album reviews
SNOH AALEGRa-
ugh, those feels again
clash magazine
Yearning has never sounded more heart-wrenching…
19 · 08 · 2019
8/10
Snoh Aalegra’s sophomore release, ‘Ugh, those feels again’, probes further into the forward-facing synthetic soul of her 2017 debut ‘FEELS’, better expounding her emotional psyche post-relationship. The heady high and fragrant evocations of love in full bloom are tempered by a charged melancholy, with interdependency, isolation and self-worth coming into play as a breakup looms. On ‘Ugh…’ Snoh humanises her feelings, her experiences and ingratiates the listener to her brand of heartbreak soul, hence the album title.
Aalegra and long-time collaborator No I.D. - at the helm as executive producer and label head - keep the beats bare and distilled, an augmentation of Snoh’s virtuosic, versatile voice. Yearning has never sounded more heartrending and Aalegra knows which strings to tug at.
From the one-two guttural punch of the intro ‘Here Now’ seamlessly transitioning into the velvet majesty of ‘I Want You Around’, the strength of this set is that succeeds in meticulously threading together doo wop, nu jazz, neo soul and gauzy R&B, all the while foregrounding the delicate contours of Snoh’s incredible voice. Sparse, low-slung number ‘You’ - where Snoh can best express and emote her angst through a lattice of galactic chords and strings - encapsulates the overarching soundscape of the record, threaded together by UK’s Joel Compass.
‘Ugh, those feels again’ isn’t a maudlin affair, however. ‘Toronto’, the strongest track on offer, reins in the heartfelt elicitations, instead ramping up the sexual tension as Aalegra vocally climbs the octaves to mirror her climax, on the brink of overflowing. ‘Nothing to Me’ is a much-needed placeholder for Snoh’s feistier side, where internal affirmations come by a confrontational takedown of an ambivalent ex, a snarling Snoh listing all the areas he came up short. It’s a Snoh we need more of.
What’s most admirable about ‘Ugh, those feels again’ is that Aalegra isn’t seeking dominion over the charts. Creative self-sufficiency and artistic integrity, instilled in her by her mentor, Prince, has meant she’s eschewed big label money and payola deals. Her output speaks for itself; authenticity is her calling card. With adistinct indie sheen, Aalegra navigates her way out of starry-eyed amorousness into self-cultivated autonomy, where a sense of permanency has to come from within.
Album closer, ‘Peace’, embodies the appeal and evolution of Snoh Aalegra - a bridge between the referential sounds of monolithic icons with the corporeal face of contemporary R&B. She’s past and future, concurrently. With that in mind, the Swedish-Iranian singer may have released one of the definitive breakup records of the year.
An inspirational debut album from the London jazz trailblazers...
23 · 04 · 2019
8/10
In the last few years, UK jazz has transitioned from a fringe genre to something being embraced by the mainstream, and at the forefront of this movement is the quintet Ezra Collective. Eschewing elitism, the multi-racial line-up – comprising James Mollison on saxophone, Joe Armon-Jones on keys, brothers Femi and TJ Koleoso on drums and bass and Dylan Jones on trumpet – are redefining what it means to be a jazz act today.
The collective formed back in 2012 with the help of the non-profit organisation Tomorrow’s Warriors, and have since nurtured a fan base of faithful devotees seeking out alternative jazz in a streaming era defined by transient releases. At the tail end of last year, the group reached a pinnacle with a sold-out gig at Camden’s KOKO, establishing themselves as consummate live performers, playing with a free-flowing abandon and kinetic synergy that’s often difficult to replicate on record.
Their first studio release, ‘You Can’t Steal My Joy’, injects the feeling and motion of live music, a lovingly assembled debut LP and a natural continuation of their 2017 EP ‘Juan Pablo: The Philosopher’. With a tenor-trumpet core, Ezra Collective skilfully blend traditional tropes with a genre-fluid plurality, symbolic of their upbringing in the metropolis.
Like US jazz that differs according to the inimitable spirit of each region, Ezra Collective blend sounds from the Caribbean and African diaspora in London, leaning on musical urges and influences that are as natural and fluid as anything you’ll hear this year. Never beholden to unyielding conventions, the collective subtly subvert the coda into moments that will only be enhanced in a live setting.
Take the seething slow-burner ‘Quest For Coin’, which integrates snappy horns and nimble-fingered chord progressions, spanning UK funk and afrobeat. The ska-reggae flavour of ‘Red Whine’ lives up to its namesake, lowering the tempo and ratcheting up the temperature, evoking an image of a dimly-lit basement with a sea of bodies swaying in unison.
The LP is peppered with just a few guest spots, one being the introspective highlight ‘What Am I To Do?’, featuring the spoken-word cogitations of Loyle Carner, deftly integrating hazy hip-hop into their repertoire without coming off as derivative. The record draws to a close with the KOKOROKO-assisted ‘Shakara’, bringing together two of the buzziest acts in new wave jazz.
A near six-minute odyssey of contemporary rhythm, whiplash-inducing bass-backing and dancefloor anthems, the track symbolises the impenetrable chemistry between each member of the collective, all component parts of a greater whole. In an age of hostile austerity manufactured by moral panic-inducing powers, Ezra Collective’s debut effort is a polyrhythmic balm for disillusioned youth seeking a dose of musical dopamine.
kali uchis
for clash magazine
A strikingly individual but endlessly inviting return...
09 · 04 · 2018
8/10
Kali Uchis – real name Karly-Marina Loaiza – has been patiently waiting her turn. Mining vintage sounds on her 2012 mixtape ‘Drunken Babble’, a DIY bedroom project fashioned from self-made visuals and retro samples, she may have got some industry heads talking but in the pantheon of Kali, it was a case of style over substance. It was her 2015 EP, ‘Por Vida’, that solidified her promise as an exciting raw talent, with songs that lingered like a smoky speakeasy, hazy and hook-laden but unencumbered by the constraints of genre.
Still, you wouldn’t be remiss in asking who the real Kali is. Therein her appeal lies: Kali is constantly in flux and transition – a Warholian pin-up that luxuriates in the finest silk, overdrawn lips and bouffant hair, to one cavorting with the seedier underbelly of East LA, to a Neo-Chola hybrid about to steal your man. ‘Isolation’, her debut LP, is the culmination of all those alter-egos. It’s the most we’ve gotten of the ‘real Kali’, but only what Kali drip-feeds us. Like with all great records, the rest is open to interpretation. It’s this propensity to contrast the overt glossiness of her looks with subversive, genre-bending music that makes ‘Isolation’ a thrilling listen.
Kali employs a veritable who’s who of artistes with distinct monikers that help augment Kali’s desire for multiplicity, but don’t detract from sounds that are distinctly her own. Thundercat, Tame Impala's Kevin Parker, Badbadnotgood, and frequent collaborator Tyler the Creator all make good on their promise, but Kali ensures her narrative is always the focal point.
Kali finds peace in there being no resolution, embracing the mistakes and dead-ends that ultimately define twentydom. Still only 24 years-old, Kali recounts leaving home, left to her own vices and she lays down some hard-fought lessons. On the woozy psychedelia of ‘Miami’, Kali upends the patriarchy with the line: “Why could I be Kim? I could be Kanye,” creative autonomy the pinnacle of existence. It’s also a perfect foil for some cross-cultural references, the city’s Latinx diaspora both aspirational and prey to xenophobic abuse, and Kali laments the second-class status. The songstress plays around with the disenchanted femme-fatale trope on the Steve Lacy-assisted ‘Just A Stranger’, threatening to take your money and leave you with nada, even if behind the veil of materialism is a young woman grappling with self-doubt and loneliness.
Yet her spirits aren’t dampened. Opener ‘Body Language’, embraces the unknown and the gift of being lonesome. On the languorous, tropical-reggaeton infused ‘Nuestra Planeta’, Kali conjures up a space odyssey, reserved only for two souls. Isolation breeds epiphany. The gossamer disco, Neptunes-sounding ‘Tomorrow’ is a spectral highlight, a tale of effervescent youth and the renewal of a new day.
Kali Uchis may have been dubbed the Latina Lana Del Rey, or the Jazz-lite, incandescent version of Amy Winehouse, but those tags are reductive and lazy. Kali Uchis is a brand unto herself. In some ways her debut record is a natural progression from the imprint of her earlier material, but this is hi-definition, retro-futurism done right. Kali has created a lucid dreamscape where you can be whatever you want to be, self-venerated and free. ‘Isolation’ is an escapist escapade of the highest order.
young fathers
for clash magazine
A strikingly individual but endlessly inviting return...
13 · 03 · 2018
8/10
Young Fathers have always marched to the beat of their own manifold drums, so it came as a bit of a surprise when the trio teased their new era with ‘Lord’, a sanguine-sounding track, featuring choir chants, piano and a euphoric, anthemic chorus.
‘Cocoa Sugar’ the trio’s third effort, was created in an effort to abide by loose convention, the Edinburgh trio - comprised of Alloysious Massaquoi, Kayus Bankole and Graham 'G' Hastings - making a concerted attempt to create “linear-sounding” music. Could this record signal a reinvention to appease the Radio 1 demographic? Would they be setting their sights on the charts?
The answer is, no. Even with ‘Lord’, idiosyncrasies rule the roster, as if the bare-bones of a ballad have been churned out by a conveyor belt that added the requisite screeches, static and noise in an effort to maintain the trio’s penchant for the frenetic.
It’s unequivocally clear, as soon as the pulsating synthline of the somnolent ‘See How’ hits, that Young Fathers are unable to conform to a ‘normal’ prototype. Instead what unfolds is concentrated bursts of experimentation, tethered to no rules, thriving in the intersection between industrial hip-hop, shimmers of Krautrock and gospel. Tracks never run past the four-minute mark, which means Young Fathers have the license to stun and still induce the sort of rhythmic vitality which lets the body talk. Take single ‘In My View’ and album track ‘Border Girl’ possessing menacing but sensual rap-sung staccato, tethered to dirty, undulating drum patterns, treading the middle-ground between pop accessibility and the band's avant-garde compulsions.
Those compulsions pervade cuts like ‘Toy’ and ‘Wow’, the trio injecting soupçons that seek to alienate and isolate, brimming with hall-of-mirrors screams and echoes, swaying from moments of splendour to violence at breakneck speed. It’s here they weave the cold-effect, militant atmosphere of Kanye’s ‘Yeezus’, weaving unsettling, wailing sonics through narratives that depict the bleakness of our worldview. Additionally, the trio retain the lo-fi, funereal feel of their first two records, ‘Dead’ and ‘White Man Are Black Men Too’, going one step further, stripping the songs to stark confessionals, enhancing their religiosity, seeking transcendence and a spiritual awakening in a perilous world.
Still, ‘Cocoa Sugar’ benefits from not being strained by the sort of preachy politicking that mars records seeking to reflect the social consciousness. It captures our collective sense of angst and uncertainty, existing in a period of perennial turmoil, without explicitly detailing the causes. And that works for the best because they don’t have all the answers.
What elevates ‘Cocoa Sugar’ beyond the long line of protest records, is that so many of the battles projected in song are internal. Three young men clashing with their own personal, moral dilemmas, their faith, their own vices and that by virtue of slick song craft, create a universal experience. ‘Cocoa Sugar’ is a record that merits mass appeal recognition, a timely offering educing the moral panic fever reigning over our everyday existence.
miguel - war & Leisure
for clash magazine
An absorbing statement from a vital, progressive artist...
18 · 12 · 2017
8/10
Miguel continues his loose jaunt down the idiosyncratic path carved out on the sun-soaked, California-loving ‘Wildheart’. Indeed, the arrival of his fourth LP ‘War & Leisure’, in the midst of Winter, is quite possibly intentional, a retroactive visage of a summer-driven record, a carousal of breezy nostalgia — think surf-rock flourishes, Marvin Gaye soul-funk and soft psychedelia.
On ‘War & Leisure’, Miguel offsets political overtures with a rhythmic energy that gives the record a defiant and celebratory feel, never beholden to mawkish politicking. The “island” is a symbol throughout, no more evident than on ‘Pineapple Skies’ and ‘Banana Clip’, a dreamscape and utopia for nocturnal animals. Miguel’s own blend of tropical house is divergent from the sort dominating airwaves, and we’re reminded we can rely on him to reject convention and trends, and add that ineffaceable frenetic touch with snares, synths and bass kicks.
Trying his hand at sounds previously unexplored, Miguel further cements his status as a forerunner of sonic multiplicity. Embracing his Latino heritage (his father is Mexican-American), the Spanglish smuttiness of ‘Caramelo Duro’ is a triumph, similar in chord progression to Calvin Harris’s ‘Feels’, but far superior in its production values and in its Carnival-inducing flavour, the first and probably not the last time Miguel sings in Spanish. Adhering more closely to radio homogeneity, and possibly a bid to increase his own mainstream clout, is the trap-infused ‘Skywalker’. A collaboration with AutoTune auteur Travis Scott, the cut evokes some of the melodic, programmed heat of Kendrick’s ‘Swimming Pool’, yet is devoid of the flair and texture that made that number a breakout hit.
Miguel doesn’t dial down on the sex and leisure vibe he’s honed throughout his career, instead he ventures even further into the celestial terrain of otherworldly pleasures. But now, these pleasures are a balm to the world’s vagaries and Miguel’s own latent anxieties. The impending apocalypse is inevitable and frankly redundant, because to Miguel, the focus is on assuaging his lover’s (and the listener’s) fears with a juiced-up persona. He is the opiate that numbs our existential pain. On ‘Harem’, Miguel incites a cult of ‘70s eroticism, the hippie mantra “love is free” reverberating over feverish drums and distorted, ambient guitars.
The Salaam Remi and J Cole-assisted ‘Come Through and Chill’ is an austere reminder of Miguel’s inclination for strung-out slow jams, shifting between come-hither pining and receiving. The spectral neo-soul production is a welcome breather from the reverbed-out noise that makes up the bulk of the record. J Cole’s standout verse lists some zeitgeist hits, injecting a soft blend of social consciousness, like Kaepernick kneeling and police brutality towards “the ones that got the pigment”. The track forms the crux of ‘War & Leisure’s’ philosophy, to resist by seeking one’s own desires in the face of adversity.
Miguel’s intention with ‘War & Leisure’ is not to laden himself as a beacon for social change, but to create a body of work that offsets the severity of our current climate. The record thrives because of this surface-level wokeness, Miguel continuing to occupy his own lane as a vital, progressive artist.
shamir - revelations
for clash magazine
A lo-fi approach that carries an unembellished charm....
