cells?
I don’t personally own a phone. Pagers are way more cool.
When have you felt like you’ve had a religious experience?
Everyday.
Last year, your MySpace reported you had been arrested. What happened with that?
We pulled a Winona [Ryder].
What do you feel people misunderstand most about you?
That we are folk.
What do you do to prove them otherwise?
Sell out.
What’s the one thing anyone could do to make the earth a better place to live?
Stop beating our children. No more male world leaders religious or political.
What should people take away from the song “God Has a Voice”?
God is a mother fucking tranny bitch!!!
Don’t have time to search out this week’s essential new music? That’s why we’re here.
CocoRosie “God Has a Voice She Speaks Through Me”
Our favorite indie-pop duo featuring gender bending half-Cherokee sisters–one a classically trained opera singer, the other a former model–goes funky on its new digital single. The chimes, shimmering electronic textures, heavily-processed vocals–it all sounds a bit like vintage Bjork bouncing off a funhouse mirror.
Listen on MySpace: “God Has a Voice She Speaks Through Me”
Beck “Chemtrails”
Beck’s hush-hush collaboration with Danger Mouse is going to be a lot more far out than we thought based on this moody piece of Skip Spence-inspired psychedelia. Hopefully the CD will come with its own built-in laser light show.
MP3: Chemtrails
The Ting Tings “Great DJ”
You’ve seen the iTunes commercial, read the hysterical reviews and seen their pretty mugs all over the blogosphere. Now hear what all the fuss is about, as this British guitar ‘n’ drums duo “ah-ah-ahs” its way through the leadoff track from its fantastic debut album, We Started Nothing.
MP3: Great DJ
Mates of State “My Only Offer”
After a cross-country move, this husband and wife team delivers the prettiest mid-tempo piano ballad ever about placing an offer on a new house. At least, that’s what we think this song is about.
MP3: My Only Offer
Mudhoney “I’m In and Out of Grace (Live)”
From the Seattle band’s newly remastered debut EP, Superfuzz Bigmuff, this demonic wall of noise is a good reminder as to why these guys never sold as many records as Pearl Jam.
(via Sub Pop)
Tired of retro-inspired Amy Winehouse wannabes or lackluster Lily Allen clones? Then definitely don’t pick up latest British pop sensation Adele’s shaky debut 19 (Columbia, 2008). While it’s not a carbon copy of self-destructive soul goddess Winehouse’s outstanding Back to Black or the rasta-inspired flavor of Allen’s Alright Still, 19 does have “It” producer Mark Ronson’s throwback-loving sonic fingerprints all over it. Ronson, who’s responsible for Winehouse’s signature soulful swagger, is attempting to make Adele the Dusty Springfield of the new millennium–and has failed miserably.
Although this husky-voiced Brit post-teen has the sultry conviction of Springfield, 19 is composed of one watered-down track after another, very few of which make a lasting impression. “Chasing Pavements” has a Petula Clark-like easy-listening accessibility–you can easily picture this song being played in a Wal-Mart near you–and a cheesy cinematic quality thanks to the Ronson-ified strings-heavy chorus climax.
The album’s most palatable number, “Cold Shoulder,” employs a paired-down hip hop beat, teary-eyed lyrics about rejection and features Ronson’s polished retro-meets-urban aesthetic at its best. Although Adele’s vocal and songwriting talents go without saying, 19 is more lackluster lowfat Joss Stone than the voluptuous soul of Dusty Springfield’s “Son of a Preacher Man.”
Hey, here’s an artist that I truly 100% found on Fuzz, having no prior knowledge of them beforehand. They live in Austria, a place where most people don’t expect to hear much about new music, but they’re well worth your time and attention.
