One Little Plane - Into The Trees

By Richard Wink

Kathryn Bint has a voice that you can only fall in love with – fragile, beautiful, spellbinding, perfect for earnest Department Store advertisements and the first kiss scene from a film adaptation of the latest smash hit Young-Adult Fictional Novel. Into The Trees, the enchanting singer’s second album as One Little Plane, following on from 2008’s Until, is a real gooseflesh inducing moment capturer.

Produced surprisingly understatedly by Kieran Hebden, the album is a collection of calming songs with a few curveballs thrown in to avoid the listener falling into a pleasant mid-afternoon slumber. The first couple of songs are idyllic acoustic frolics into the land of placid and predictable. ‘Nothing Has Changed’ actually at one stage goes limp, and requires a welfare check.

And so it goes on. ‘Paper Planes’ at least ups the tempo, and I suppose that is a tick in the ‘pros’ column. But, aaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrgggggggggggghhh we’re back in dulltown on ‘It’s Alright’ and I don’t think I can take much more. I reach for the fork on my writing desk, still stained by the Bolognese sauce from the microwave meal I devoured two hours ago and the temptation to stick it into my one remaining good eye is overwhelming (the other one was lost in a clay pigeon shooting incident back in ‘07).

Six tracks in and there is something a little bit futuristic emerging from the minimalist electronica of ‘Bloom’, aside from this and the penultimate song ‘I Know’ which is an angry little blighter there really is a distinct lack of variety and scope, and considering the creative parties involved, you really would expect a lot more.

There is a sense of knowing smugness on Into The Trees which troubles me. Bint knows she has ‘the voice’, yet there doesn’t appear to be any hint of sincere emotion apparent. Perfection can be a weakness, particularly given that creating music is about expressing…. something… anything. Hebden’s production seems to reveal a reluctance to tamper too much with what isn’t broken, i.e. let’s keep this nice and folky, and not mess with the traditional formula; and Radiohead’s Colin Greenwood who provides bass guitar on the album, buzzworthy endorsement aside, his contribution matters little.

Bluntly speaking, I dislike this album. It bored me terribly, and for all the delights of Bint’s vocal performance there is about as much insight on display here as there is on your average post-match Football phone-in.

Peasant - Bound For Glory

By Richard Wink

I reviewed Peasant’s second album On the Ground back in 2009 for The 405. I unfavourably scored the album, and questioned Peasant’s artistic integrity. When re-reading the review I perhaps was a little harsh. Therefore when the opportunity to review Bound For Glory arose I was intrigued hear if Peasant aka Damien DeRose had grown as an artist, and I could somehow make amends by writing a more positive review. Subconsciously, I wondered – was I looking to restore the karmic balance in a ‘My Name is Earl’ kinda way?

The role of a critic is essentially redundant in the white water rapid information surge of today. By that I mean that whatever I say about Bound For Glory is unlikely to matter to Peasant, or indeed those who will listen to the album. There are thousands of ways to recommend this album, thousands of voices that may influence others. Judging by Peasant’s comments that On the Ground received “overwhelming” praise from the critics, my concerns about hurting his feelings seem back in 2009 seem quite frankly ridiculous. Enough digressing, I shall share my opinion on Bound For Glory right about now….

Sounding on the verge of tears, Peasant poignantly serenades us on the album’s title track, urging us not to worry. I am worried because this song is a real weepy, and there are moments when I get a little choked up. Oh, there is something in my eye. I reach for the box of Kleenex beside my laptop only to find it empty. ‘The Flask’ sees Peasant strained, his voice operating at a higher pitch. Already two tracks in and we have some variety. Steady rolling ‘Girls’ is a trad folk jam, bemoaning the fairer sex. ‘We’re Not the Same’ goes further down the rocky road, telling the story of a bitter break-up. Peasant is quite defiant here, looking to move on, but then she cried.

