Single Reviews 06/05/12

Some things you can always rely on, can’t you? Some shitty song by something called Carly Rae Jepsen top of the Singles Chart again; Louis Walsh returning to The X Factor again; the London Mayoral frontrunners a two-man shitshower again. But hey, just as well you have those things to rely on, cos the Single Reviews have been rather intermittent of late. At least we managed it this week...

Opening the reviews this week are Kasabian, with the shadowy, menacing beats of Man of Simple Pleasures, yet another impressive cut from Velociraptor! (curse that naff exclamation mark). Tom Meighan’s vocals really come into their own on comparably mellower numbers such as this, and while it may not be obvious single material, it’s an intriguing new window into a band most people probably thought they knew pretty well.

While the omnipresent dubstep trend has grown beyond tiresome, it’s been given a novel boost in the form of Rita Ora featuring Tinie Tempah, with the ballsy gusto of R.I.P. It doesn’t boast the same frenetic brilliance of Hot Right Now, and it’s hard to even pick out a chorus amongst all the industrial squelch, but the crystalline vocals and brawny attitude are testament to Rita Ora as an artist worth keeping a close eye on.

Carrie Underwood might finally get round to making her mark on this side of the pond with the charismatic, resilient Good Girl. The country twang is hard to conceal, but the overtones of oestrogen rawk and mighty vocals make it a much more appealing prospect – at least to British ears – than previous material. Prepare to see a whole lot of new album Blown Away gracing many a supermarket shelf. Whether it shifts or not is another matter.

Finally, The Subways reinvigorate interest in the now-eight-month-old album Money and Celebrity with the first-single-worthy Kiss Kiss Bang Bang. You’re ensnared within a couple of bars, the mix of Billy Lunn and Charlotte Cooper’s vocals giving proceedings some extra clout. But it’s the chorus that truly sells Kiss Kiss Bang Bang, a forceful and compelling refrain that grants it Single of the Week status.

Single Reviews 29/04/12

Welcome to this week’s Single Reviews, in which we find out which genre a one-man band is tackling this week, discover the reality TV ‘sad music’ of the future, slip in a negative remark about Rihanna, and try to review Tulisa without mentioning her sex tape. Although this probably counts as a reference itself, doesn’t it? Oh well, we blew that one. BA-BOOM-TISH! Thank you, we’re here all week.

The debut solo single from First Lady of N-Dubz and Tiresome X Factor Misha-Baiter, the aforementioned Tulisa, is first on the chopping block this week. Young is a ‘hey-aren’t-we-crayzee’ Ibiza cliché-fest, all predictable keyboard stabs and constructed abandon. For all N-Dubz’ failings, at least they had a modicum of originality in their output. Were it not for the desperate attempts to amplify Tulisa’s profile, this would be eternally forgotten on the lamest of compilation house CDs.

Single of the Week is given to Get Cape.Wear Cape. Fly, with a strikingly different offering in the form of Daylight Robbery. Admittedly, Sam Duckworth has become one of the most unpredictable artists of recent years, switching from shoegazing indie to atonal drum ‘n’ bass without any warning. Daylight Robbery boasts an immediacy nothing in Duckworth’s catalogue can lay claim to, armed with an exhilarating pop hook that could well make the track his new calling card.

Snow Patrol unveil perhaps their most introverted, mellow single thus far, the modest but highly effective New York. The unassuming verses are made all the more effective when the final chorus swells into a refined crescendo, while Gary Lightbody’s voice presents a real poignancy throughout. Anyone desperate for another Run could do a lot worse than give New York a few repeated spins, but such comparisons would detract from what’s actually a significantly more mature offering.

And finally, proving that a certain dead-eyed, atonal cumsponge is by no means the best Barbados has to offer (whoever could we mean?), Cover Drive follow up their Ashley Tabor-instigated Number One with Sparks, a hard-edged demi-ballad with a sweet, enchanting melody. The juxtaposition of male and female vocals is an effective one, plus there’s a real craft evident in what Cover Drive do. Plus, they’re mentored by Eddy Grant, which = ace.