As luck would have had it, I found them through a best guess match via Blip, the neat little Twitter-like audio application/conversation gestation creation now available in the navigation here on Fuzz. You enter in some keywords or the title of a song you’re listening to; Blip tries to find it, and presents a handful of options–the real thing, close matches and the like from a bunch of sources. Whatever I was looking for didn’t turn up, but a number of tracks by Bell Etage did, and since they didn’t have some sort of crazy name like ThEH FuNkY LoRdZzZ, they seemed worthy of notice.
Grateful for having checked them out, I now share the band Bell Etage with you, the Fuzzpublik. As a five-piece vehicle for singer-songwriter material in a young, poetic vein, Bell Etage struck me as pretty cool for two reasons: the overall restless rhythmic shakeup that’s present even in their calmest musical moments, and their use of blunt force, English-as-second-language lyrical delivery. The former owes a big debt to the bustling, anti-industry activity of ‘90s emo, as it separated into (and against) indie rock/pop ideas and its roots in hardcore. Listen to the snaking guitar lines and jagged wrong notes that pop out of a song like “A Drop of the Universe” and understand that not a whole lot of bands trying to play music this sincere and heartfelt actually have the control that these folks do in their attempt to strike such a balance. It speaks of time, experience, and the willingness to be different, all qualities that are shared by far too few acts out there. It’s redolent of a lot of ideas that usually don’t make it too far into songwriting showcases, and the fact that they can bring it across so naturally is quite remarkable. Their album, We Cried the Sunlight Down in the Day, is loaded with similar moments of wild surprise.
Onto the latter. Nobody’s ever expecting to hear someone singing seriously about masturbating in the opening verse of a song–and nobody really should–but it leaves “Feathers in the Washing Machine” with an uneasy feeling that carries right through to an almost immediate tempo shift to faster and more aggressive, hooky terrain. The dusky delivery of these words–odd ones at times, ones that don’t grasp a native subtlety–speak to a different set of rules. Their hustle is strong.
Anyone who likes Modest Mouse, Rainer Maria, Monochrome, any outfits of the brothers Leo (Ted or Chris, maybe even Danny) or the like really ought to check this band out. For playing within the boundaries of what we know to be an indie sound , Bell Etage takes a lot of chances. Those chances don’t translate to great work all of the time, but their yen for musical miscegenation, to weird things out in ways you wouldn’t expect, provide a bounty of real surprising, complex work that really helps to lift them up to the shoulder level of the faceless hordes out there.
With a slew of drum-and-guitar duos already dominating the indie rock scene it seems like there should be a new and improved musical configuration, you know something to shake up the old twosome paradigm.
A rocking tuba and flute pairing, anyone? French horn and a drum machine? Perhaps the resurgence of the always-entertaining one-man band? OK, maybe that’s a stretch, but when the debut effort from the much buzzed about UK sonic power couple the Ting Tings crossed my CD cluttered desk I was skeptical. “Uh oh,” was my instant reaction, fearing another prototypical DIY duo album relegated to the overpopulated terrible twosome reject pile–also known as the hand-me-down stack.
Fear not, my friends. The Ting Tings are so much more than a formulaic guy ‘n’ gal, skins-and-strings sonic tag team. On their brilliant effort We Started Nothing this Brit duo make delicious indie-pop that will make even the most jaded concert-goer or snobbish headphones hero crack a smile, toe tap and even do the hip shake shimmy to this naughty pop perfection. Whether it’s the effervescent single “Great DJ,” that combines frenetic tambourines, bratty “ah ah ahs” and the kind of technicolor sass and pizzazz found only in cartoons, or the anthemic pop-punk ditty “That’s Not My Name” which recalls the same infectious fever of cheerleader-friendly chant “Hey Mickey,” the Ting Tings are pretty much impossible to dislike. Their sound, much like their comic book-like onomonopeiatic moniker is like an aural Bif! Boom! Bang! loaded with subversive cotton candy-like saccharine pop but with a middle-finger-in-the-air rebellious spirit.
With refreshing optimism and a Blondie-like sweet-meets-tough aesthetic, the Ting Tings have obliterated the music pair stigma–for now.