04 · 12 · 2017
6/10
Shamir Bailey has undergone a bold reinvention. A sharp career pivot from the shimmery, disco-inflected, club-filtered and consistently excellent ‘Ratchet’, ‘Revelations’ is more in accordance with spring’s ‘Hope’, the Las Vegas artist integrating a taciturn sound this time round. Bearing no resemblance to his debut whatsoever, Shamir treads a new path characterised by deconstructed rock, punk and even country, genres that he relished growing up.
Following a series of personal and professional setbacks, namely his departure from XL Recordings, Shamir is in a combative mood. ‘Revelations’ serves as a sort of redemptive catharsis. On album opener ‘Games’, Bailey puts corporations on blast, a frank depiction of the power struggle between creative freedom and the seedier, profiteering side of music.
‘Revelations’, clocking in at just 30 minutes, is a fleeting, confection-hit of songs that tackle hefty identity issues. Just 23 years-old, Shamir sings with an emotional depth befitting someone way beyond his years, reclaiming his narrative in the process. Taking the reins on production and writing all his own songs, Bailey is able to foreground his expressions. That means doing away with the sheen. If there’s one thing you take away from the record, it’s that Bailey is a work in progress, and there is an unembellished charm to this lo-fi approach.
The songs are grainy and unrefined, vocals are unfiltered and often inharmonious, the chords are loose and screechy at times. It isn’t always an easy listen. Still, Bailey’s foray into a more grunge-induced sound does wield some stellar results, take the sanguine vibe of ‘You Have A Song’, stadium-sized drums and a fuzzy guitar strum evoking ‘80s high-school, misfit melodrama. And much of ‘Revelations’ works because of Shamir’s salient falsetto, heightening the performance aspect of his songs, Bailey able to extricate and communicate his innermost feelings in ways his contemporaries can’t manage. Borderline operatic, there is a compelling dissonance between the shrill Eartha Kitt-esque vocals, (which veers perilously close to a helium voice) and the passé production, like on the retro-infused ‘Float’, which features less incongruent noise and a prominent vocal. The grit and soulfulness in Bailey’s voice swelling a minimal number that hits home in its clever introspection.
‘Revelations’ serves as a precursor to the type of material Shamir will release in the future, an antithesis to the polished sounds that made up his debut. Shamir embraces the nonconformist tag, normalising it, and effectively doing away with mainstream structures, in exchange for autonomy. Shamir is a clever lyricist, his commentary often zeitgeisty and fun, yet also beleaguered. Take ‘Straight Boy’, which effectively dismisses asphyxiating heteronormative ideals: “I always seem to let the straight boys ruin my life”, recognising the vicious cycle of accountability. While Bailey’s true-to-self, organic approach on ‘Revelations’ should be celebrated, the record serves more as a transition than a defining peg in Bailey’s young career. Given his undeniable talents, he’ll find his pot of gold soon enough.
Taylor swift - Reputation
for clash magazine
The ‘New Taylor’ is flagrantly confrontational but never revolutionary...
21 · 11 · 2017
6/10
On the lead single ‘Look What You Made Me Do’, Taylor Swift spun a tale of woe and vengeance, dismantling all the ignominy that followed her last year. A malleable entity befitting many narratives — an icon of white supremacy, monopolising her sizeable reach over the musical and socio-political realms? An innocent bystander or a monster orchestrating the downfall of her biggest adversaries? Essentially a denunciation, the song and accompanying video would set Swift up as an unhinged and solitary figure on the defensive. All was brewing, and as the appositely-titled ‘Reputation’ unfurls over fifteen tracks, the ‘New Taylor’ is flagrantly confrontational, the record fastidiously designed to bring her new ethos to life.
On ‘Reputation’, Swift is a nimble musical appropriator, absorbing her producers’ sounds with aplomb, much like Britney did with her state-of-the-art opus ‘Blackout’. It’s still very much her vision, this wanton need to be maximal and omnipotent, and for the first time in her career there is a breadth of versatility that Taylor hasn’t had to exhibit before. On opener ‘…Ready for it?’, Swift sounds as dynamic as ever, half-rapping and chanting over a flatulent industrial beat and a ridiculous bass drop, ushering in a new era of in-your-face defiance. Yet where ‘Blackout’ felt fresh, audacious and redemptive for the media-hounded Britney, ‘Reputation’ stumbles where the stadium verboseness and EDM gossamer from producers Max Martin, Shellback and Jack Antonoff, correlates with an obsessiveness that at times override’s Swift’s usually indelible song writing.
Subtlety is not on the cards. ‘End Game’ collapses under the weight of overwrought musical trends and friends (Ed Sheeran and Future) that bring nothing of note to the A-List party. Taylor comes out the strongest of the trio, as she leaves her signature ear for melody at the door, in favour of an abrasive rap-sung staccato. ‘This Is Why We Can’t Have Nice Things’ serves as the album’s nadir, a wearisome display of vengeful villainy that doesn’t befit a woman approaching her thirties.
As ‘Reputation’ plays, Stockholm Syndrome kicks in. We’re reminded of the breathless nostalgia of ‘1989’, the type that essentially redefined the ‘80s synthpop soundscape, Taylor making the transition from girl next door who sang a mean country-lite ditty, to a credible pop juggernaut in her own right. ‘Reputation’ as a whole does not embody the sort of bold reinvention necessary to withstand the unforgiving pop cycle. On much of ‘Reputation’, style seems to have taken precedence over substance.
Still, shed away the high-octane melodrama and what remains is a budding romance seemingly unaffected by the noise outside. The quiet but stark simplicity of ballad ‘New Year’s Day’ borne out of navigating a not-so-secret relationship amidst the gluttony of celebrity life, a highlight. All the computer trickery is gone, the ‘Old Taylor’ effectively outshining her newer, shinier counterpart. Even on the atmospheric, R&B-trap crossover ‘Call It What You Want’, and the ‘1989’ outlier ‘Delicate’, she hits the mark because there is less pretence and less posturing. They’re some of the most potent on record, Taylor revisiting the intimate, diary-like invocation of her past work, treating her listeners as confidantes and not as a cult of her personality.
‘Reputation’ is, aside from the injudicious choice of singles, an exhilarating ride through the trials and tribulations of one of the most illustrious artists in the world. Aside from all the gossip-baiting lyricism, a thought-provoking examination of Swift’s life as a 27-year-old woman emerges. Swift’s unencumbered analysis of the tectonic shifts within her personal and public life are equal parts razor sharp and self-indulgent. But as a pop album, ‘Reputation’ is never revolutionary, the adrenaline rush heady but ultimately short-lived.
snoh aalegra - feels
for clash magazine
Prince-endorsed, Persian songwriter bridges the gap between film noir, '70s soul and hip-hop...
13 · 11 · 2017
7/10
With her ‘Don’t Explain’ project, the Prince-endorsed, Persian songwriter Snoh Aalegra embraced the world of Silver Screen vintage soul — think sensual femme fatales, rain-streaked streets, and the iconographic motif of the handsome yet rugged anti-hero. If there was one gripe about Aalegra’s output, it’s that her kinship with the feel and sounds from past eras distilled the emotional resonance of her voice and lyricism.
Admirably, on ‘FEELS’, Aalegra better synthesises her myriad influences and foregrounds her sensitivities. Sonically, Aalegra and her band of producers, bridge the gap between film noir, ‘70s soul and hip-hop, with enough contemporary flourishes to ingratiate herself to a broader audience.
