L! O! V! E!

Dance to the beat of my drum! Dance to the beat of my drum! Crackin'.

Ich trag den namen monster

On the one hand Gaga, I had geared myself up to sit you in the naughty corner. I was ready to put on my serious face, stand over you and, quite honestly, give you a good telling off. Hyping the new album up beyond belief? That lacklustre first single, which leans a little too much on Mother Madonna's shoulders? And don't get me started on the Radio 1 Big Weekend set. That was the final straw which really broke this camel's back. Diverting into free jazz? Throwing some of your biggest hits (Telephone, Poker Face, Alejandro) away in a medley that wasn't really a medley because you had breaks in-between each one (!), before undertaking a ridiculous cover of Orange Colored Sky in homage to Will and Kate? And for the love of Gaga, stop rhyming things with Gaga! I've already composed 'Gaga Black Sheep'. I'm onto you.
Of course, these bad moments were interspersed with instances of genius (incubating yourself in an egg being at the top), but generally there was a feeling of setting yourself up to fall. "You're going to sit here and think about what you've done," I would say sternly, whilst little Gaga would look up with wet eyes and a trembling lip.

But you see, there's a glitch in the plan...  your new album is actually rather good. Certainly, it doesn't live up to the hype but then that was all a load of blah-blah anyway. When the album does shine however, it burns bright like a red-hot smoking pipe of pop porn. And it'll confuse you if I punish you for doing something right - right? Poor doll.

Granted, it could've gone a bit further. You could have taken a few more risks musically. Monsters who thought you were heading towards a harder, more 'industrial' sound will be left disappointed. It's pretty much par-for-the-course in terms of drum machines and catchy hooks, all wrapped in a bangin' electronic shimmer with a cherry cherry boom boom on top isn't it? But the quality throughout is top-notch, with several really beating their chests loudly. Government Hooker begins with an eerie operatic wailing before descending into a moody ditty about, as far as I can tell, politicians and their whores. "Put your hands on me, John F Kennedy," you drawl. Nice shout-out. Scheiße is a strutter's wet dream, screechy synths set over a dominating talk-rap in German. Hair is a shoe-in for a future Glee episode and Bad Kids is a simple, carefree ode to loving yourself no matter what. Outstanding.

So, no naughty step today but I'll be keeping a close eye on you. That saxophone seems to be creeping into far too many songs for my liking. Milk and cookies Gaga?

Download: Government Hooker, Hair, Scheiße, Bad Kids

I'm your prostitute

"I've been out in the Californian desert a lot, staying in this tribe. Everyone thinks that we're so ahead of the game, but we're all so basic, everything is the same really. These people have values and beliefs other than money. I just hung out and watched them. I felt like I was the wounded healer waiting to be healed. It made me want to make something more hypnotic with my music."
Lykke Li, in an interview with Dazed & Confused magazine

In progress?

We will meet where the lights are/The defenders of the faith we are/Where the thunder turns around/They'll run so hard we'll tear the ground away.

Four become five. It’s an emotional and significant album for Take That. In-band squabbles and differences have been put aside to celebrate the good times, and all this has been condensed into an album that suggests they could actually have a future together as a five-piece.
Those expecting a rehash of Beautiful World or The Circus are in for a shock/treat (delete as appropriate). Gone are the middle-of-the-road ballads and in their place is a contemporary euro-pop album that consistently plays on your belief that you’ve come to know what to expect from Take That. This is 100% a very good thing. Personally, I don’t know if I could stomach a CD of lighters-in-the-air anthems, while Robbie stares lovingly at Gary and all is forgiven. Instead, what we have is an album that boldly dares to write the next chapter in Take That’s history, documented in a collection of ten perfectly-formed tracks.

SOS is like ABBA on steroids. The chorus is a whirling cry of disarray, and disorder has never sounded so catchy. Kidz, not to be confused with Williams’ solo hit of (almost!) the same name, sizzles over a thumping electro stomp whilst Mark mumbles anti-establishment sentiments of “kings and queens and presidents, ministers of government” and such, before Williams grabs the issue by the crotch and roars, “There’ll be trouble when the kids come out/There will be lots for them to talk about”, to which Mark retorts a few “hey hey heys”. It’s quite a departure from Take That’s typical soundscape and, as such, is one of the best tracks here. Consequently, Kidz is an obvious contender for follow-up single to The Flood.
Meanwhile, Pretty Things is a soothing lullaby lost in clouds of synthesizers - fronted almost entirely by Williams again – whereas Happy Now is a ray of euphoric pop that is almost as jubilant in its sentiment as Do What You Like… but then again, nothing ever is.