Whilst Peasant’s simplicity was his Achilles heel on previous releases, this time around describing situations succinctly over strums and sparse percussion fits, because there seems to be a definite sense of relate-ability here for the listener. Peasant sings about lost love, about those tender moments that faded to dust, and then blew away in the wind. We’ve all been there, and more often than not we’ve struggled to articulate and deal with those emotions.

‘Amends’ is probably my favourite time from the album, the one moment when Peasant gets it dead on. The lovely little piano melody that trickles throughout raises a wry smile. ‘Take It Light’ also is a mighty little trundle, with comforting hums and countrified chords. Finally, eleven songs in, ‘Pretty Good’ ups the tempo and tugs away the comfort blanket from our futile grasp. This doesn’t last along and we’re back in reflective mode, ‘Don’t Let Me Down’ draws the curtains, leaving us once again alone in the dark.

Bound For Glory is a weary listen, though Peasant has perfectly captured the mental disintegration, and the half thoughts and ponderables that rattle in a mind when a relationship breaks down. I’m loathed to say that this is a break-up record, more an album that reflects upon the end of something that once meant everything.

We Were Born Canaries - We Were Born Canaries

By Richard Wink

Scandinavian music tends to conjure a sense of theatrical fantasy. Whether it is satanic Norwegian Death Metal, impish Swedish pop, or Icelandic maverick music makers such as Bjork and Sigur Rós; but what of Denmark? We Were Born Canaries look to imprint themselves onto this great Scandinavian fairy tale with an arresting self-titled album which extols the vitality of half-forgotten youth.

The Danish duo – vocalist Stine Grøn and the beatmaker Jakob Steen – tap into subconsciously buried childhood memories under bleak black skies shorn of stars. In the case of this self-titled debut, the light comes from their imagination. Sleep Party People’s Brian Batz has mixed the record, to utilize this galvanizing power source, adding the necessary professional sheen.

‘Go Cold Turkey’ sets us off, the opener is a joyous frolic with dandelion chains and sugar fuelled grins. There is a hint of Arcade Fire pomposity as the track swings along in a carefree manner. Stine Grøn’s little girl lost slash Alice ‘Through the Looking-Glass’ vocals have glorious range, especially when warped amongst the interesting sound textures – from orthodox instrumentation to daring electronic dabbling. ‘Dead in Silence’ has that chilled out Zero 7 vibe,  recalling nitrous comedowns, as the slowed down joviality distorts into a peeping sunrise.

‘Only Light’ is a sleeper hit in the making, Grøn’s chilling refrain “rest your head now” is dizzying. The bandy synths that flip flop around in the middle of the song add an alluring layer of intrigue. Deeper we go into a more malevolent place as ‘I Still Like To’ dallies into a place where few pixies dare to tread. Sparsely produced, the song is one of the albums more darkly poignant moments.

The one thing that becomes apparent as the album goes on is just how much effort has gone into the production, every moment is significant, each beat, each melody, each chord. There is an attention to detail akin more to classical composition, a desire to seek perfection. Jakob Steen in his role as beatmaker has blended, and binded, forged and fastened together a colourful sound collage.

The album’s final stages are equally breath-taking; the tempo drops considerably allowing ‘In the Future’ to bubble a cascading eighties beat that gets rudely punctured by a blooming beautiful chorus with vocals soaring skywards. Ending with an instrumental farewell is perhaps the only disappointment, as ‘Yon’ seems better suited as a bookmark placed somewhere in the middle of an album.

We Were Born Canaries have managed to create a debut album that contains enough memorable material to allow them to venture forwards into a plethora of possibilities. Peeking over their shoulders the duo may well see that a trail that has begun to flicker a blue flame, who knows, one day that trail might even blaze.

The Cribs - In The Belly Of The Brazen Bull

By Richard Wink

If you believe in a band, you tend to expect greatness will one day come. I’ve always believed that The Cribs have been capable of making a truly ground breaking indie rock album – it’s just that I never expected them to actually do it. Getting straight to the point In The Belly Of The Brazen Bull is the best album The Cribs have recorded.