Don’t have time to search out this week’s essential MP3s, streams and viral videos? That’s why we’re here.
The Long Blondes “Here Comes The Serious Bit”
Kate Jackson is the best Debbie Harry throwback we’ve heard in a long time. So it’s kind of a good thing her stylish Sheffield, England band has Blondie’s primitive new wave sound down pat on this standout track from its second album, Couples.
MP3: “Here Comes The Serious Bit”
(via Insound)
N.E.R.D. “Everybody Nose”
The leadoff single from N.E.R.D.’s forthcoming Seeing Sounds is exactly as crazy you want it to be, complete with clunky Space Invaders beats, a new jack swing breakdown and ape-shit lyrics shouted at top volume.
The Submarines “You, Me & The Bourgeoisie”
Blake Hazard of Los Angeles’ The Submarines has the kind of pure pop voice that won’t make you cringe when she sings things like, “Everyday we wake up, we choose love/ We choose life, it’s too easy just to fall apart.” On this track from the group’s sophomore album, Honeysuckle Weeks, her husband and musical partner John Dragonetti provides the requisite gloss.
MP3: “You, Me & The Bourgeoisie”
(via Insound)
Martina Topley-Bird “Valentine”
Tricky’s former smoky-voiced muse returns with her second album, The Blue God–produced by Danger Mouse–and this beautiful late-night meditation of a single. Watch for the fleeting slide guitar solo in the middle. It will melt your heart.
MP3: 07Valentine.mp3
Tim Fite “Yesterday’s Garden”
Brooklyn’s Tim Fite is on the same label as Tom Waits, Nick Cave and Lyrics Born, which makes a lot of sense. His third album, Fair Ain’t Fair, is a thoroughly eclectic affair, as this crackpot ballad confirms. Fans of Randy Newman, any of the above, or, really, music in general will not be disappointed.
MP3: “Yesterday’s Garden”
(via Insound)
Named after “the coolest guy in town,” the new record from San Francisco’s Ian Fays arrived at Fuzz headquarters with a sticker, a postcard, and a candy necklace. Clearly, this pop quartet knows the way to our sugar-loving hearts. The love theme continues with heartbroken lyrics, bittersweet harmonies, and golden doily-heart graphics. Though it’s best not to judge a book–or band–by its cover, the Fays, in their color-coordinated pop-art outfits, actually sound as good as they look–and vice versa. Were Sassy magazine still around, editor Jane Pratt and her staffers would be all over this tuneful foursome (remember “cute drummer alert”?).
Originally from Humboldt County, the quartet consists of twins Lizz (vocals, guitar) and Sara (vocals, bass, keyboards), sister Lena (triangle, castanets, cymbals), and non-relative Bradley (drums, xylophone, programmed beats). All bear the name Fay. Lizz and Sara’s soft-spoken voices summon a blend between Kate Bush and Perro del Mar’s Sarah Assbring. According to a 2007 interview they gave to Italy’s Youthless zine, “We write everything together. No real rules though, everyone contributes ideas.” The Fays may not be a household name yet, but they’re on their way. Sample comments at their Fuzz page include, “Close, warm, and distant where it needs to be,” “It’s fun and a little freaky at the same time,” and “Fabulous. Indeed.”
For those who like a few tears mixed in with their treats, this follow-up to their 2006 lo-fi gem The Damon Letters is just the ticket. (Five songs from the hard-to-find debut are available on their Fuzz profile.) If Dylan’s Lost Years were a dessert, the album would be a box of chocolate caramels topped with sea salt. Without the calories, of course. Or the sticky fingers.