Howard and Jason hustle their way to the mic on Affirmation and hidden track Flowerbed respectively, both songs positioned in the rear of the track listing. Both tracks do the job however, and will hush detractors that say the vocals should be spread more evenly.
And what about Gary? Well, he is here, most obviously on The Flood and official album closer Eight Letters. Otherwise, he tends to take more of a back-step. ‘Mutiny!’, I hear you all cry. Not quite, as Barlow’s influence can be heard melodically throughout Progress, in the urgency of SOS’ furious beats per minute’s right through to the exuberant harmonies of Happy Now. The decision to step aside and allow Williams and Owen the majority of lead vocals was certainly a brave one, but one that I think pays off when you consider the addition of Stuart Price too.
This year alone, Price has played the part of producer extraordinaire for Kylie, Scissor Sisters and Brandon Flowers’ first solo LP. Here, Progress is enveloped in a layer of warmth that actually contrasts well with the vocals of Owen and Williams. Owen’s voice is an unusual one, which forces its way out in a slightly tense pitch, whilst Williams can let loose with thundering power. The verses of Kidz could not have been done by any other member than Mark, and it is Robbie’s call-to-arms vocal that crash against The Flood which make it such an epic comeback single. To this end, production and vocals are suitably matched, but it is the absence of Gary’s vocals that will cause the biggest upset with fans, rather than the shift in sound.

Some of these songs will sound huge live, and with the album cover depicting the five members in the various stages of mankind whilst lyrics speak of “divine intervention” and “preparing for apocalypse”, Take That can really go to town on the theatrics when their 2011 tour roles around. Progress is a fiery disc of molten brilliance, shot out from the centre of the earth. Well done boys.

Need a leg up?

Can you feel it? That's the sound of the underground; it trembles. The balls of your feet touch the ground as it shakes, your ankles twist as your legs break. The noise isn't broadcast. It's pissing in the wind of broadcast, like a sozzled dog tied to the stilts of a beach house. Tune in, zone out, but just don't take your eye off the leash - else a stampede of Beethoven's will invade Amsterdam and not even the good ship Poezenboot can save you then.


Leggykic

You know it makes sense.

Sacrébleu!

Recently I seem to have been listening to a lot of foreign music. All tracks have been found through decidedly British avenues, such as TV programmes like Skins, but they originate from foreign lands. I think it's the fact that I don't have a bloody clue what's being said. Without a form of lyrical meaning to latch on to, the words just become yet another instrument and layer of sound that you can interpret as you see fit. Or something.
Amy Stocking quipped that Mapaputsi's Kleva was "ghetto bhangra", a combination that is sure to intrigue, whilst Royan by the wonderfully titled Francois and the Atlas Mountains is either a fragile ode to love or the hurt it can cause; again, I'm not sure it really matters which one it is.
I don't intend to Google either of them for their literal meaning - I'd rather be lost in translation.

Head first in love

Purchasing a CD has become, and I'm sure I speak for many, a bit of a rarity these days. The reason why was perfectly illustrated today, when I snatched myself a copy of Goldfrapp's new album Head First (Goldfrapp are of course an exception to the rule, being one of those bands where I have to own every one of their LPs). When I got home, I burnt the CD into my iTunes, so that I had the songs on my laptop. Then I connected my iPod up, so that I had the tracks on this all-important device too. And then I stored it on my family's central music system, so that all the many people who inhabit this house - a grand total of three - can listen to the album wherever they jolly well want to as well. Satisfied, I finally placed the CD on a shelf. Thank you decomposition, please take place quickly now.

And it's such a shame, don't you think? Everything is so crisp and untouched, and if Apple has anything to say it will continue to remain crisp and untouched. Everything about a CD in its physical form is a work of art. From the carefully conceived design of the packaging, to the liner notes full of lyrics and little thank you's and production credits, and then the perfectly circular disc that's held in place by those tiny plastic diamonds. Even the process of the CD spinning, and the stereo reading the music as it turns...? Spins my head right round like a record, baby.

A duo such as Goldfrapp, for all their progressive pop moves, make me pull back to listening to a CD as it was intended. This is an organic record through and through. No matter what sonic landscape they decide to create, it's still structured around soaring pop melodies and joyful harmonies - the simple things that are essential if a pop song is to be sincere. And if a pop song needs anything in abundance, it is sincerity. Head First embraces a gorgeously realised state of euphoria; 80s synths that shimmer and soft beats that fizzle with warmth. Alison Goldfrapp, if rumours are to be believed, is in love, and it shows. 'Believer' is drenched in optimism, a spritely feel-good anthem to the joys of keeping the faith; 'Alive' could be Olivia Newton-John having the best time of her life; and for those of you who enjoyed Supernature, 'Shiny And Warm' is the sloshed sister of 'Satin Chic', a splendidly dizzy romp with Allison basically getting off on the drive home to her lover. The album melts in hues of pink and blue, with a consistency in sound that I have not heard over the length of an album for a long time. And by clocking in at 39 minutes, its duration is sweetly on point.