The Jarman brothers have managed to harness everything golden they’ve previously said and done, and pertinently, present it on this album. After Johnny Marr hitched a ride on the good ship for Ignore The Ignorant before deciding to move on to a new solo venture, the Jarmans have revisited their simpler, less intricate stateside college rock influences. Most of the song skeletons were put together by Gary and Ryan during riotous road trips across the Pacific North West. You can imagine left of the dial mess-arounds sketched on the back of tomato sauce stained diner napkins.

Then these marauding moments was recorded in a fuller manner during intense snapshot sessions, working with Steve Albini in Chicago, and Dave Fridmann (producer of Pinkerton) in New York State. Both producers have brought out the best in the band, with Albini bringing out the beast and Fridmann catching rare melodic butterflies. That’s the beauty of the album, mixing the rough and the ready with an honest poetic vulnerability.

‘Glitters Like Gold’ is a tentative beginning which takes a couple of minutes to get going, and the immediate signs are good. Receiving prominent airplay on BBC 6 Music ‘Come On, Be A No-One’ is a homecoming tale, a return to humdrum Wakefield, recalling the familiarity of home and the dullness of blending back in as you leave the ‘rockstar’ costume on tour. It’s an anthemic call to arms that appeals to daydreaming bedroom guitarists looking to breakout of the provinces.

‘Jaded Youth’ doesn’t appear to know what it wants to be, confused, stroppy, kicking about all over the place, before flopping onto the sofa and allowing the room to stop spinning. The faster go faster chorus falls to a temporary halt, as it stops to reflect on the ceiling’s swirling artex patterns, before another final burst of energy.

A cluster of tracks could almost come from a mix tape rescued from an early nineties time capsule somewhere close to Portland. The unglamorous indie rock and roll of ‘Anna’, straight to the point punch in ‘Chi-town’, glum introspective self-torture on ‘Confident Men’ and sludgy euphoria of ‘Pure O’ all bear a familiar mark, which points to a much maligned period in music history. One might say meat and potatoes rock, however man runs on his stomach, and all it needs is a wave of Yorkshire gravy to create a respectfully revived sound.

There are two tracks which stand out above the rest. I adore ‘Uptight’; it has an imposing stomping intro that mellows out in the form of serene clean sawing riffs. The chorus reminds me a lot of Weezer before they lost their way, which nods towards Dave Fridmann’s studio influence. ‘Back To The Bolthole’ is a stunning track, arguably the best song The Cribs have written. Again following on a recurring album theme it is morose and brooding, but there is hope in the arms aloft chorus.

Ending with a quartet of songs ‘Stalagmites’, ‘Like A Gift Giver’, ‘Butterflies’ and ‘Arena Rock Encore with Full Cast’ which I suppose is the closest thing The Cribs are going to make to a rock opera – it veers into dramatic lunacy, tapping into a bizarre amalgamation of ‘Pet Sounds’, Queen-esque grandiosity and Sonic flipping Youth. We are taken on an unexpectedly ambitious odyssey.

Ryan Jarman has spoken in interviews about waiting for the “corporate indie ship to sink”, which seems opportunistic, since he must have had a fair inkling that what the band were creating in these brainstorming road trips, and short sharp recording sessions was high calibre shit from the lucky golden goose. The Cribs still have an audience, an army of their ardent supporters, and those who want a no thrills guitar band that delivers uplifting fist pumping “heck yes, this rocks!” music no matter what is currently mainstream flavour of the month.

Using Ryan’s words – “Sorry that it’s taken years”. The Cribs have finally reached their pinnacle. What this might mean for the band is that they could well be forced to deal with being the unlikely figureheads for an indie rock revival, which could put them in the unwelcome position of captaining the next ship. How corporate they want that ship to be is open for debate; however you can’t tell me that their integrity won’t be tested by the critical acclaim that is sure to come their way.