Aalegra’s natural affinity for cinematic soul is still there, take the Vince Staples-assisted ‘Nothing Burns Like The Cold’, Aalegra bemoaning the status of an uncertain and undefined relationship, the sonics stopping and starting, chaotic scratches and a reworked Isaac Hayes sample playing out a ‘Spy Who Loved Me’ narrative. On the flipside, Aalegra convincingly plays the fool in love on ‘Fool For You’, marrying wistful chords and gospel-lite coos, delivering a romantic overture for the ages. Aalegra’s voice soars, cracks and crackles when she asserts, charting the trajectory of her seesaw journey through love, heartbreak and self-discovery. The string-laden, bluesy ‘Worse’ packs the necessary emotional heft because Aalegra never compromises the rawness of her voice, unfiltered and grainy.
Furthermore, ‘FEELS’ boasts an impressive roster of rap’s new era progenitors, and Aalegra really comes into her own in the intersection between programmed soul and hip-hop. On ‘Sometimes’, Aalegra glides over a cold breakbeat, mirroring the careening vocal interplay that Mariah Carey made her own in the ‘90s. Breakout rapper Logic injects his inimitable flow on a moody track that grapples with circumstance and destiny. The highlight of the record comes in the form of ‘Like I Used To’, Aalegra ushering in the help of native Swede rapper Timbuktu, a song that prickles with icy, atmospheric melodrama, Aalegra at her most emotionally transparent when she is in a reminiscent, retrospective mood, a theme that imprints itself all over the record.
In an age where nihilistic, indulgent and overcooked R&B rules the roster, it’s refreshing to hear a feel-good, authentically-driven record like ‘FEELS’. The production retains a lo-fi, and unpolished feel throughout, Aalegra not tempted by radio homogeneity, slowly but surely finding her own lane.
moses sumney - aromanticism
for clash magazine
A complete, fully realised, and highly unconventional debut LP...
17 · 10 · 2017
8/10
Moses Sumney is staking his claim as an ‘Aromantic’ – a person who rejects the conventionality of coupled love. If you’re up to date with Sumney’s earlier EPs, you’ll know solitude and detachment is a natural precursor to his exploration of ‘otherness’. And what elevates this full-length above the farcical, is that he interrogates society’s obsession with normative love through voyeuristic wordplay that never comes across preachy or ham-fisted. The meaning behind his words are rendered so beautifully through ethereal, dream-like soundscapes; you can’t help but fall into the loveless trance that Sumney induces.
On the electro-folk hybrid, ‘Indulge Me’, Sumney fleshes out his experience of anti-love – seemingly at peace with his own ambiguities. Sumney embraces the void that comes with being lonesome, whilst all his former lovers have moved on with their own monogamous relationships. He juxtaposes Sufjan-esque bucolic musings with layered harmonies that hit you like you’ve just been anointed, take the soporific highlight ‘Make Out in The Car’, Sumney treating the casualness of making out as the limit to his reciprocity, repeating the same sentiment as if it’s a hymn.
Indeed, through a prism of celestial transcendence, the record comes full circle, echoing Sumney’s childhood as a choirboy and reflecting his heritage as the son of pastors. Routinely, Sumney’s multi-tracked vocals foreground the record, Sumney amplifying his feathery, piercing falsetto to striking effect. ‘Doomed’, a bleak, dystopian track, stands as a contrast to the rest of the record in its sparse, unembellished make-up, Sumney’s tremolo weaving a story of “godlessness”. Sumney doesn’t have all the answers, much of the record sees him questioning his own agency, finding home in a murky abyss of unknowing.
On ‘Aromanticism’, Sumney has worked hard to defy binary categorisation. The record is a singular, sprawling affair that revisits the evocative, hyper-real Art of Bjӧrk with the spacey jazz and funk flourishes of Prince. Virtuosic ad-libs, guitar flicks and iridescent harp inflections create an ethereal, otherworldly feel to the record, take the Thundercat-assisted ‘Lonely World’, a crescendo of bass and horns and swells of melodrama.
If a drawback exists, it’s that Sumney’s lower register is underutilised - a cottony, sinewy part of his arsenal reduced to a mere cameo. Some may argue that ‘Aromanticism’ is style over substance, certainly his sentiments run the risk of evading the listening, such is the beauty of the dreamscape he weaves. Yet as you revisit the record, the case for being ‘aromantic’, has never sounded so fully realised, so complete and so utterly inviting.
kelela - take me apart
for clash magazine
Matching the intonation of ’90s R&B to digital grit...
09 · 10 · 2017
8/10
On her debut full-length, Kelela tackles the ghosts of her past love and starts anew, the decadent opener ‘Frontline’ beautifully capturing the angst that comes with moving on. Retaining the grit and cold effect electronics that defined her breakthrough mixtape ‘Cut 4 Me’, Kelela becomes the siren, scorned but braced for impact, the garage-inflected ‘Onanon’, hitting you in the proverbial with its lush, programmed melancholia.
Much of ‘Take Me Apart’ takes the listener through familiar tropes - female autonomy, sexual awakening and despondent love - yet it strikes a different chord, the LP whizzing by with a breathless urgency mapped out by the stellar production of premier collaborators Arca and Jam City, who understand the delicate contours of Kelela’s voice.
Kelela’s delivery, at times silky and willowy, other times hardened by effects, harks back to the intonation of ’90s R&B leading ladies and their affinity for carnal desire. Kelela’s phrasing, melodies, and the way she stacks her harmonies is a welcome respite from the full-throated, abrasive style of her peers. This coupled with the druggy drone and undulating bass on tracks like ‘Blue Light’ means Kelela treads new ground unlike anything in music today - cavernous, avant-garde R&B that moves the body and heals the broken heart.
nosaj thing - parallels
for clash magazine
An organic and necessary evolution for the Los Angeles producer...
03 · 10 · 2017
7/10
Los Angeles-based Jason Chung AKA Nosaj Thing’s fourth LP ‘Parallels’ signals a creative rebirth for the revered beatmaker. Following a self-proclaimed “identity crisis”, triggered after his gear was stolen while on tour, Chung took his time, unhurried in his approach to song craft, cultivating a record that manages to find a new sense of cordiality in collaboration, whilst retaining Nosaj Thing’s sense of abstract exploration.
His past work under the Nosaj Thing moniker — pre-dating ‘Parallels’ — explored amorphous left-field, house and glitch-hop soundscapes, his eye and attention to every minuscule detail the reason he is so valued in the LA music scene. Having produced for the likes of Chance The Rapper and Kendrick Lamar, Chung has been able to fuse together the directness of hip-hop’s breakbeats with austere production that leans more towards ambient and ethereal atmospherics.
On ‘Parallels’ Chung channels whatever turmoil and angst he encountered from his time away into a distilled melancholia that subtly ebbs and flows. Alternate dimensions and planes unbeknownst to the fickle human mind is where Chung takes us. Take ‘UG’ and ‘Form’ — arpeggios, faint piano patterns and a cavernous array sampled voices fleshing out Chung’s sense of detachment from reality.
Voices appear in different forms on ‘Parallels’, and Chung refreshingly embraces the duality in collaboration, bringing him back from the isolation of his own soundscapes. On tracks like ‘Way We Were’ and ‘All Points Back To You’, Zuri Marley and UK electronica producer Steve Spacek, provide visceral emotion and simple sentimentality, capturing Chung’s sense of loss and longing, these tonal shifts bleeding into his production. Whether it be the brooding but gritty soul on the latter, or the frenzied synths and faint pop sheen of the former, these tracks have a playfulness that could have been tapped into more by Chung.