Alison has commented that "'Head first' means to go into something without fear - head first in love. It's not trivial. I think it's more celebratory." And with this wave of deliriously dreamy sounds, what's not to celebrate?

The clouds would catch the colours

I seem to like colours at the moment. And I very much like 'Little Fluffy Clouds' by The Orb. Yet another reason to be grateful for 6Music, Steve Lamacq played this yesterday and it's etched itself a little corner in my brain; I can't stop listening to it. It always amazes me that a song can exist for such a long time, garner its own history, and then you discover it and BAM... you're suddenly a part of it.



They were beautiful
The most beautiful skies as a matter of fact
The sunsets were purple and red
And yellow and on fire
And the clouds would catch the colours everywhere
That -- it's neat

Please dial again

Something pretty exciting happens when you watch the music video for Lady Gaga's 'Telephone'. In fact, that entire sentence is so understated as to render it absolutely redundant. It's less a run-of-the-mill 'music video', and rather a 9 and a half minutes tour de force spectacular, a post-modern pastiche of what a promo clip should be. This clip is not observed; you become fully immersed in its idea of 'celebrity' - executed in such a way that its satire is anything but satirical - and the present landfill of product placement is acknowledged, trashed, spat back out, and recycled. 'Something pretty exciting happens' when you make a sandwich, doesn't it?

And that's not all. Its length hints back to a time when the release of a new video by a popstar was a big event; iconic promos such as Michael Jackson's 'Thriller', which displays artistry and ambition that is still lauded today. With our continuous crop of 'here-to...-oh-you've-already-gone' music acts, a video such as 'Telephone' stands out, with its synergy of pop artist and pop culture which can only truly occur when a thing is actually 'popular'.

Do I sound gaga? Maybe, but 'Telephone' proves that we want literal popstars, astronomically exaggerated human beings that have been shot out of the centre of the universe. I want someone wrapped in nothing but police tape whilst wearing a telephone on her head, thankyouverymuch!

Let them eat cake

Ellie Goulding is like a cake. From a distance you spy the ridiculous packaging, all blown-up and outrageous. Made out to be more than it actually is. Marketed as the 'Critics Choice' of cakes. Then you get a little closer, and it doesn't even look particularly appetizing. They've taken quite an ordinary victoria sponge and pumped gallons of squirty cream in there just to fill it out; to give it another layer which it doesn't even need. But you're forced to buy one because it's all the rage. Everyone you know is chomping on this cake at the moment, and you don't want to be left out. You pay for it at the checkout, pretending you're the toast of irony, when really you're just the bastard that bought the same victoria sponge as everyone else.

As you cut yourself a slice, you know it won't be as good as last year's 'Critics Choice' cake: this one's no ginger nut cake. That one may have been a bit of a fruit-loop, fed with so much brandy that even Mrs Scroggin's wouldn't know what had hit her, but at least it was truly deserving of the title. Tangy and rich, it certainly left you wanting more.

You slowly move the helping to your mouth, bite down and digest. It's stodgy, and a bit sickly, but the actual sponge isn't too bad. In fact, it's pretty good. But all this extra cream and jam...? You wipe it off, scoffing only the light, pleasant sponge.

When you see past the hyperbole in the media about Ellie Goulding, you come to realise she's not half bad. Nice enough pop melodies that include hints of pop, electro and folk. It's not groundbreaking stuff, but what she's meant to do she does well. But the marketing circus surrounding the release of her debut is a farce. I understand the reason behind a 'Critics Choice' record, but the artist has yet to prove anything worthy of such a high accolade. Under The Sheets is a good song, but if it wasn't for the Brits award would anyone be taking any notice of Goulding's bed-linen dramas? Of course, that's not to say that the recognition is not warranted, just that it's been dressed up as more than it is.

It's the equivalent of being force-fed that victoria sponge. Just a little too hard to swallow.