Or just maybe I’m way off the mark. Perhaps I am the only one who believes that one of my favourite bands will reap the rewards. In reality, the Jarman’s have an almost self-defeating attitude which usually makes them look a gift horse in the mouth. Whether it be not making the most of big time tour supports, the lucrative festival shows, nor utilizing the rub of Johnny Marr, who Modest Mouse furthered their mainstream breakthrough alongside. The Cribs tend to tread their own path, a path laden with self-inflicted pot holes and uneven cobble stones; likely they’ll stumble and fall, but no doubt continue to chuckle about the lumps and bruises they pick up along the way.

Weird Dreams - Choreography

By Richard Wink

Boredom exists. You don’t usually expect it to slowly fondle with your consciousness during a relaxing evening Sunday spent listening to music, but sure enough, it came along and boy did it make me yawn.

Choreography is one of the dullest albums I’ve ever listened to.

Now for the about turn.

I’m actually going to praise this album, because it serves a purpose, it soundtracks a day in the life, it means something. Weird Dreams capture apathy, and the cruel sense of directionless drifting, as you lay back and watch life pass you by. There is heartache and a grey throbbing pain here on this album that subsides only after swallowing a couple of aspirins.

The castrated melodies and the jangly bittersweet guitars gush forth a honey fountain of frustrated emotions. The songs deliberately antagonize, they are reflective, causing the listener to gaze introspectively at themselves, and attempt to climb out of the audio spiderwebs woven by this tight East London unit.

An interesting thing to note is that Weird Dreams are heavily influenced by David Lynch; sometimes Lynchian love can come across as a bit masturbatory, such as Surfer Blood’s over enthusiastic ‘Twin Peaks’. Weird Dreams are actually a lot more subtle with their decade spanning psych-pop time travel making ever so brief pit stops all over Lynch’s filmography.

Darkness, when done best, can provide some frightful surprises. ‘Suburban Coated’ creatures creep up on you in the well-lit cul-de-sac, as Doran Edwards sings with blowtorch in hand about being a “passenger in someone else’s life”. Those creatures mutate into marching apparitions swirling in a restless mind as the melancholic ‘666.66’ leads into ‘River of the Damned’, a song which puts its hands in its pockets, closes its eyes and somehow doesn’t trip over the kerb when crossing the road.

Are Weird Dreams an innovative band? Will they become the subject of overwrought, overenthusiastic music reviews over the blogosphere? The answer is no, even if it has already been answered yes.

This album washes over you, in the same way a rain shower temporarily startles your skin in the spring time, any feelings are lost when the sun comes up from behind the clouds and dries off the damp. I’d argue that there isn’t enough hunger on display from a young band. Apathy and exhaustion can translate musically, but it needs to slap the listener and make them acknowledge that they’re in the same boat. This one doesn’t quite connect with the listener, who stands idle on the riverbank of the Mississippi looking through binoculars as Huck Finn floats past in a daisy haze.

If the band doesn’t appear to care, providing satisfactory as opposed to great, adequate rather than ambitious, then this review will continue to spout more nonsense that Lil Wayne spat on ‘6 Foot 7 Foot’.

I’m tossing and turning, a coin suspended in the air. Heads or tails, how does it fall? Is Choreography good or bad?

Choreography is a confusing album, possibly upgradeable – one can talk about jangles and melodies until the cows come home. If Weird Dreams truly write psych-pop then where is the much maligned hit that pushes its box fresh head beyond the pelvic inlet, if the band wants to remain obscure then where is the mystery, because their mucky finger prints are left indelibly on music’s already tired and frayed tapestry.

As a listener I hated it, but then I learned to somehow appreciate it.

Willis Earl Beal - Acousmatic Sorcery

By Richard Wink

Willis Earl Beal is a throwback, a singer-songwriter that has brilliantly created an air of mystery, curiosity and danger around his music, causing curious folk to begin to ask questions – Who is this man? What is his story? Is he really who he says he is?

Beal recorded Acousmatic Sorcery in Albuquerque, New Mexico – an arid place usually not conducive to free spirited expression. Living the starving artist’s life, Beal wandered across the middle of America from New Mexico back home to his native Chicago, and somehow during that journey word spread about his music, and he found himself signed to the hippest label of them all – XL Recordings. Bizarrely, Beal has also appeared on the US Version of the X Factor, having made it to the bootcamp stage of the competition.

