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Shakey tones it down but maintains activist zeal on 38th studio album.
It's been a while since Neil Young undertook his periodic exercise in recalibration that is an acoustic album. Over a decade in fact, if you regard his last expression of relative quietude, of uncomplicated solemnity, to be 2005's Prairie Wind. This latest return to wooden instruments and unkempt production is particularly stark in the aftermath of the grungy crash of The Monsanto Years and the experimental live album Earth. Peace Trail features a couple of Young's best songs of this millennium, with the humbler arrangements offering a refreshingly plaintive backdrop for his environmental and humanitarian exhorting.
It is, though, not entirely acoustic, with combustible rages of electric guitar descending regularly to jolt songs away from rustic complacency, such as on the title track. Jim Keltner's beautifully lazy drumming, meanwhile, creates a somnolent rhythmic feel throughout, a quality which, along with Young's uncluttered songwriting, recalls some of his sprawling Seventies records, particularly On the Beach – "Can't Stop Workin'" is compelling for this reason.
However, this wouldn't be a post-2000 Neil Young album if there weren't something to wince at, and one wonders at his continuing preoccupation with Auto-Tune, which disrupts the otherwise poetic "My Pledge". That aside, this is an impassioned (and witty) set from this most dogged of iconoclasts, the colour of whose righteousness takes on different shades with every release.
Melbourne home recorder shines through his melancholy.
"I'm not ahead of my time, I'm behind it," quips Oliver Mestitz to open the fifth release from his revolving-cast ensemble the Finks. He's a natural at such self-deprecation (see the album title), and he's also got enough deadpan charm and attention to lyrical detail to rival his pal Courtney Barnett. As for the music, it dabbles in low-key guests and alternately creaky and luminous guitar melodies against a home-recorded intimacy that's perfect for Mestitz's tender wordplay. Songs like "Old Life" and the harmonica-rustled "How Long Is Too Long?" are achingly slow and crushingly beautiful, both in the tale and in the telling. "I measure my words," sings Mestitz, and that kind of understatement is a rare gift.
Masked festival headliner bucks EDM expectations again.
Electronic producer Deadmau5 retreated, Bon Iver-style, to write the bulk of his dense, thoughtful eighth album in the Canadian countryside. It's a fitting creation legend for the anti-star, a Twitter crank who openly hates the term "EDM," snarks at many of its professionals and prefers anonymity underneath a giant mouse head. While most of his fellow main-stage festival favourites continue to either churn out vocal-driven, vaguely house-inflected pop, or vocal-driven, vaguely trap-inflected pop, one of the music's most famous and visible stars has done neither.
With the breadth and beauty of a rural sky, 10 of the 11 expansive tracks on W:/2016ALBUM/ unroll across at least five-and-a-half-minutes. Tracks ebb and flow from style to style; they end abruptly, rather than pretending to blend seamlessly. This is an album, proper, and most definitely not a mix – and it's definitely not made just for a big-room dance floor.
There's still plenty of the type of four-on-the-floor numbers which he made his name, but plenty of left turns and detours abound, starting with the album's opening "4Ware," which recalls the melodic, wistful trance of the turn of the millennium. Later, "Imaginary Friends" flirts hard with throbbing techno and "Snowcone" is a straight-up bit of trip-hoppy boom-bap worthy of a chillout room or a Brooklyn yoga class. On the LP's lone vocal track, little-known artist Grabbitz pushes along a moody and slowly building 11-and-a-half-minutes of saudade.
Fist-pumpy EDM cheese this most certainly is not. Instead, W:/2016ALBUM/ works equally in a field, car or headphones, the latest catalog entry from an artist who continues to delight in bucking expectations.
Libertines singer is still standing and poetically drawling.
With his mush-mouthed drawl, Doherty still sounds like an eloquent lush at a dive bar. On the woozy knees-up "Hell to Pay at the Gates of Heaven", written after the 2015 terrorist attacks in Paris, he sings "Come on boys you got to choose your weapon, J-45 or AK-47", referring to, respectively, a Gibson guitar and a gun. "Flags From the Old Regime" is a jazz-inflected sigh of a song about Amy Winehouse – it's so intimate you can hear Doherty's rattling intakes of breath between lines such as "How you gonna stand up there in front of the whole wide world when you don't feel a thing no more?" He could be singing about himself, but somehow he's still standing, wobbly but unbroken.
Donald Glover explores hip-hop's limits on expansive third album.
You could argue that Childish Gambino became a great hip-hop artist when he stopped rapping, but that would be unfair. Over the course of two albums and a handful of mixtapes, the artist also known as actor and screenwriter Donald Glover has proven himself a decent lyricist. However, his best moments on his 2011 debut Camp arrived when he threw out the humblebrag playbook and exploded our stereotypes of black youth by addressing bullying and growing up in a two-parent household. His 2013 follow-up, Because the Internet, is remembered for when he harmonised wistfully on tracks like the hit single "3005." With his 2014 EP Kauai, he barely rapped at all, instead offering a short suite of winningly pop meditations on summer romance. Much like André 3000 and Kanye West, Childish Gambino seems to have realised that his music can be just as resonant, if not more so, when he brings a hip-hop sensibility to vocals and melodies, and leaves the bars behind.
For his third album, "Awaken, My Love!", Gambino delves into the kind of grungy stanklove that OutKast once indulged in on their magnum opuses. When its first track, "Me and Your Mama," was sent to websites last month, listeners were stunned at the epic six-minute track, its soaring gospel chorus and the raggedly intense feeling he summoned with ease. (Some already anticipated his evolution – he debuted the project during his Pharos Festival at Joshua Tree, California last September.) While the rest of the album, produced by longtime collaborator Ludwig Göransson, doesn't quite equal that sensational single, it's still an inspired detour from a multi-talented hyphenate who has already dazzled us this fall with his critically acclaimed comedy-drama, Atlanta.
Whether it's rocking his best George Clinton impression over the platform boot stomp of "Boogieman," or delivering a deep-hued spoken word manifesto on "Baby Boy," Childish Gambino fully inhabits his funkadelic guise. On "Have Some Love," he swings with a leisurely gait akin to Funkadelic's "Can You Get To That" as he implores us, "Have some time for one another/Really love one another." He subtly underlines his excursions with a message: "Stay woke … now don't you close your eyes," he cries in a high, Prince-like falsetto on "Redbone," a spacey boogie exploration that thumps with thick lowrider bass. The wah-wah guitars and rolling percussion of "Riot" crackle with psychedelic energy. When he serenades a girl moving to the Golden State over the kitschy calypso beat of "California," it adds well-timed comic levity to his heavy soul odyssey.
Is "Awaken, My Love!" just a fantastic conceit? There's some evidence of that: The themes of "Baby Boy," which slinks along like an outtake from Sly and the Family Stone's There's a Riot Going On, and the Eddie Hazel-like scratch-guitar instrumental "The Night Me and Your Mama Met," sound as if they could be coming from the mind of Earn Marks, the Princeton dropout, babydaddy and would-be rap manager at the center of Atlanta. Only time will tell if Childish Gambino has remade himself into the post-millennial D'Angelo. But for now, "Awaken, My Love!" is an enthralling trip into the land of funk.
One hell of a smokin' little blues band hits the swamp and bangs out a cracking album.
This must be harder than it sounds. That's the only answer to what took the Stones so long to slam out an album of vintage Chicago blues grinders in some concrete echo chamber out Twickenham way. However simple the three-days/no overdubs construction, it's the weight of passion and experience – on both sides of the mixing desk – that makes it such an intense, soulful and joyous experience.
The songs hail from sources whose lofty renown owes plenty to these very upstarts – Howlin' Wolf, Jimmy Reed, Willie Dixon – as well as lesser known greats like Miles Grayson and Lermon Horton. Their "Everybody Knows About My Good Thing" is the high point of the swamp, with its stinging soloing by Eric Clapton and Mick Jagger near combustible with sexual jealousy.
Jagger sounds unleashed here, a revelation even now both for his scalding vocals and his scorching blues harp, each brutally compressed to a hair's breadth from distortion. He howls like an ill wind on the slow sleaze of Magic Sam's "All Your Love" and hollers cocksure and smooth in the rattling train of Little Walter's "Hate to See You Go".
Meanwhile, the telepathic entanglement of Keef'n'Ronnie's lazy riffing and slicing counter-attacks remains, rather like the unhurried whiplash of Charlie Watts' punctuation, gobstopping wonders of the rock & roll age. Kids could do worse than start here.
Late-night crooner treads murky water amidst innovative R&B era.
"It just seems like niggas trying to sound like my old shit," sings the Weeknd on "Reminder." Ironically, years after remaking contemporary R&B in his druggy, sex-obsessed vision on his iconic debut EP House of Balloons, the Toronto singer has settled into a familiar routine. We know that his songs will explore love as either a tortured form of codependency or transactional pornography; that he will boast of his forays into a one-percent world of luxury vehicles, white lines and sylph-like women; and that the beats will possess a synthesised sheen that gleams like coated stock paper in Vogue magazine.
The Weeknd has managed to offer some kind of ingenuity in spite of his well-worn shticks in the past. Kiss Land may have sounded like Trilogy redux, but at least it offered a thrilling reprise of Eighties underground darkwave as well as his mordantly inspired meditations on the first rush of international fame. Beauty Behind the Madness was a stunning leap forward into the pop stratosphere, and its standout moments more than outweighed its weaker tracks. However, Starboy, which follows a mixed critical reception to teaser tracks "Starboy" and "Party Monster," just sounds like clichés wrapped in prettier packaging. Yes, the Weeknd cut his dreads in favor of a fetching ink-blot mohawk; he's working with Daft Punk, who produced the title track and "I Feel It Coming"; and he's got a nickname that he has said pays homage to the late David Bowie. (He hasn't acknowledged claims that Nigerian afrobeats vocalist Wizkid used the name "Starboy" first.)
Two days before Starboy's release, the Weeknd dropped a short film titled Mania. It found him entering a nightclub shaded in red and blue hues, where he seeks out and gyrates with the French model Anais Mali, and then he's nearly knifed by a jealous suitor – before Mali transforms into a panther and decapitates the assailant. The latter scene is a clear nod to Nicolas Wilding Refn's recent art-house shocker The Neon Demon and its ornate vision of fashion models that transform into bloodthirsty animals. But while Refn continues to bravely exhaust his post-Drive goodwill with thrillingly polarising work, Starboy offers evidence that the Weeknd is afraid to abandon the post-millennial lounge lizard archetype that has brought him so much renown.
Incidentally, the aforementioned "Reminder" is one of Starboy's better tracks. "I just won a new award from a kids show/Talking 'bout a face numbing from a bag of blow," he says in reference to his world conquering hit "I Can't Feel My Face." "I'm like, goddamn, bitch, I am not a Teen Choice." On "Sidewalks," which features a cameo from Kendrick Lamar, he talks more shit in that inimitable singing/rapping mode that so many lesser "wavy" R&B vocalists have copied. "Too many people think they made me/Well, if they really made me then replace me."
Yet the Weeknd should take a look at his own state of affairs. This year has brought amazing soul music, whether it's the galvanising call-to-arms of the Knowles sisters' political R&B, the thrift-shop funk of Anderson Paak or the deeply emotional ambient states of Frank Ocean. The Weeknd should be among those trailblazers pushing forward. Instead, he stuffs Starboy with dreary alt-R&B boilerplates and arch New Wave near misses. Among the latter is "Secrets," a sugary Eighties cataclysm with a stabbing synth beat and a melodic reprise of Tears for Fears' "Pale Shelter," and which falters on a perfunctory hook lifted from the Romantics' "Talking in Your Sleep." "Rockin'" has an infectious garage-house rhythm courtesy of producers Max Martin and Ali Payami, but all the Weeknd can do is respond with a clunky chorus. Inexplicably, Lana Del Rey appears as "Stargirl." And since the Weeknd and Future turned "Low Life" into a perfunctory hit earlier this spring, why not aim for more SEO-leveraged magic with "Six Feet Under" and "All I Know"?
Lyrically, he mostly offers banalities. "People always talk about the ones that got away/I just seem to get the ones that always want to stay," he sings unconvincingly on "Rockin'." Even worse is when he sings, "She ain't got time for lovin'/Louis Vuitton her husband" on "Six Feet Under." Then there's the monochromatic synth-pop of "Love to Lay" and its chorus, "She loves to lay/I learned the hard way."
Despite an overlong hour-plus runtime and surplus of filler, Starboy does have highlights. "A Lonely Night" is a nice B-side-quality slice of electro-funk. "Attention" is a decent EDM ballad that could have been made by Major Lazer or Jason DeRulo. Two of the best tracks arrive at album's end. "Die for You" is a euphoric slow jam where he finally summons the poetic sincerity he mined so easily in the past. "It's hard for me to communicate the thoughts that I hold/But tonight I'm gonna let you know/Let me tell the truth," he sings. The closer, "I Feel It Coming," is a gem of Ibiza disco love. It's meant as a contrast to Daft Punk's dark techno work on "Starboy," but "I Feel It Coming" is surprisingly sunny and fresh, and encourages the Weeknd to briefly abandon his increasingly stale image as an unrepentant night creature.
Of course, "Starboy" peaked at Number Two on the U.S. Billboard Hot 100 singles chart, so maybe it pays to rest on his laurels. But for longtime fans that believe the Weeknd is one of the major R&B artists of the decade, Starboy will ultimately seem like a disappointment.
Wiley, windy moors of Canada spawn atmospheric sister act.
There's a uni paper's worth of quasi-mystical/beat author allusions in the title of this Canadian duo's album, but what meets the ear is mostly brain-neutral. Unison-singing sisters Sari and Romy Lightman are all gossamer threads and wind chimes as the breeze shifts from the ether-slicing piano of "Dead Can Dance & Neil Young" to the synth washes of "29 Palms" and the fairy mist of "Eli". Little meaning escapes their lovely echo chamber, though the chilling glimpse of doomed youth in "Gentle Man" is relief from the ringing cathedral of vague suggestions about "Claudine" and "Wiolyn". There's a place for lapping waves and cooing sax, but there's more prettiness than purpose here.
Enchanting sonic fairytales from mercurial Los Angeles recluse.
Given that a harlequin is a kind of flamboyantly dressed comic servant, it's an appropriate title for this wildly innovative debut from an artist whose odd noises and fairly primitive production palette make him a kind of lo-fi Bjork, or the anti-folk Captain Beefheart. Strings and synthesisers weave together with a playful spirit, complemented by Izenberg's softly boyish vocals; some songs are charmingly incoherent, while others, such as "Libra" and "Archer", display a happy knack for dainty conciseness. An understanding of the jazz spectrum, and figures like Steve Reich, goes into such a sound, and though it may take a few listens to fully grasp, Harlequin is an idiosyncratic delight.
The R&B star reimagines the sound of high school dances past.
Bruno Mars wears a lot of hats on his third LP: giddy uptown-funk savant, bumping-and-grinding R&B time-traveller, Ashford and Simpson-esque quiet-storm balladeer. But the heart of 24K Magic recalls the New Jack Swing of Boyz II Men, Bell Biv DeVoe and Bobby Brown. Mars wanted Magic to re-create the nostalgic wonder of the school dances he attended in the Nineties – and his crowded productions, infectious attitude and soaring voice go well beyond "tribute" into the realm of "blockbuster reboot".
The chorus in "Calling All My Lovelies" – "I got Alesha waiting/Iesha waiting/All the eeshas waiting on me" – is an adult epilogue to Another Bad Creation's playground romanticism, and "Perm" is a future-shocked James Brown hip-hop hybrid. Yet while his funk game is strong and his swagger is stronger, the hook writing that made Mars' 2012 LP, Unorthodox Jukebox, so astounding isn't always as tight here. "Versace on the Floor" is the umpteenth tribute to Marvin Gaye's "Sexual Healing", while the title track feels like cloying flash. As a human Super Bowl halftime show, no one can touch him – this just isn't always the most glittering display of his star power.
Indigenous rap duo lay down the gauntlet on fiery debut album.
A.B. Original sure don't half step. Evident right there in the album title (a double entendre reference to an Australian hate group) and throughout their fist-raised debut, the duo – a cross-state amalgamation between Shepparton's Briggs and Trials from Adelaide's Funkoars – strangle the status quo with their socially conscious flip of Nineties West Coast gangster rap.
Bookended by a baton-pass intro with indigenous leader Archie Roach and a soulful closing cameo from Gurrumul, A.B. Original share more than just aesthetics with the G-funk era, swaggering and smirking like a heyday Ice Cube, as they deliver plainspoken punchlines of both poignancy and humour, all antagonistically aimed to "hit you with that Andrew Bolt of lightning" – as Trials boasts on "2 Black 2 Strong".
Aside from a few ill-fitting bars from actual Left Coast representatives (Guilty Simpson and King T), this is revolution rap at its best. Protest and pride split duties as the pair cover ground from systematic racism ("Call 'Em Out", with a chilling sample of Lang Hancock's sterilisation plans) to police abuse ("Report to the Mist") to the impact of Australia Day celebrations on indigenous people (radio-ready "January 26", complete with the unusual rhyming couplet "I remember all the blood and what carried us, they remember 20 recipes for lamingtons"). On an album of such purpose and immediate accessibility, the only risk is if the trunk-rattling beats and ante-up hooks distract from the powerful messages, rather than enable them.
Jonas Brother struggles to shed pop shallowness.
In a world where Zayn Malik creates challenging pop, the debut from DNCE – Joe Jonas's band – feels oddly shallow and out of step. It trades almost exclusively in electro-funk pop, but pushes few boundaries: fun, bonkers moments ("Zoom") and genuinely ace ballads ("Truthfully") butt against the wince-inducing ("Toothbrush"). "Blown (feat. Kent Jones)" weirdly 'references' the build-up from "Twist & