2007: Burial, The Klaxons and Of Montreal

2007 was a personal landmark year in music, almost entirely aside from any developments in the wider world. As the New Year was ushered in I had the good fortune to be working in a record shop with a group of Tom Waits devotees, opening the doors to an entirely new world of older music I’d previously managed to simply ignore. The start of 2007 was marked by a headlong dive into Waits’ Rain Dogs and Swordfishtrombones, and the likes of ‘Singapore’, ‘Shore Leave’ and ‘Tango ‘Til They’re Sore’ cloaked the January chill in humid, whisky-soaked warmth.

Outside this insular bubble, the craze for nu-rave exploded into day-glo life with the release of Klaxons’ debut, which manage to simultaneously define and destroy the myth of an entire genre in a fun, silly and synthesizer-heavy pop album. Not the revolution many would have liked then, but a welcome grounding in a decade marked by NME’s increased tendency to whip up hyperbole from thin air. Bloc Party’s A Weekend In The City was another crash to earth, a disappointing follow-up to Silent Alarm and reminder of the hype-machine’s fickle nature. Great white hopefuls Simian Mobile Disco and Justice went head-to-head with a pair of disappointing full-lengths that managed to mark the end of the mainstream’s electro-house craze, leaving little behind save the heaving brilliance of ‘D.A.N.C.E’.

It’s worthy of discussion since 2007 was the year when my burgeoning interest in dance music blossomed into full-on obsession, nurtured by the increasingly ubiquity of mp3 blogging and the realization that, yes, I could use my laptop to DJ. By the end of the year the edges of the mainstream were even beginning to flirt with the music emerging from dubstep’s London and Bristol hubs, pre-empting its dash into the limelight during 2009. The foggy atmospheres of Burial’s self-titled album soundtracked a large proportion of the year for me; but nothing, it seemed, could prepare anyone (least of all myself) for the glorious follow-up that was Untrue. By turns nostalgic, euphoric and heartbreakingly sad, ‘Archangel’, ‘Ghost Hardware’ and ‘Homeless’ still sound like nothing less than London’s ghosts, flitting through its darkest corners on the astral plane.

I discovered The Dirty Three at their ATP in April, and proceeded to fall in love with Warren Ellis’ sardonic banter and roughly sketched violin strokes. Nick Cave’s debut performance with Grinderman opened with a whimper, as the band crashed into ‘Get It On’ out of time – only to be saved by a furious and feral next hour. That summer also saw my first (and only, thus far) Glastonbury, the rows of drowned tents and muddy, too-small-to-take-off wellies easily eclipsed by Friday’s heavenly double-header of Arcade Fire and Bjork.

But the gig of the year was an unexpected one; the Sunday night of an (as ever) musically underwhelming Secret Garden Party hijacked by Of Montreal’s gaudy costumes and camp theatrics. I was smitten, and to this day that year’s Hissing Fauna, Are You The Destroyer? remains one of my absolute favourite records. A fittingly upbeat end to a wet summer.

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