Single Reviews 15/04/12

Greetings, and a belated Happy Easter. And a belated Happy St. Patrick’s Day, and Happy Valentine’s Day too. Yes, we know updates have been sparse of late, for which we apologise, but... um... the dog ate our homework. Anyway, we’re here now, with some lovely Single Reviews just for you (and we can guarantee this is one of the few media outlets on the globe that isn’t harping on about the sodding Titanic this week).

Opening the show is (are?) Marina & The Diamonds, with what’s arguably the greatest track of her (their?) career this far. Seriously, these soloists with their stupid band-sounding monikers need to cut that shit right out. Primadonna jumps between a fluttering, perfumed ballad and a crunching electro beat, her high, dramatic vocals selling the story convincingly. In short, it’s impressive stuff.

A slightly less appealing offering comes from Brighton newcomer Conor Maynard, whose tweenage chestnut-fest Can’t Say No is every Noughties boyband cliché squished up into one miserable song. Clearly, there’s some sort of boardroom-based attempt to forge a British Bieber here, but you can’t help imagine Maynard would be a whole lot happier doing something very, very different.

Sorry For Party Rocking, the latest wretched, juvenile effort from LMFAO, has been doing the rounds for some time, but only gets its official release this week. Mind you, it’s hard to differentiate this from anything else they’ve recorded. Yes, you like girls and dancing and drinking. But let’s break this down to what it is: an uncle and nephew, both old enough to know better, dancing in their pants.

And finally, a well-deserved Single of the Week is bestowed upon fun. featuring Janelle Monae, with the anthem-in-waiting We Are Young. Enjoy it while you can, because it’ll soon be sacrificed to the Gods of Overkill. The astonishing fusion of indie sensibilities and hip-hop wizardly, the atypical changes of pace, the gentle twinkle of Monae’s humble contribution, and the marathon chorus make for something very special indeed.

Lostprophets - Weapons (RCA)

Lostprophets are a band who’ve yet to produce an album anything close to sub-par. Their singles catalogue is a line-up of vigorous, charismatic Britrock gems, while their track record of albums is arguably even more impressive. Their brand of intense, brawny rock hasn’t waned for a single bar in a 12-year career, and fifth album Weapons suggests it won’t be happening anytime soon.

Admittedly, they could still get away with the raucous drama of The Fake Sound of Progress if they wanted, given they don't actually appear to age. But rather than opting to rest on their laurels, there's a definite progression on Weapons, and it does them good.

It would be wrong to say they’ve mellowed – it's still heavy, it's still powerful, it's still assertive. The big licks of A Song For Where I’m From don’t hold back, while the confrontational call-to-arms We Bring An Arsenal has all the gusto of Shinobi vs Dragon Ninja. But as a band, they sound tighter than they've ever sounded, making for a clean, more immediate tone.

Somedays shows a softer tone to Ian Watkins' vocals, while the secret track tacked onto closer Can’t Get Enough balances melodic splendour with a balls-out metal screech. Meanwhile, the countless man-hours spent during promotional rounds in a post-Linkin Park world where the band were forced to explain how they weren’t rock-rap were evidently in vain, with Better Off Dead seeing Watkins spit a few unexpected verses. It’s novel enough, and functions nicely as a mid-album surprise, but hopefully it’s not a hint of a more permanent direction.

But there’s little to be said about Weapons that isn’t sickeningly positive. As an album, it’s absorbing, it’s entertaining, it’s rousing, and it keeps Lostprophets’ perfect scoresheet intact. And they make maintaining this level of quality seem like a breeze. Everything that’s ever been great about Lostprophets is still very much in place, but it’s been honed and polished into an effective, engaging update. They must be frickin’ exhausted.

Single Reviews 01/04/12

It’s been a while since we’ve put any singles under the microscope round these parts. Frankly, it’s pretty difficult when release dates don’t count for much anymore, and anything half decent has a battle to even chart, thanks to the Top 40 being clogged up with faceless dance and the endless torrent of Rihanna’s dead-eyed, off-pitch hogwash. Now, with that burst of negativity out of the way, maybe we can say some nice things in this week’s Single Reviews...