‘Parallels’ is a sinuous and subdued listen, a strong canvas that projects an alternate reality. Chung’s affinity for an abstractness means his offerings run the risk of getting lost in the ether, flashes of synth and whirrs aimlessly floating, not always hitting the mark. While this sonic nonchalance means it can lack singularity and impact, ‘Parallels’ feels like an organic and necessary evolution for Chung, creating dense, hazy, dreamlike production, still as mind-altering as ever.
sza - ctrl
for clash magazine
A bold, daring album that pushes against the borders of convention..
28 · 06 · 2017
8/10
SZA has finally blessed the world with her long-awaited debut label release, ‘CTRL’. With the release of her mixtapes in 2012 and 2014, which occupied realms of wistful, gauzy atmospherics, and loosely-formed ideas on identity, there was a justified buzz around her, and her skill as a purveyor of multi-hyphenate music, even if there was a nagging sense of disinclination. Her potential latent, if not wholly realised.
Her time away has resulted in a full-length well worth the wait, SZA collating her patchwork influences into fourteen streamlined tracks best experienced as a whole. She plays the residual cheater (casually sharing a lover on the ‘90s dreamy escapade ‘The Weekend’), the confidante, the pin-up, the influencer and the sister — sometimes all on one track.
Yet it’s the scorned SZA that is her strongest guise; her brand of heartbreak distinctly modern, evading doe-eyed despair in favour of brazen clap backs — for what ‘CTRL’ isn’t, is a pity party. On opener ‘Supermodel’, SZA’s ego is bruised, berating her ex’s new woman, her once judiciously curated look book, now a stark confessional. On the Travis Scott-assisted ‘Love Galore’ (a mournful anthem for ambivalent lovers), her cadence is ripe with hurt and reproach. As the song comes to an end, there isn’t a resolution in sight.
The beauty lies in the moments she admonishes her agency, her thoughts in a constant state of flux — a twenty-something in transition. SZA’s not emotionally infallible, and yet she celebrates the grey areas with an abandon that artists ten years in the game can’t quite seem to grasp. ‘Drew Barrymore’, as close to pop as anything SZA has released thus far, is a pick-me-up, guitar-tinged anthem, for those needing affirmation and a boost post-break up. Additionally, amidst all the sexual bravado displayed on ‘Normal Girl’, her desire to be just that is plain and clear, a yearning to ‘the one’ especially potent in a ‘new world’ of instant gratification, lines being blurred to the point of comprehension.
On ‘CTRL’, SZA is a fully-fledged artiste with things to say and people to say it to, no longer hiding behind the reverb. Even as ‘CTRL’ explores dreamy soundscapes, her voice is foregrounded in all its grainy quality, unaffected and real. Celebrating womanhood in all its complexity, a record of unadorned, bare-boned vulnerability, SZA’s multi-perspective lyricism gives the modern woman richness and grit. Featuring savage and often heartfelt, diary-like ruminations, ‘CTRL’ pushes against the borders of convention lyrically and sonically, placing it on the upper echelons of potential ‘Best Of ’17’ lists.
alt-j - relaxer
for clash magazine
A superb, highly creative yet slow-burning return...
02 · 06 · 2017
8/10
alt-J have returned from a two-year respite, and this time they bring with them a low-res tapestry of ember-fuelled slow burners. Named ‘Relaxer’, the record lives up to its title, an anaesthetising eight-track aural experience. The trio’s signature, folktronic sound is placed on the backburner, and what leads is a mix of redolent, cabin-fever creations – hymnal, with a touch of pastoral.
‘3WW’, a sensuous number bordering on shamanic, opens the LP, ripe with ritualistic and prayer-like devotion, riding a meditative, surging beat, Joe Newman’s and Unger Hamilton’s vocals hollow but sybaritic. Lyrically the duo, alongside Wolf Alice’s Ellie Roswell’s ethereal cameo, relay a night of passion under the stars, touching on the unknowingly caustic nature of love. It’s a piquant brew veering perilously close to inducing a trance.
Contrastingly, ‘In Cold Blood’, a nostalgic rush of algorithmic wordplay, unloads with undomesticated swagger, already the most alt-J-sounding track on offer, backed by an aggressive percussive backbone and grandiose guitars.
‘Relaxer’ is a vitrine in extremes. It makes no discernible sense to have the Spanish guitar, summer duskiness of the gorgeously dense closer ‘Pleader’, alongside the cold, drone-heavy ‘Deadcrush’, yet it functions because alt-J bookend each track with tenderness. Take ‘Last Year’, a show reel of Newman’s diary-like ruminations, intensified by the emotional interplay between Newman and guest vocalist Marika Hackman.
Additionally, the trio’s foray into strings – roping in the London Metropolitan Orchestra – fuses beautifully with the band’s circuit-board trickery, sonically veering into cinematic territory but always keeping things contemporary. Both ‘Adeline’ and a reworking of Woodie Guthrie’s ‘House of the Rising Sun’, could score arthouse films, packed with classical instrumentation and subsequent lush, symphonic textures.
In parts, alt-J give off the vibe they are tempered and diffident, but in actuality, their amalgam eccentricity is just as potent. Only now their output is mostly devoid of unnecessary posturing and superfluous interludes – thankfully dialling down on the faux-American pastiche that peppered their inconsistent Grammy-endorsed sophomore release ‘This Is All Yours’.
For such a compact LP, ‘Relaxer’ sure does pack in moments of confounding experimentation. It still plays like an alt-J album – disparate and enigmatic, wry and artful. Yet ‘Relaxer’ is best explored as a gaudy anthology of anomalous but charming tales, borne out of voyeuristic observations.
Three albums in, it’s admirable that the trio haven’t gone the way of their contemporaries, eschewing big production and big money. Instead they’ve created something quite distinct from their former work. In this regard, ‘Relaxer’ places them firmly back on track.
HARRY STYLES
for clash magazine
Eschewing trend and conveyer belt production for something individual...
12 · 05 · 2017
7/10
You wouldn’t be negligent in thinking Harry Styles lacked the flair of Britpop and classic rock pin-ups - pin-ups that have clearly enthused his own aesthetic. Possessing a strong editorial presence, a host of high-fashion sponsors keeping him on the front pages of glossy publications and billboards alike, Styles invokes the ‘style’ and swagger of a young Mick Jagger. The question remains, does he have the requisite artistic impudence, or is he merely ornamental?
‘Sign Of The Times’, the first taste of the self-tilted LP, managed to rouse the nation with its Elton John-esque power-ballad feel, ultimately belying its apocalyptic reference (and political intimation) for an end-of-relationship slow burner. Not too dissimilar from his former band’s stadium-sized anthems, it sufficed as a nice continuation for Styles, even if it suffered from a languid tone and an overly-long duration.
Yet as you press play on the rest of Styles’ formative debut, it swiftly becomes palpable that Styles has a genuine knack for synthesising distinct classic influences from the past fifty years. The record offers up little in the way of innovation but serves as a strong testimonial to 70s and 80s rock and indie. Jeff Bhasker, an esteemed producer for the likes of Hip-Hop heavyweights Jay Z and Kanye West, provides Styles with artistic license. Taking the reins as the record’s pivotal producer, he shifts from buzzy hit maker to a statelier writer and producer, adorning Styles’s pop sensibilities into something more singular. Like on opener, ‘Meet Me In The Hallway’, a slice of miasmic soft-psychedelia - Styles transporting the listener to a sprawling Nirvana of lovelorn contemplation, featuring a “gotta get better” chant that feels both triumphant and resigned. It’s easily the best song on offer, the track most suited to his wary voice.