The remarkable thing about Willis Earl Beal is his optimistic innocence; at one time in his life he left flyers to acquire friends with the humble disclaimer – “I am not a Weasel”. It appears that he is searching for someone, for something, he wants to fit in, and join those who’ve somehow found love or better yet inner peace. Establishing himself as a musician might go some way in filling the void in his soul.

Acousmatic Sorcery is a stripped back effort that sounds like it was home recorded on a second hand vintage tape deck. It is raw, abrasive and unashamedly amateurish. Due to its shoddy production the album reminds me a heck of a lot of John Frusciante’s debut solo album Niandra Lades and Usually Just a T-Shirt. Beal asks the listener to accept even his faults, because these almost deliberate flaws, both in terms of sound quality, instrumentation and vocals that litter the album are part of what he is – an everyman who makes mistakes.

After a nerve jangling instrumental opening, bashed on which I can only guess must be a xylophone (though it could conceivably be something different altogether picked up for a few bucks at a Yard Sale) Beal opens up on ‘Take Me Away’ singing like he’s being dragged to hell – the song is a stormer. From there Beal becomes a storyteller, ‘Cosmic Queries’ is an introspective gaze up at the stars, ‘Evening’s Kiss’ is a softly sung account of Beal falling in love with a waitress at a local diner.

The pot and pan percussive thud that drives ‘Ghost Robot’ propels Beal’s angry slam poetry, ‘Swing On Low’ continues the beatific anti-folk babble, again the grating milk bottle music jars horribly against Beal’s flow, but it challenges you to focus on “the caffeinated chap, microphone is my tool”.

‘Monotony’ is the most honest song on the album; it represents a charred chapter in Beal’s lonely life, when he drifted aimlessly, when the hours and days blended together. ‘Bright Copper Neon’ and ‘Away My Silent Lover’ remind you that this cat can sing which shouldn’t come as much of a surprise, but there are moments when Beal’s idiosyncratic approach blankets his talent. We could probably do without the Tom Waits aping spoken word ending to the album, though celebrating your influences should never be frowned upon, especially given that Beal himself is likely to me mimicked by a whole generation of would-be raconteurs.

Die Antwoord - Ten$ion

By Richard Wink

Watching the Harmony Korine directed Umshini Wam told me that Die Antwoord were nothing more than bad actors, who like to dwell in their safely constructed realm of zef trash, the short film brought forth the usual feelings of emptiness one gets after watching one of Korine’s ‘masterpieces’. Only this time, the disgust turned to apathy. I’m bored already.

Die Antwoord were once a curiosity – when they first entered the conscious of the mainstream through visually arresting music videos such as ‘Enter The Ninja’ a lot of people, including myself, thought – what the feck is this? It helped them undoubtedly, this carnivalesque shock factor, and gave them a platform online. Unfortunately in the age of trending viral videos and memes that occupy our attention for a matter of moments we were never likely to get any substance from Die Antwoord. They are a product of this attention deprived world. Like tired jokes told second time around, this album receives only a polite muted response.

There are moments on Ten$ion when it appears even Die Antwoord is getting tired of themselves. Ninja’s over the top posturing and Yo-Landi’s innocent Lolita devil girl persona has worn thin; more so, when the beats from DJ Hi-Tek transcend into horrific pastiche’s of early nineties rave tracks.

Trashiness is alluring, in popular culture we can talk fondly of the wonderful Canadian sitcom Trailer Park Boys, Channel 4’s Shameless or documentary films such as The Wild and Wonderful Whites of West Virginia; not to mention the endless television programmes about Gypsies. When it comes to music, we’ve had chav groups such as Blazing Squad, Blackout Crew or Goldie Lookin Chain, but there just isn’t enough mileage on record compared to film. With that, Die Antwoord is already in danger of joining these fondly forgotten names.