First to get the once-over are The Horrors, who pluck a more-than-decent offering from their Skying album in the form of Changing the Rain. It’s a laidback yet considered number, all lilting vocals and drowsy beats and ocean-like hums, a frankly unbelievable progression from their early material. Which, let’s face it, was shit. More of this, and we can even forgive them Sheena is a Parasite.

The second album era has been a kind one to Olly Murs, flicking the critics away with ease via two first-rate No. 1 singles. Sadly, the momentum hasn’t carried through to the third offering, Oh My Goodness. It’s catchy and it’s fun, sure, but it all feels rather like a bit of a non-event, the stuff of a B-side perhaps (hey, remember B-sides, kids?). If you're looking for blame, you could do worse than point fingers at the truly atrocious video.

Speaking of Olly Murs, claiming Single of the Week are his Heart Skips a Beat cohorts Rizzle Kicks, who manage to chase the addictive Mama Do The Hump with something equally impressive yet entirely different. The reticent, understated British rap of Traveller’s Chant has parallels with The Streets’ Dry Your Eyes, and is a welcome display of a UK hip-hop act that doesn’t borrow from skull-thumping Euro-cheese.

And on the subject of cheesy house beats, it’s a shame to see a singer who’s so revered as a trend-setter dangling from the bandwagon, clinging doggedly on by her fingernails. Madonna manages a worrying mix of extraneous and derivative with Girl Gone Wild, a busy electro-mess where her vocals – and, if you can believe it, personality – are smothered. Another Ray of Light this ain’t.

Honking Box Preview: Masterchef

Ready the Embrace soundtrack! Get India Fisher a honey and lemon! Dangle the jam roly poly in front of Gregg’s enclosure to get him all gee’d up! It’s Masterchef – the final!

As far as Masterchef series go, it’s been a good ‘un, if not quite a classic. Aside from the inconsistent scheduling and the grievous fucknut of a chef in the Gilgamesh challenge, the show has ticked along rather happily, all pleasant contestants and ickle jelly crabs and relatively good behaviour from Gregg and John. It’s settled nicely into its own little niche, which for a show that previously raised the blood pressure of much of its viewing audience, is perhaps slightly unusual.

There was, however, one star, one shining beacon of batshit-mental brilliance that made the series truly entertaining – Wacky Aki. It’s a huge shame she didn’t make it to the final, her crazy expressions, mouth-watering food and peculiar naughty-sprite quality making for an overall genius contestant. Other than her, you’d be hard pushed to remember any of the other contenders of the series.

So either it’s been a largely unmemorable affair, or it was only ever destined to come down to an Andrew/Tom/Shelina final. For what it’s worth, we reckon it’s a little from Column A, a little from Column B, but there’s no denying the right three have reached the final hurdle.

So who’ll take the trophy? Andrew’s ardour and imagination are impossible to contest, but it’s been hard to warm to him solely based on him looking like The Anointed One from Buffy the Vampire Slayer. A valid reason it may not be, but them’s the breaks. Tom, meanwhile, is a likeable chap with significant skill, and has also improved the most over the series, making him the ‘journey’ contestant. (Which is ironic, given that he was stuck in London for last night’s challenge while Andrew and Shelina got to visit Holland and Belgium. It’s what’s known in the reality TV glossary as ‘being in Louis Walsh’s category.’)

But, as the final gets underway, it’s looking like Shelina could pip the boys at the post, and it’s no bad thing. Masterchef could do with another female victor. Even in the earliest episodes of this series, when past champions were invited back to poke and sniff at the efforts of 2012’s hopefuls, Thomasina Miers was somewhere at the back, was struggling for screen space amongst her six male counterparts. This in spite of her own terrestrial TV series, several books, and a (rather fantastic) chain of restaurants.

But Shelina deserves the kudos for a hell of a lot more than just having ovaries. Her skill is apparent, her creativity is unparalleled, and her passion is uncontainable. Maybe we’ll steer away from her unashamed mango-lust just a tad – the last time anyone on an elimination food format was so blatant about their love of mango was when a contestant on The Restaurant thought Raymond Blanc would be satisfied with tinned mango pulp dolloped in a cup, and went home in Week One.