Clocking in at just 41 minutes, the record as a whole has an easy exuberance about it, estimably Styles doesn’t take himself too seriously. Only 10 tracks long, the record is less prone to the fluff and filler that mars debuts from fledgling upstarts that want to say and do a million, different things at once. Sure, Styles meanders through genres, but he does so with a natural forward momentum, augmented by Bhasker. On ‘Woman’, featuring what could be a quip at the famed American Women Styles has navigated, he critiques their vapid nature and obsession with “romcoms on Netlfix”. It’s a sleek, funk-fuelled number summoning Prince to the fore, Bhasker offering up a subtle, hip-hop stimulus through a sampled ‘huh’ and the use of organic drums.
Throughout the record, there’s a mournful cadence to Styles’s voice and wordplay. He pines, he reminisces and he regrets, he’s actually at times a bit weepy. Both ‘Ever Since New York’ and the folky, acoustic closer ‘From The Dining Table’, show him as the submissive one in relationships, his plaintive nature amplified, the usually inscrutable Styles now more opaque and open.
The record misfires towards the middle-section with ‘Only Angel’ and ‘Kiwi’. Intended as a one-two punch of masochistic, rock swaggering, admirable in its legerdemain, it ultimately comes undone by haphazard lyricism. The latter featuring the aggressive chant of “I’m having your baby, it’s none of your business” is at odds with the love-struck nature of the record as a whole, carrying little clout in the end.
‘Harry Styles’ doesn’t cotton onto the Americanised R&B-lite and trap-infused genres that his peers so readily cherry-pick from. Styles eschews trends and the conveyer belt production that pervades Radio 1 playlists. Styles also succeeds in not getting lost in a vacuum of imitative codas, the record retaining a sense of open-eyed awe at throwback rock, indie, and even some shoegaze. It’s a record that will inevitably launch a blitz of reaction videos from faceless One Direction fans, yet you get the sense that Styles himself is aiming for the affirmation of a more advanced crowd of Radio 2 listeners. With his debut, Styles manages to escape the notorious curse of former boy banders, turned leading men, creating an immersive, reference-fuelled tribute to classic rock for the millennial generation.
little dragon - season high
for clash magazine
Teetering on the edge of commercial viability, whilst preserving their unconventional charm...
21 · 04 · 2017
6/10
For all their fashionable and gossamer synth pop, Swedish quartet Little Dragonhave never truly set the charts ablaze — their brand of music a bit too austere to dominate airwaves. What they do have is staying power, retaining their pedigree as a dependable, fringe-festival act and harbingers of invigorating electro-soul. The four-piece succeed in straddling multiple genres through a PC prism, redefining retro and throwback sounds instead of actually innovating.
‘Season High’, the band’s fifth LP, continues their hermetic approach to music-making, not straying too far from the formula. The record continues the skittering rhythms that pervaded ‘Nabuma Rubberband’ and even ‘Ritual Union’. The band ever so slightly rein in their quirks this time round, and the ensuing effect is a more controlled, sensuous soundboard, the quartet fusing their signature glitch electronics with the simplicity of unabashed ‘80s pop and R&B.
‘Season High’ is a pleasant ride — a breezy escapade through dreamlands and ultraviolet meadows. It’s a sometimes sickly-sweet concoction that’ll leave you once or twice with the feeling of overindulgence. Like on the stretched, slow burner ‘Butterflies’, a kaleidoscope-inducing track that stagnates without percussion, a pay-off or a crescendo. The record succeeds when singer Yukimi Nagano’s breathy, mournful vocals collide with morose atmospherics, like on ‘Don’t Cry’, a night-time lullaby that modifies feelings of loss with one of open-eyed clarity. It works because Nagano’s quivering vocal performance has conviction, whereas on the hollow ‘Should I’, she loses her way under the weight of obtrusive clangs, her voice stretched until wafer thin.
The best symbiosis of production and vocal flourishes is on single ‘Sweet’, a glossy, euphoric number, a showcase of the band’s aptitude for technical precision, the song benefitting from the right amount of Gameboy bleeps. ‘Push’, the darker, seedier antithesis to ‘Sweet’, is the quartet’s foray into queer culture. Invoking the sexual awakening of ‘Velvet Rope’ Janet Jackson, Nagano conjures images of a legion of club-goers voguing their inhibitions away.
These tracks are microcosms of the LP’s prevailing lyrical narrative — one of renewal and rejuvenation, the band clearly carefree and at an equilibrium with their identity. It’s a shame that the production is occasionally bereft of that aphorism, lacking the more stylistic leaps Yukimi Nagano has taken as a feature vocalist with the likes of SBTRKT and Kaytranada. The record ultimately enfeebled by the band’s dialled back, minimalist approach.
Continuing their track record of sensory electropop that teeters on the edge of commercial viability, whilst preserving their unconventional charm, ‘Season High’ is an exuberant quick-fix LP. It may well usher in the deep heat of the impending summer, but we’ll have to keep waiting for that Little Dragon knockout blow that we know the band are capable of.
arca - arca
for clash magazine
Building nebulous structures from a paean of underground electronica..
06 · 04 · 2017
8/10
On his first two records ‘Xen’ and ‘Mutant’, Arca – real name Alejandro Ghersi – built nebulous structures from a paean of underground electronica. Resisting static definition, Arca left the listener to extract their own meanings from his brand of mechanical elegies. His attraction to abstractness and wandering abandon, the reason Kanye West and FKA twigs would endorse him for their own respective records.
The seminal moment for Arca would be his contributions to Björk’s LP ‘Vulnicura’, a show reel of compelling, dysmorphic production flourishes working in unison with Björk’s most achingly humane lyrics in years. Björk’s request for Ghersi to foreground his own vocals culminates in an eponymous third LP that signals the rebirth of Arca as a vocalist – a soul-baring escapade by an artist who is cavorting with his own insanity.
The beauty of ‘Arca’ is that it runs like one continuous piece. It’s as if Ghersi has created the record to coincide with a one-man show intended to be consumed as a whole, going from a behind-the-decks electronic composer to an exhibitionist. ‘Arca’ rides a steady stream of minimalist melancholia, juxtaposed against Ghersi’s intense, operatic vocals – the effect is one of ceremonial transcendence.
Ghersi consecrates experiences of love, longing, disillusionment and isolation. On ‘Reverie’, he builds a dream-like state of being through a combination of cavernous, shuffling percussion and synths – his mournful vocals foregrounding a dark, dissonant backdrop. On ‘Anoche’, Arca shifts from falsetto to a deeper timbre over amplified piano tones, the mood concurrently foreboding but eerily static.
Ghersi exploits his voice in more direct and less unblemished ways, adding the requisite reverb or delay, but dialling down on his penchant for pitch alteration. Vocals are the product of first takes and improv; you can physically hear Arca as he takes in air, as he swallows and it only intensifies the visceral immediacy of his performance. ‘Coraje’ a spectral, whimsical number, comes undone by Arca’s recoiling vocal, the resultant effect is equal parts menacing, equal parts lamenting. His exaggerated play on the syllabic structure of his native Spanish only deepens his intent as a man meeting the dark side of depravity, and he wants the audience to go over with him, hand in hand.