The voice that Teitur Lassen sings with sounds–to this American listener–sweet, forgiving, and proper. These are all characteristics that I identify as vaguely Scandinavian, though I’ve no idea what kind of lingering evidence growing up on the Faroe Islands, as Teitur did, might actually leave in one’s voice. Its other qualities–the delicate, charmed delivery, his cadence that sometimes is as slow as speaking, the breath that gives it volume and humanity–are more familiar than foreign, more local than global. If nothing else, Teitur can use the instrument he was born with to make you trust and believe him.
The songs that Teitur sings on The Singer are poems about ordinary things. He falls in love, meets friends, feels happy, confused, and lonesome. The melodies that deliver them are built by his faithful guitar, flourished at times by horns, or orchestras, or vocal harmonies. These songs are gentle to hear and easy to sing along with; they feel like songs you know on the first listen. Teitur can use language and sound to create music that makes you feel like you’ve always trusted and believed him.
Teitur is awkward, inordinately direct, oddly self-conscious, sometimes morose. “Letter from Alex” presses on with the melancholy weight of a funeral dirge or a last waltz, with horns that are both gravitational and heaven-directed and articulations that would be tearful if they weren’t so plain. The album’s bouncer, “Catherine the Waitress,” is playful and adoring as it narrates a childish crush on the song’s namesake. Even here, even in joy, Teitur is unrequited, left wanting.
Teitur is not for everyone, not for everyday. He won’t meet you when you are angry, or sarcastic, or ebullient, or wasted. He sounds better on a rainy day, lulls you to sleep when you are tired, wrests heartbroken emotions out of your heart and mind. But this is what he does, and he does it well. This, his third album, is convincingly his finest. Ultimately, Teitur makes you want to listen.
Australia’s Presets–Julian Hamilton (vocals, programming, keyboards) and Kimberly Moyes (drums, programming, keyboards)–are classically trained musicians–but don’t hold that against them. Open-minded and stylistically voracious, their unpredictable grooves are anything but stuffy. Signed to the forward-thinking Modular label, home of Cut Copy and Muscles, they’re a band on the rise, and 2008 marks their first full US tour in support of Apocalypso, successor to 2005’s Beams. Fuzz caught up with Hamilton by email while he rests up in Sydney before heading out to conquer the world with his duo’s playful brand of electronic pop.
Fuzz: What can you tell me about your earlier band, the Prop?
Hamilton: Prop was a five-piece instrumental band we used to play in. It was made up of Kim and I plus three other mates from university. We had synths and a bunch of tuned percussion instruments like vibraphones and marimbas. Our music was more atmospheric and filmic than the Presets. It was quite beautiful, and a lot more considered, too. We miss that band. It was fun to perform live with those guys (but extremely difficult to tour with those massive instruments).
You titled your second full-length Apocalypso. Have you seen Mel Gibson’s Apocalypto?
I haven’t seen it, although I’m a huge fan of Mad Max I and II (I think they were released in the States as The Road Warrior in the early 80’s). Mad Max has way more similarities to Apocalypso than Mel’s film Apocalypto.
How does it compare to your first record?
I’m not sure, really. I guess as musicians we hope it’s just a step up. Hopefully we’ve retained a lot of the character of Beams, but improved on the songwriting and production and that kinda stuff. Beams explored mostly hedonistic themes (partying, drugs, and sex). I didn’t want to go over those same things again. This time we’ve still made a party record—but hopefully it’s a bit bleaker or starker. “My People,” for instance, is a party song, but it’s a pretty stark, desperate-sounding party song. And “This Boy’s In Love” is an attempt at a nostalgic pop-dance track, but we tried to make it luscious and romantic, yet still ice cold and bleak.
You’re known for your intense live gigs. What’s the worst thing that ever happened to you at a show?
We might experience some technical difficulties one out of every hundred shows. But mostly our shows are a really fun time. I guess the worst thing is when you turn up somewhere, and you’re tired and in the middle of a tour, and the promoter meets you at the door and says something like “Hey guys, it’s still filling up in there, we’ll push the set back a couple of hours. Here’s two drink tickets, go grab yourselves a drink, and have fun,” and we’re like, “Fuck you.”