So let’s raise a glass of some sort of mango liqueur to Shelina, and only hope that it’s not too presumptuous, or that we’re jinxing her win in any way. And, beyond that, we can only hope that next series, there’s a bit more oomph, a bit less Gilga-cunt, and another Aki, if such a thing could ever exist.

Honking Box Preview: American Idol

Another talent show reaches its live stages, which means it’s time for another rundown of the endearingly naive hopefuls. How useful these round-ups are is questionable – in last year’s summary of Idol contestants, we predicted the truly shambolic Scotty McCreery would last of all two seconds, while in our profiles of the X Factor 2011 finalists, we said Little Mix would be first to go home. Alas, both went on to win their respective shows. Ahem.

With the 11th (ELEVENTH!!) series of American Idol beginning its countdown towards its newest champion, we chew over some of the talent on offer. Sadly, the brilliant/awful/amazing Reed Grimm fell just at the last hurdle, failing to make it into the Top 13. But who did make it? Anyone likely to shift the kind of numbers Carrie Underwood managed? Anyone as likeable as Ruben Studdard? Anyone as inexplicably atrocious as Megan Joy?

Colton Dixon
Which one’s that, then? The demi-punk one who Randy Jackson dared to describe as ‘indie’. Hijacked his kid sister’s audition. Quite talented. Very annoying.
Most likely to: Emo up every track he tackles, get called a one-trick pony, and sail through each week on the pity vote.
Predicted position: 3rd, though many a teenage girl will be without credit on her mobile as a result.

Heejun Han
Which one’s that, then? The one who looks and talks like the perennial joke contestant, but actually, sings rather nicely indeed.
Most likely to: Continue to be treated as the perennial joke contestant, handling it far worse than Sanjaya ever did. Poor Heejun.
Predicted position: He’ll last around until 6th place, at which point he’ll break down on stage and blame the miserable cowboy from Hollywood Week.

Jessica Sanchez
Which one’s that, then? The one that received a disproportionately high amount of screentime at the Las Vegas stage. In fairness, she’s very good.
Most likely to: Smash every ballad she’s given with ease, get the ever-patriotic Pinoy audience doing backflips, then inevitably crash out due to the show’s leanings towards male contestants.
Predicted position: 4th. Highest female, mind you.

DeAndre Brackensick
Which one’s that, then? The one that looks like Leona Lewis who whips his fucking ugly hair back and forth.
Most likely to: Give it some irksome falsetto, whilst whipping his fucking ugly hair back and forth.
Predicted position: 11th, because America will soon tire of seeing him whip his fucking ugly hair back and forth.

Hollie Cavanaugh
Which one’s that, then? Sweet, tiny, anaemic-looking Scouser-cum-Texan with the voice of a woman twice her age and three times her size.
Most likely to: Cry on Beatles Week during a rendition of Let It Be.
Predicted position: 5th. Another victim of America’s penchant for a male Idol.

Jermaine Jones
Which one’s that, then? The booming-voiced Gigantor that makes Ryan Seacrest look like a Borrower. Even more so than usual.
Most likely to: Ruin an otherwise-stirring take on an Alexander O’Neal song by cracking the Perspex in the stage.
Predicted position: 6th. He’d come higher, but many a viewer will be enraged after he reaches a note so low it shorts their sub-woofers.

Erika Van Pelt
Which one’s that, then? The friendly, apple-shaped one with the subtle muso quality.
Most likely to: Attempt to win over America with ill-advised vocal runs and vibrato, essentially stamping all over her own quirk.
Predicted position: Somewhere around 10th place, when she’ll realise playing modest gigs in smalltime bars and selling CDs from her boot would’ve been a less-depressing option.

Skylar Laine
Which one’s that, then? This year’s zany (if zany = bothersome) country girl, a la Lauren Alaina and Kellie Pickler.
Most likely to: Go arse-over-tit into the audience during a tuneless rendition of Shania Twain’s Any Man of Mine.
Predicted position: She’ll hang around until around 7th thanks to the colossal train-wreck quality; her gabbling pre-performance VTs will be sorely missed.