Nowhere does ‘Arca’ follow a conventional song structure (except on ‘Desafio’ where you can vaguely make out a verse-chorus template.) Neither are the songs rhythmic or danceable, thriving in a wider paradigm of desolate silence and episodic distortions. But by existing on the fringes of popular electronic music, ‘Arca’ puts the spotlight on deconstructed club culture and how these havens provide club goers with a more emotionally expansive place to express their idiosyncrasies. Through ‘Arca’, Ghersi guides the listener to contort and cry their way through otherworldly, synthetic dimensions.
sampha - process
for clash magazine
A reluctant artist delivers an outstanding debut album...
07 · 02 · 2017
8/10
Sampha, full name Sampha Sisay, has built his trade by being a reluctant artist. Tipped as a star on the rise at the beginning of the decade, his EP releases (‘Sundanza’ and ‘Dual’) packed delicate but virtuosic vocals over warped, fractious beats. Dexterous in his ability to unify disparate soundscapes, black heritage music through a prism of futurist underground greyness — Sampha was merely scratching the surface of his abilities.
With ‘Process’, Sampha lays bare his soul through warm, tinted vignettes that are achingly humane. It’s this capacity for unfiltered vulnerability unlike his peers, that has resulted in endorsements by hip-hop heavyweights Kanye (‘Saint Pablo’) and Drake (‘Too Much’) as well as soul forerunners Solange (‘Don’t Touch My Hair’) and Frank Ocean (‘Alabama’). Sampha’s experiences and fears aren’t treated as linear, but an ever-changing, ever-evolving process. His truths shine in technicolour throughout the record’s ten tracks.
Sampha’s haunted. His demons, ghouls and ghosts come bubbling to the surface, as he faces them head on, winning some battles and losing others. ‘Blood On Me’, a wonderful slice of primitive paranoia, sees him travelling what seems like dimensions as he tries to outrun the sins of his former self. The inclusion of cyclical choral chant samples only adds to the affected tension; the organic hip-hop drum beat the only constant in a song packed full of epic melodrama.
The beauty of much of ‘Process’ is in the bare-boned emotion Sampha displays in coping with grief as a corporeal moving thing, instead of a hollow, static feeling. The loss of his mother to cancer, and the journey from diagnosis to remission to her eventual death is mapped out in stages and fragments. It aligns itself with Sampha’s wistful nature, conscious of not drowning the listener under an incessant stream of sorrow. “You’ve been with me since the cradle…you’ve been with me, you’re my angel, please don’t disappear,” a painstaking lyric sung over a propulsive, tribal-infused beat invoking the euphoric breakdown of Friendly Fires ‘Paris’.
In the hands of a lesser artist, ‘Kora Sings’ would have been a farcical, yet it’s Sampha’s adeptness as a composer that elevates his prose, the layered composition adding the necessary sinew and innovation. The grief that comes with loss breeds confusion and it weaves itself into Sampha’s relationships. ‘Take Me Inside’ is kaleidoscopic soul with nods to his past work with SBTRKT — what begins as a plaintive piano melody makes way for a coda that’s off-kilter with no resolution in sight.
Sampha makes the conscious decision to place his voice in the foreground throughout the record, choosing dryness over reverb. It’s a voice that fissures mid-range, frays into a whisper, and reaches for hidden depths. And what he lacks in range he more than makes up for in sheer expression, no more evident than on the lullaby ode ‘(No One Knows Me) Like The Piano’. The most conventionally structured song, it soars because of its easy sonic simplicity. The piano is a symbol of Sampha’s ties to his mother and father, and the gateway into the music that would become his saviour. ‘Timmy’s Prayer’ is perhaps the closest Sampha comes to a spiritual reckoning, enraged and exhausted, he laments a higher power. He may be beaten but he’s learnt the hard way that there lies a visceral power in invocation.
With ‘Process’, Sampha sings that life is about the arduous journey and not the end destination. That goes for his gradual but measured ascent from a supporting player to a fully-fledged artiste who has chosen to surrender his submissiveness in favour of an emotional epiphany. ‘Process’ is his ‘Carrie And Lowell’, a healing record for the broken, the lovelorn and the lost.
kehlani - sweetsexysavage
for clash magazine
An honest, engrossing journey that lives up to the hype...
31 · 01 · 2017
7/10
Kehlani’s Grammy-nominated mixtape ‘You Should Be Here’ introduced the world to her own brand of stoned-out, soul cuts that invoked the wistful haze of ‘90s and early noughties R&B, albeit for a new generation of online stalwarts. In the intervening years, Kehlani could not have foreseen the intense media glare she’d be subjected to, as she dealt with bouts of depression and anxiety.
The release of ‘SweetSexySavage’ must therefore feel like a dose of euphoric retribution for Kehlani; the record reflecting (if not fully delving into) those sensitivities. The dark and hedonistic prototype is substituted for a positive, defiant one, where Kehlani swaggers around those lows with a raw braggadocio as refreshing as anything released in contemporary music today.
On ‘SweetSexySavage’, Kehlani navigates with ease both the street and pop lanes. Lanes she occupies with the same vim and attention to zeitgeists the way Drake has. Embodying the experiences of millennial females through songs that feel both reminiscent but never beholden to nostalgia, she manages to substantiate the hype that has followed her since her mixtape days. Cuts are introduced by spoken word intros from women who have shaped Kehlani’s consciousness — injecting personal skits and building on the perspective of the modern woman.
Indeed, Kehlani’s own lyrical anecdotes and her role as a voyeuristic observer are integral to her brand. ‘Not Used To It’ is all wide-eyed innocence, conceding the neon-lights and infamy is something that will take time getting used to, the number augmented by Kehlani’s silky rap-sung flow. ‘Keep On’ showcases Kehlani’s rift-abundant, honeyed vocals over a funk-driven bassline, featuring Daft Punk quirks as the track draws to a close. The message is not to spread yourself too thin when in love, the process of self-actualisation the necessary precursor for true fulfilment. That is the moniker that pervades much of the record — self-love and healing.
‘SweetSexySavage’ is mostly comprised of trap-lite, hip-hop beats and undulating bass, a prevailing sound of the last year or so. The production can at times become repetitive, yet it’s Kehlani’s versatility as a songstress that elevates the more cookie cutter numbers. She traverses the slinkier, in-the-boudoir vibe and locked groove on ‘Personal’, to the casual relationship chatter of ‘Distraction’ featuring the LP’s most ear-wormy harmonic refrain. Kehlani can switch up the mood at the click of her tattooed fingers. On ‘Everything Is Yours’, she questions the motives of her man and her own self-worth, even if she’s still willing to take the leap of faith. The production is sparse and spacey, giving her vocal room to filter through. It’s a welcome respite from the heady production that characterises much of the 17 tracks on offer.
Still, Kehlani is most comfortable when she’s her most abrasive and cutting, challenging her counterparts as she glides over Pop & Oak manufactured beats. On ‘Too Much’, straddling a warbling bassline, she lists her many credentials, declaring her lover won’t find a better alternative. It’s a track that invokes the audacity of Beyoncé’s ‘Don’t Hurt Yourself’, Kehlani propping herself up in the face of infidelity.