Mouse on Mars has remixed one of your tracks. How did you hook up with them?
They have been idols of ours for a long time. I used to buy their records 10 years ago. We played a festival in Germany with them last year; then ended up on the same plane the next day to a festival in Glasgow. They checked out our show, and liked it. We asked them if they’d like to remix “My People.” They said yes. They ended up doing two, and we love them.
Your sound ranges from soft and pretty to loud and crunchy. Other songs are so processed they sound almost psychedelic. Do you listen to a wide range of music?
For sure. I hardly listen to dance music at all to be honest (except when I run). On tour, I mostly listen to classical. I’ve been re-discovering a lot of the 20th-century composers I first heard at university—Ligeti, Messiaen, Varèse, Xenakis, Cage—stuff like that. They create some really wild sound-worlds that inspire us.
Since some of your pieces are instrumental, have you considered getting involved in soundtrack work?
Not really—at the moment we only have time to create Presets albums, although TV shows and commercials are forever requesting our music. (We’re happy to sell it to them!) My brother is a well regarded contemporary dancer and choreographer, and we are always promising that one day we will work together when things settle down a bit.
Aside from sleep, what are your plans once you’ve finished with this year’s tour?
Take a break–do some cooking, gardening…fun stuff. Then start thinking about another record.
Apocalypso is released on May 13th.
Following Daft Punk’s iconic performance at Coachella, it seems like the collective ears of American kids were finally open to European dance music, and, to fill the demand, there now seems to be an endless stream of electronic duos coming through the States from all corners of the globe. Take Australia, for example. Melbourne’s Cut Copy just released In Ghost Colors to critical acclaim and sold-out performances in the States; with Apocalypso, Sydney’s Presets sound hungry to do the same.
I don’t know what the Presets mean when they list “schadenfreude” as their sole influence on MySpace. If members Julian Hamilton and Kim Moye find their musical muse through perverse joy in others’ pain, they either are letting their fans off easy this time around or they really fucked up with Apocalypso. Horrible title notwithstanding, this, their sophomore effort, is a mixture of ecstatic and narcotic dance music; taken as a whole, the Presets skillfully present a brand of vocal-driven electronic pop informed by both Daft Punk and New Order that is more dance-oriented than their debut. The result is often blissfully uplifting but, at times, numbingly repetitive. That said, this is an album for the dance floor, and this being a busy weekday, I had only coffee and my imagination for springboards.
First single “My People” opens with a spasm-inducing synth bleat and before the first chorus hits, it becomes clear why the song’s been a club staple for the past few months. It’s anthemic and immediate–shut up and dance. The song is so obvious in its intentions that you can’t hold it against Hamilton and Moye for lines like “I’m here with all of my people/ Locked up with all of my people/ So let me hear you scream if you’re with me.” (Am I a bad person for thinking of the Great White tragedy when I first heard these lines?) The album’s other highlight—perhaps the album’s best song—is also its second single, “The Boy Is in Love.” The song recalls Depeche Mode fronted by the Killers, but then the falsetto chorus arrives, and you have to concede that the Presets have made a great pop song on their own merits.
The rest of the album fares well for what it is: music made for the dance floor. However, Hamilton’s voice becomes aggravating as the tracks progress. “Together” is almost a great song, strutting through the club with MSTRKRFT-like synth loops, bouncy bass that bites the ass, and randy clipped moans that are as sexy as they are startling. But then Hamilton comes in halfway through singing, “Who do we think we are/ Running around all sweaty?” It’s an absurd lyric, even by dance-music standards, and his delivery is so over-the-top that it almost ruins the song. Then again, when it comes to electronic music, I’m firmly a fan of “less-is-more” when it comes to vocals. Thankfully, towards the end of the album, “Anywhere” shows that Hamilton is capable of singing in a detached, lower register. Coupled with the minimalist production, the song is an unexpected treat; fittingly, the song’s refrain is a muted “Surprise, surprise.”