Joshua Ledet
Which one’s that, then? Now there’s a question.
Most likely to: Go completely under the radar. Seriously, did this guy even audition, or was he a delivery man bringing Swarovski-encrusted puppies to J-Lo’s dressing room who thought it’d be fun to sneak into the Top 13?
Predicted position: 12th. He’d be taking 13th place if he weren’t male.

Shannon Magraine
Which one’s that, then? Another country girl, though slightly more white-bread than the bingo hall goofiness of Skylar Laine.
Most likely to: Limp through a load of sappy mid-tempo tracks unbeknownst to any UK viewers.
Predicted position: 9th, just about clawing onto a spot on the Idol 2012 Tour. Hey, every show needs a toilet break.

Elise Testone
Which one’s that, then? The gravelly, bluesy one that looks about 54. But it’s ok, cos she’s a proper ‘artist’.
Most likely to: Give an interpretation of a Fiona Apple B-side that sounds rather like a coughing fit, which will cause Steven Tyler to ejaculate, whilst the audience wonder what the hell just happened.
Predicted position: 13th. Despite the judges gushing about her musicality and individuality and whatever, America won’t ‘get’ Elise.

Jeremy Rosado
Which one’s that, then? The tubby one that made Jennifer Lopez cry.
Most likely to: Sing a selection of ballads – and ballads only – to make Jennifer Lopez cry some more.
Predicted position: 8th. Jennifer Lopez will want to use the Judges’ Save, the other two will overrule her. She’ll cry.

Phillip Phillips
Which one’s that, then? The eventual winner.
Most likely to: Send the good folk of America into a frenzy with a radio-rawk rendition of a tacky 80s classic, whilst frothing up the all-female front row.
Predicted position: 1st. The white-guy-with-guitar formula has resulted in four successive wins, and it shows no sign of letting up with Phil-Squared.

Mull Historical Society - City Awakenings (Xtra Mile Recordings)

What’s in a name? For Colin Macintyre, seemingly something more than merely what appears on your passport. The transition from initial guise Mull Historical Society to Colin Macintyre evidently came from a need to forge something more personal, something that hiding behind a quirky moniker and a dog in a wig might’ve made slightly more difficult, in all fairness.

So after one triumphant, pop-heavy masterpiece (The Water) and a dour, sub-par non-starter (Island) under his birth name, the Mull Historical Society tag has been reappointed. But to what effect, if any, for sixth album overall City Awakenings?

First and foremost, it appears to reinstate the bright, indie-pop audacity of debut Loss, all explosive choruses and killer hooks and full-on abandon. But there’s simultaneously an extended distance from there to here, with Macintyre’s voice in particular sounding exceptionally strong, every note walloped with fervour.

There’s also the appearance of the occasional kooky vocal tic, best embodied on the rattling drumbeats of Can You Let Her Know, before its titanic chorus floors everything in its path. Elsewhere, the one-man Polyphonic Spree of Must You Get Low further showcases the quietly eccentric grandeur he does so well.

But it doesn’t mean City Awakenings is all sunshine and big arrangements beginning to end – there are some modest, reflective moments dotted throughout, while the haunting, instrumental skank of Thameslink (London’s Burning) makes for a bold and moving climax to proceedings.

So, with that covered, what exactly is the difference between Mull Historical Society and Colin Macintyre? Very little. City Awakenings is no less personal or emotive or charming than anything else he’s done, and whatever prompted Island’s misfire has been fully patched up. Regardless of who he’s signed to or how he’s marketed or what he’s calling himself, there’s little to deny the pull or the talent of an artist whose self-carved niche is producing something very special indeed.

Honking Box Review: Masterchef

Masterchef is a show we’ve shied away from previously. Well, not so much ‘shied away’ as ‘run screaming from all televisions, covering your ears’. But last year’s rejigged format proved impossible to resist, and so the proverbial party poppers are back out again for a new series, especially now they’ve run out of ways to spread the Great British Bake-Off brand as thinly as possible.

Yes, Gregg and John are back, once again on the hunt for a person wot can cook, and can translate that skill into a moderately successful recipe book. Seemingly, their hunt for a Mini Heston wasn't satiated by the questionable, stomach-turning-on-paper – but ultimately champion – flavour combinations of last year's winner Tim. The unofficial brief is once again someone who takes risks, but more often than not results in what sounds like the culinary offerings of Letitia Cropley from The Vicar of Dibley.

As for Gregg and John themselves, it’s almost impossible to fathom that the pair have miraculously gotten less loathsome. And if John’s pathetic “I WANT THAT CURRY SAUCE, WAH WAH WAH” tantrum was any indication, they haven’t.

(Top tip! Watch with subtitles on, and the volume muted. It makes the Wallace/Torode element infinitely less painful.)

More likely, their overt cuntishness has been merely offset by the significantly more unpleasant head chef of Gilgamesh, whose appearance must have been an ingenious plan to ward off customers as part of some kind of elaborate taxloss scheme. He may as well stand outside the premises, foaming at every orifice and screaming “FRESH HOT PLAGUE! Get your plague here!”

(...Which, bearing in mind it’s in Camden Market, isn’t entirely implausible.)

The contestants are the usual bunch of competent, wacky, weepy, clumsy and trainwreck, so even if there’s not a worthy winner in the mix, there’ll at least be some entertaining television. Somewhat unfairly, the selection process was a bit of a first come, first served affair, with five hopefuls put through in the first episode, leaving just three places for the last eight competitors. Mind you, if the same rules had been applied to the first series of Pop Idol, we’d have been spared a decade of Will Young sounding like the mating call of a walrus with a headcold.

The current favourite round these parts is Aki. Partly because she’s a quantum physicist (which is up there with ‘marine biologist’ and ‘chocolatier’ as one of the coolest-sounding job titles ever), partly because her food looks amazing, and partly because she’s responsible for facial expressions such as these:

With the track record of Masterchef champs being very heavily male, even though the sole female winner gave us the immense Wahaca, we don’t fancy Aki’s chances much. At this stage, however, she’s head and shoulders above the competition.

No doubt that’ll all fluctuate across the course of the series, when the contestants are made to cook a nine-course feast from the comfort of a genuine WW1 trench in the middle of a re-enactment, or have a head chef with stinking breath screaming orders in their face until they cry, or fillet an entire deer underwater, with just two minutes of oxygen, using just a clothespeg. Frankly, we can’t wait.

Howler - America Give Up (Rough Trade)

Our end-of-2011 rant about how the charts have turned into some sort of awful, overproduced pop marshland still stands. But with a new year comes new hope, and amongst the small-but-assured list of promising new releases is the debut album from Minnesota five-piece Howler: it’s cocky, surf-heavy, semi-countrified, and all kinds of noisy. But is it any good.

A mere couple of bars into Beach Sluts, the opening track of America Give Up, and it’s already pretty clear Howler mean business. A frenetic yet rhythmic carnival of amp-shaking alt-rock, you’d be forgiven for wondering how they’ll maintain that energy throughout. And yet, they manage it.

The pace slows down from time to time, such as the brooding Too Much Blood, but the scratchy, intense stamp is still very much present. In contrast, the few occasions they employ a major key – yet still maintaining the Howler passion – makes for an interesting blend. In fact, the surf guitar jollity of Told You Once or lead single Back of Your Neck arguably provide the album’s standout moments.

Another artist tackling such busy productions would have difficulty selling it as anything other than white noise. But Howler have a gift for instantaneous, infectious choruses, that every crunching riff, every wallop of the cymbal, every superfluous bit of noodling create the perfect backing for.

The intense, unforgiving arrangements and the snarling vocals are unlikely to please everyone, occasionally sitting just this side of uncomfortable. But crucially, it’s not fully there – it’s sometimes a hard listen, perhaps, but it’s a worthwhile one.

The wet-behind-the-ears enthusiasm of America Give Up has a touch of early Kings of Leon about it – not sonically, but in that it conjures up the very real possibility of greatness. Who knew that the distinguished mix of ‘a little bit country, a little bit rock ‘n’ roll’ could result in something so bold, so vibrant, and so brilliantly cacophonous?