Sunday, Sunday

Sunday's are so often a day of reflection for the week that's been and gone, and preparation for the week that is to come. This would explain why I often have such difficulty in understanding whether Sunday should be the first or the last day of the week on the calendar. I also wonder that if we dressed Sunday up as another day - maybe Tuesday? Or perhaps Friday? - then the usual descriptions we associate with the day would pop like bubbles. It would no longer be "grey", or "boring", or "pyjama-day" (although apparantly that's now any day of the week), but all manner of other 'doing' and 'describing' words (for the more educated among you, verbs and adjectives).

There's a lot to be excited about in 2010. Why, there's a lot to be excited about this month. In fact, even this week. Or this day. Actually, why not just click on the links below and start getting excited right about... now.

Goldfrapp - Rocket
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eF8-eIL5WZM
If I told you that the first thought that popped into my head upon hearing this was The Pointer Sisters' 'Jump', I'd worry about how many would click on that there link. So ignore what I just said. I can only diagnose this track as a serious case of the 80s, full of euphoric synth jabs, and like all great songs grows into this deliriously giddy chorus. It's more in vein with what they produced back in 2005 with their Supernature album, but there's something about 'Rocket' that is less 'try-hard'. Supernature, as much as I love it, came across as Alison and Will saying "we can do commercial just as well as ANYONE", following the success they had with 'Strict Machine'. And whilst 'Rocket' suggests the band's forthcoming LP will be more in-line with that album's sound, rather than the pastoral elegance of Seventh Tree, this time around it seems somewhat less... contrived? Nonetheless, I'm happy to witness the return of Goldfrapp.


A Single Man, directed by Tom Ford
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aypyJtHzC70
The fact that Tom Ford has directed this shouldn't be an indication of quality, but - let's face it - it's an indication of quality. I've not read the book, so the film will be brand new to me, and with a promising cast led by Colin Firth, it's bound to be pretty good isn't it? A Single Man opens with Firth's character mourning the loss of his male lover in a car accident. So... not really Avatar then? Looking set to be a whole load of melancholy, wrapped up in Ford's stunning cinematic flair, A Single Man is due to be released this Friday in the UK; just in time for Valentine's day. Althogether now, "ahhhhhhhh!"


Williams British Handmade
http://www.williams-handmade.com/
Why wax lyrical about something when you might as well just see what all the fuss is about for yourselves? Has the phrase 'thinking outside the box' ever been more appropriate? Ho ho, how many more clichés can I fit in...! Regardless, the designer Sarah Williams has inventively managed to weld together a streamlined look that is completely contemporary, with a design that harks back to those vintage values that we're all so fond of nowadays. I suddenly want to bully my farcical notion of a suitcase with its silly wheels. What does it think it is, A CAR?!

Bigger than the sound

When the apocalypse arrives, Karen O will stand as the last defender of this earth; spewing glitter and draped in all manner of veils and guizes, with a microphone half-way down her throat, the wire trailing out. Nick and Brian will be positioned either side of her, in head-to-toe blackest black, acting as her sole confidants. And they will save us from the end of the world.

I went to see this trinity of cool on Wednesday night. The Yeah Yeah Yeah's are a band I've wanted to see for some time now, having proved that they are a heart-wrenchingly fearless group since they gained critical acclaim with 2003's Fever To Tell. Karen O is a beacon of light amid the swamp of pointlessly 'psssssh' female crooners and empty-headed skanks that dominate the music scene currently. She storms around the stage, roaring commandments to her attentive public, who are only too delighted to recite them back. She really is a unique talent.

And the band have already amassed a battalion of songs that sound glorious live. 'Heads Will Roll' is recognisable from the first synth, receiving instantaneous approval from the crowd, and as the drumbeat and vocals and guitar all mesh into the furiously charged chorus, the lyric of "dance til we're dead" doesn't seem such a ridiculous notion. And 'Hysteric' is still one of prettiest love songs I've heard all year; the part of the chorus where O sings "You suddenly complete me" is one of those moments that gives you that lovely fuzzy feeling.

Even the stage is used to maximum potential. A huge inflated eye-ball rests behind the band, glaring out at the audience (a staring contest would be out of the question...), and the only point where the eye relaxes its gaze and turns its back on the crowd is during 'Skeletons', a song which would break under any heavier a look. A wind machine pumps perfectly white paper circles out onto O during this number, whereas gold glitter bombs errupt from the lead singers stamp on 'Black Tongue'.

Finally, the lasting impression I take from the gig is that although their sound has acquired different tastes over time, it is distinguishable from all others. At first I put this down to O's voice, but it is very much the tone of the music. A song by the Yeah Yeah Yeahs is very much a song by the Yeah Yeah Yeahs. By the last blasts of 'Date With The Night', I was sure that this band was going to save us from the apocalypse; that, or they would start it.