At times I feel like I’ve been taken back in time to a moment when I was listening to the Outhere Brothers’ sexually explicit edit of ‘Boom Boom Boom’ back before I discovered what a clitoris was. Aggressive sexual imagery prevails in Ten$ion, but it’s a regression to Licensed to Ill, and long lost teenage wasteland. You want to raise a smile whenever Ninja drops a crass “fok”, though for whatever reason you can’t.

There are tracks that fit in to the current vapid nature of chart dance pop; ‘I Fink U Freeky’ is Benny Benassi meets a more verbose LMFAO. It can be chucked in with all these songs that reference the mythical nightclub space known as the ‘Floor’ – this sticky, sweaty pig trough populated by muscle bound Geordie Shore lads and TOWIE tramps.

Ten$ion is not worth investigating, purely because it covers no new ground. Of course, it is obvious that a certain aspect of Die Antwoord’s collective personality is shambolic, lazy, and bottom of the barrel scraping, perhaps Ten$ion is a knowing nod, an admittance that they never had any long term plans, or progressive ideas in the first place, that their heart will always be in the gutter.

Essentially Die Antwoord would be better suited away from the album format. Just dip in every now and again and surprise us with clever music videos. An album exposes their weaknesses, as a tiring rap-rave group, with limited lyrical scope. Significantly their music loses its common charm; the more you are exposed to it without the aid of a fantabulous visual accompaniment.

Sharon Van Etten - Tramp

By Richard Wink

A singer-songwriter has an integral, active role to play in the life of a music listener. I write this review after coming to the realisation that a woman I was steadily falling in love with has no interest in reciprocating my tame, vague advances. Whilst I and this ‘special ladyfriend’ were out together drinking together in a ramshackle pub she described to me her ideal man. Soberingly, I did not fit her criteria either physically, or emotionally. I was not tall, didn’t resemble the actor Nicholas Hoult and possessed none of the vim and vigour required to keep up with her vivacious, arty free spirit.

Feeling disappointed, Sharon Van Etten’s Tramp has become a crutch for me over the last few days, helping me realize that I’ve got to keep my chin up, and find my way through this bleak minefield of singledom. Van Etten, like Leonard Cohen, or Elliott Smith in the past, has helped me through a rough time. Leaving me to ponder what came first, the music or the misery?

Tramp works in the same way that a good stiff shot of whiskey does, as you attempt to block out those thoughts of ‘what might have been’, it helps to soundtrack the plod through the snow that’s covered the pavements, as you walk to work, a place where you will face this woman and realize that even if it could have worked, it would never have worked as you never should mix business with pleasure. Van Etten’s almost angelic voice, and by angelic I refer more to the voice of a fallen angel, one that’s been through the turmoil, and endured the melodramatic shame, relates with the listener.

Experiencing music against the backdrop of heartache means that the listen is uncomfortably intimate, and this tends to make the music overwhelming, ‘Give Out’ makes use of Van Etten’s ornate vocal presence, vulnerable, yet still capable of surviving a fall. “I’m biting my lip as confidence is speaking to me” sums up how it feels to be on the cusp of putting your whole way of being on the line for someone else.

‘Serpents’ rides on lazy indie Americana, trotting drums, and laid back, soft top down guitar meld together as Van Etten appears defiant, swinging a sword at her inner demons. The Country fried ‘Leonard’ swirls wistfully, a tumbleweed along a dirt track. ‘In Line’ hums nostalgically to a time when there were no worries, when emotions didn’t register so explicitly. ‘Magic Chords’ with its erratic drumbeat, which reminds me of a drunk tap dancer who returns to the stage to reclaim his lost hat, contains some of Van Etten’s best vocal work – it simmers with sophistication.

Confessional without being too self-obsessed, the tone of the album treats the listener like a good friend, with Van Etten providing us a glimpse into her soul. Building from her ironically titled last album Epic which alerted many to her talents, Tramp showcases Van Etten’s struggles, trying to find the balance between maintaining a sense of self, and at the same time portraying yourself as an artist.