What do you call this vein of music? I’ve heard nu-rave, I’ve heard electro-pop. Well, I’ve also heard it doesn’t matter what you call it. Apocalypso is a good album that will, as the first two singles attest, go over well with fans of this hybrid genre and will no doubt fill dance floors around the world. The Presets have delivered a few great singles, but, as is the problem inherent in dance-oriented music, it’s yet to be seen whether the Presets can maintain longevity once the novelty of this genre wears off. But, right now, the guys just want us to have a good time, and criticism is always in danger of taking itself too seriously. So fuck it. Have your people call my people. Let’s meet up. We’ll dance.
Calvin Harris isn’t your typical 24-year old. When this Dumfries, Scotland native isn’t helping to resurrect the once passé electro genre (asymmetrical haircuts and electro-clash, anyone?) or racking up infectious top-ten singles in the UK, he’s busy basking in the sunshine of success, writing and producing tracks for mini-pop princess Kylie Minogue’s latest effort X (in addition to a slew of other UK pop sensations). On his debut album I Created Disco, Harris mixes his signature sonic aesthetic–think bombastic beats, videogame-influenced effects and synth tones that sound like they are being played from the depths of the ocean–with lyrics about smoking flourescent-colored rocks, pill-popping in Vegas, and a fictional man who created disco after World War II. Fuzz recently discussed with the electro prodigy via-email the unlikely influence of food on music, Ms. Minogue, and who really created disco.
Fuzz: So, I know the Kylie question is played out at the moment, but what was it like working with her? Were you always a fan?
Calvin Harris: It was a really great experience, and a fascinating insight into the world of making pop music at the highest level. It was a door that I previously didn’t even consider knocking on, let alone jamming my foot in.
Did you have her in mind when you come up with the song “In My Arms” or was it a more collaborative process?
I wrote the music and the hook sometime before a collaboration was suggested, but when it was, I knew the track would suit her.
Is there any other mega starlet or man-star you’re dying to work with?
Yeah loads, in fact too many to mention. T-Pain, R. Kelly and Beyoncé are pretty high on the list.
What has been your best remixing or production experience and why?
I enjoyed the Dizzee Rascal track I made recently. It was a lot of fun and very rewarding.
What musical and non-musical things influence your sound?
Food influences most aspects of my life, including music. My beats are like a rump steak cooked rare with peppercorn sauce and a good side of mash and runner beans. Good, uncomplicated flavor in your earhole.
If your music were an animal, which one would it be?
Maybe a frog.
Had you even been to Las Vegas before when you wrote the song “Vegas”?
No and I still haven’t.
What is your favorite song on I Created Disco and why?
I like all of them equally.
In “Girls” you come off as an equal-opportunity dater. Is there anything about the opposite sex that really turns you off?
Broad shoulders?
As a fellow child of the ’80s, I know we’re a pretty magical breed. Were you afraid of alienating the elder music lovers?
No I couldn’t care less, if you like it you like it.
How did you start playing music? Were you always interested in making electro, or did you have a moody music period too?
I get the moody periods out of my system when doing interviews.
What’s the craziest thing a fan has done to get your attention?
Stolen my chips, and it worked.
Who are your musical heroes?
Timbaland, The Neptunes, ?uestlove, Roy Ayres and Outkast. There are too many.
If you could only take five albums on a trip to the moon, what would they be?
D’Angelo Voodoo, Raphael Saadiq Instant Vintage, Michael Jackson Off the Wall, Outkast Aquemini and probably some Lee Scratch Perry.
If you weren’t playing music right now what would you be doing?
Right now, aged 24, I’d be in a pretty bad place, mentally.
Fuzz: Describe your hometown Dumfries, Scotland in three words.
Green, Grey, Drinking.
If you didn’t really create disco, then who did?
Barry fucking Gibb.