‘SweetSexySavage’ will most definitely sate the hunger of her fervent followers. It’s a glossy record that reincarnates the harmonies and textures of Brandy’s ‘Afrodisiac' and Aaliyah’s self-titled, two records in the pantheon of R&B that fused nuanced, progressive production with biting feminine confessionals. Kehlani doesn’t mince her words — the record a very honest account of her experiences. One that will inevitably resonate with receptive young women trying to find their own respective paths in an unforgiving world. From this vantage point, they might not get a better soundtrack to dance away their troubles to this year.
banks - the altar
for clash magazine
A sensual, personal return drenched in minimalist R&B...
12 · 10 · 2016
7/10
On ‘Goddess’, LA-based BANKS fruitfully leaned on the alt-R&B minimalist trend that ruled the airwaves - arriving on the scene alongside peers FKA Twigs and Kelela. Now with the allegorically titled ‘The Altar’, BANKS has since undergone a personal epiphany. Exuding an icy vulnerability that has become her trademark, BANKS is even more confessional, ‘The Altar’ representing both the unattainable and the figurative destination. BANKS is more empowered than ever, and through that agency her playful side reveals itself. Take the entendre-filled, affirmative ‘Fuck With Myself’ produced by Al Shux, an ode to self-love backed by a sparse, middle-eastern flavoured beat. BANKS doesn’t need a counterpart, finding fulfilment on her own, a message she wants to convey to her loyal listeners.
With SOHN on production duties BANKS truly excels, the Vienna-based producer able to amplify BANKS’ needling, quivering vocals through the right expanse of moody electronics. Invoking the angst of debut single ‘Waiting Game', ‘Gemini Feed’ teems with a comparable tension, but whilst the former dealt with longing and the price of fame, the latter very much forms the emotional crux of this LP. “To think you could have me at the altar, that I’d follow you around like a dog that needs water”, BANKS embroiled in a love as overbearing and heady as the cyclical synths that climax the song. It’s also BANKS at her best. Indeed paired with ‘Fuck With Myself’, ‘The Altar’ starts of with the vocalist displaying her full arsenal, and you wouldn’t be remiss in thinking it could supersede her debut.
BANKS toes the difficult line between allure and relatability, and most often than not she does it with relative flair, most of which her loyal fans will graciously eat up. Yet the middle-section of the record plays out too much like a freestyle moodboard, lacking any real replay factor, too reliant on production fidgets than actual song craft. ‘Poltergeist’ has good intentions but veers too close to being overproduced, ‘Mother Nature’ an attempt at a stripped-back ballad doesn’t quite hit the mark, even if the stirring strings and guitar strokes signify a shift for the songstress. ‘Trainwreck’ steadies the LP train again, a dizzying, trap-esque affair abiding more by pop conventions - intentional or not, it’s a track that melds breakneck rhythm, vocal malleability and production value seamlessly, a template the LA artist should have utilised more of.
‘The Altar’ is more textured and artful than ‘Goddess’, BANKS growing into her role as a writer, upholding the sensual melancholia that characterised her debut. Yet, it still feels as if BANKS is fine-tuning her sound, and if ‘The Altar’ is anything to go by, she’s not quite there but she’s drawing closer to her pot of gold.
maxwell - blacksummers'night
for clash magazine
Traversing a new plane of foreboding electronic soul...
12 · 10 · 2016
7/10
Maxwell has thrived quietly in the peripheries by repelling deconstruction, instead adding gradually and subtly to a successful practicum of soul music. To an objective ear his releases have an unerring consistency, sometimes unswerving sound that assuages rather than thrills. ‘blackSUMMERS’night’, his fifth studio release and the second in a planned trilogy of LPs, continues that tradition, managing the feat of sounding like a signature Maxwell creation whilst traversing a new plane of foreboding electronic soul.
Lyrically Maxwell revisits tried and tested themes of love, forgiveness, faith and sex, retaining the bachelor-esque detachment that has become his commodity. He circumvents these themes as streams of consciousness, choosing to muse with abstract strokes, doing away with traditional song structure. It’s a good thing, the record cohesive in its wistfulness, even if it does venture one too often into arcane terrains. Yet his approach to all-encompassing love is still as receptive as ever. Opener ‘All The Ways Love Can Feel’, invokes the frenetic energy of peak Prince, a shuffling percussion base driving a jazz and funk fusion. Declarations of love as a healer and a unifier, all fuzzy and unstinting serving as Maxwell’s re-introduction, picking up from his last record with poise.
It’s not all served up on a platter for easy consumption, and it makes the LP markedly more gratifying. Take ‘Lake By The Ocean’ — what starts off as coffee suite number goes a bit outré from the bridge onwards, featuring an undulating droning sound and an icy tinge of atmospherics, Maxwell’s landscape of redemptive love more striking as a result. ‘Hostage’ flits from a sweet lament of subservience, into an angrier invocation of dependency in a relationship. Whilst Maxwell revels in being esoteric, it’s necessary for the listener to be reminded that Maxwell is a premier enabler of emotion. Take ‘Lost’, a rock-infused number that benefits profoundly from the graininess of his lower register, singing through the pain of a former lover and her newfound happiness with another man.
‘blackSUMMERS’night’ retains Maxwell’s sense of wonder and allure while opening him up to a new wave of electronic ambience, a natural haven for the singer when you remember his unjustly panned record ‘Embrya’. This is still an intrinsically Maxwell record, but he navigates familiar tropes through friction and distressed noir-soul, the cohesiveness of the record all the more commendable as a result.
animal collective - painting with
for clash magazine
A mixed return from an ever-creative force..
23 · 02 · 2016
6/10
It can be argued that Animal Collective have one of the most steadfast and divisive discographies around. Since their inception in 1999 and bar maybe one minor malfunction in ‘Centipede Hz’ (even this is debated), the collective have crafted a subversive post-modern soundboard – music for hippies (or self-indulgent hipsters), a transcendent dreamland of psychedelic colours, and odes to the past through Beach Boy-esque harmonies.
On paper, the refreshing facet of their tenth studio release ‘Painting With’, lies in the runtime of all twelve tracks, no one song exceeding the five minute mark. While there may be an underlying desire to be more streamlined, it soon dawns that you’re surging through the record at breakneck speed, each track hitting the listener with familiar axiomatic punch, full of effervescence and madness. The reduced runtime doesn’t mean it’s easier to digest, the record is skittish and at times infuriating in its reliance on ‘80s computer game noises and a haberdashery of synthetic blips. Calling cards are frustratingly unswerving, opener ‘FloriDada’ and ‘The Burglars’ feature alternate syllabic harmonies that we’ve become accustomed to, Portner and Lennox utilising the same vocal technique to the point where it becomes wearisome, even if it is a technical feat in itself.
‘Painting With’ has its charms, however. ‘Bagels In Kiev’ proves to be a rare introspective moment, made more accessible in its reined-back tempo, and a substantive reference to family history. The subtle textures, lyrical depth and levity proves a winning combination on ‘Golden Gal’, a minimalist track with faint allusions to pop melody and harmonies. ‘On Delay’ feels like their epiphany moment, broadcasted through the line “I hear it doubly clear”, a jubilant anthem of realisation told through a sweet piano refrain. Listening again, though these tracks are small triumphs, they don’t linger in the mind either, indeed providing small bursts of frenetic energy but nothing long-lasting.
Over a decade into their career, it’s clear Animal Collective don’t create to placate. Their sonic tapestries revel in being tricky algorithms and if you’re one of the lucky ones who can find the formula, the experience can be rewarding. This applies to ‘Painting With’, a record that has moments of brilliance but by virtue of trying to be a novelty record, actually comes closer to being a rehash of their previous work.