Believing in Van Etten means what she sings isn’t difficult. There is sincerity here, which makes Tramp an alluring listen. After one last listen I realize that perhaps a relationship isn’t something that I should be seeking right now, but what I should aim for is perspective, and peace of mind. Van Etten is wiser for all she has endured, and made an album that reflects quiet, lonely meditation on what has been a difficult period in her life, however not all consuming for her. It is an album that represents a journey that climbs from rocky self-awareness into the steady ground of self-understanding.

Due to her associations with ‘indie’ darlings such as The National, Beirut and TV On The Radio there is quite the buzz around Van Etten, not to mention her recent appearances on high profile US talk shows. Despite the hullaballoo there is genuine reason to be excited about Tramp, an album which helps the listener to learn plenty about themselves.

Howler - America Give Up

By Richard Wink

A New Year comes along, and the sonic cycle spins round one more time. Howler are Rough Trade’s latest big stateside hope – Manic Pixie Indie Dream Boys for a new generation waiting for an indie rock band to change their lives.

America Give Up is a bustling bundle of burning ambition; a deliberate intention from the band to create a stir, and see a bit of the world. If you were exposed to The Strokes back in the early noughties in your teens as I was, then this is nothing new. Ditto, if Alex Turner wrote the songs that soundtracked your first pint a few years after Is This It, back when you had your first fist fight outside the kebab shop in front to the Taxi rank whilst you tried to impress the girl of your dreams; then, though you’ll appreciate Howler, you will feel this album is not much more than a nostalgic nod to your salad days.

Hell, what about the youth of today? What will they feel about this record? It’s tricky to tell, since indie rock is fast falling off many people’s musical radars. Having said that, everybody likes a plucky gang of lads who can put together a good tune – the relative recent success of Howler’s touring buddies The Vaccines is testament to the idea that simple, old fashioned blink and you’ll miss it indie rock still holds some merit.

Opener ‘Beach Sluts’, with courtesy handclaps and amber stained melodies is bright, and for want of a better word ballsy. Well, as ballsy as one can be whilst wearing skinny jeans. Rattling along, it is a sanitized interpretation of a ramshackle post-Libertines singalong. Possibly my favourite tune on the album ‘America’ is a breezy, surfy slice of irony. Musing on their fellow compatriots, it reminds me of a spaghetti version of Pulp’s ‘Common People’, with the cheeky aside “just like you” ringing more than a few bells

Any band is only as good as its frontman, and in Jordan Gatesmith Howler have a significant presence on record. His jaded growl pickles the optimistic melodies that litter the album.  Since he picked up a guitar aged fourteen, Gatesmith, now nineteen, has accomplished a fair deal in a short space of time, but everything is accelerated nowadays, so five years feels almost like an eternity. When Gatesmith says in interviews that he still dabbles with other musical projects it suggests that he’s not wholly convinced by the lifespan of Howler, but the brightest bulbs in indie rock usually fade after a few glimpses of glory. It is how you write yourself in history, and what legacy you create that dictates how curious listeners will dissect what you leave behind.

The story of Howler thus far is a simple one. A scribe from Pitchfork passed on Howler’s debut EP to Geoff Travis at Rough Trade after speaking with Travis about the Strokes. Travis liked the EP and swiftly sent a scout out to catch Howler live, the scout returned positive feedback, and Howler soon after got signed. Everything has happened bloody quickly.

Rather like the accelerated times we find ourselves in, America Give Up passes by in the blink of an eye. The tracks have a real immediacy, the bristling ‘Back Of Your Neck’ throws up so many familiar fragments that it disorientates rainbow rays of nostalgia like a flash grenade. A few embers fade rather quickly, the hilariously titled ‘Pythagorean Fearem’ in particular is a trifle vanilla.

The NME have made admiring glances at the band, but that doesn’t mean half as much as when Julian and co were on the front cover back in the good old days. Cursed by their influences, and the fact that some of those influences are still very much alive and breathing, Howler are a band that are oddly placed, because it doesn’t seem like we’re quite ready for an indie rock revival this year; which makes Howler vulnerable ducklings in an eclectic lake populated by technicolour piranhas, and other outlandish otherworldly predators. You get the feeling that’s the kind of place they’d most like to be.

by Richard Wink

Another week, another clutch of singles desperately clamouring for our attention like eager little puppies. So without further ado, let’s see what this Monday morning has to offer, shall we?

WU LYF
‘We Bros’

Only last week I was speaking to a work colleague, whilst in the midst of a bout of mild procrastination about how the mystery was all but gone in music. We know too much about the bands and artists we love, thanks to endless twittering, and promotional campaigns that carpet bomb us with a useless information overload. Thankfully bands like Wu Lyf exist, that allow us to focus on the music. ‘We Bros’ prances into my ear canals, presenting the bands clever way of sticking a thousand and one ideas into a pot and somehow producing something thrilling that begins on a post-rock planet, before crawling back down to earth, landing into a deserted playground as joyous sound graffiti paints neon patterns using borrowed melodies.

The Saturdays
‘My Heart Takes Over’

It would be pretty harsh of me to compare The Saturdays to dogs, but I’m going to anyway. The persistent girl group remind me of a quirkily named Greyhound that you see in the form book that catches your eye, because despite its record of never winning a race, the dog has been pretty consistent. Just before the race, when the dogs are parading around the track it stands out, looking the part, taking a solid dump trackside, behaving feisty in the traps. By race time, after taking the lead around the first bend, it falls away, finishing just outside the top three. ‘My Heart Takes Over’ is a tame attempt; the song starts with that classical interlude, present in so many of pops heartfelt recent moments, for example One Direction’s ‘Gotta Be You’ that is also released this week. The song’s chorus is impassioned, if a little strained. It’s utterly drab, though, there are no tears forming in the corner of my eye, or a lump in my throat, which really is the acid test of a good ballad.

Ed Sheeran
‘Lego House’

After the storming success of his first two singles, Sheeran releases ‘Lego House’, a tepid effort which provides neither the impressive song craft of ‘The A Team’ nor the spirited bravado of ‘You Need Me’. This is the moment where Sheeran makes a play for the middle of the road, reaching stadium heights with Damien Rice. This song represented the point where ‘+’ as an album revealed Sheeran to be a precocious talent whose strengths were unnecessarily buried in the sheen of over production.

Trash Talk
‘Awake’

Hardcore punk tends to fade to black rather quickly. Most of us have dallied with Black Flag, Minor Threat, Bad Brains etc., had our craniums capsized in the kafuffle, and then moved on. Now, a new batch of heads is going to get messed with, thanks to Trash Talk, a band who has recently toured with another of the newest hardcore wave Cerebral Balzy. ‘Awake’ is nothing new. But it is infectious, petulant, cartoonishly angry and a fun song to run around in circles swinging your arms to.

Dirty Beaches
‘Lone Runner’

This recreates the eerie paranoia of walking down an alleyway at two o’clock in the morning in the tumbling rain; you can hear footsteps behind you, closing the distance. You dare not turn around and see what’s approaching, however a quick glimpse to your left reveals a shadow looming. ‘Lone Runner’ is atmospheric and disorientating; a thoroughly uncomfortable listen that ends with you throwing your iPod in the fireplace whilst repeated pointing and hysterically shouting in a Mexican accent “El Diablo! El Diablo!” as the malevolently smiling face of Steve Jobs forms in the flames.

The Pipettes
‘Boo Shuffle’

Ending on a happier note, The Pipettes have dedicated ‘Boo Shuffle’ to their producer Martin Rushent who worked with them on their 2010 release Earth vs. The Pipettes. Rushent produced some classic albums including The Human League’s Dare, and will be sadly missed. ‘Boo Shuffle’ is glorious retro escapism, reminding me of old episodes of Heartbeat, where young women from the sixties would gaily dance around in community halls wearing polka dot dresses.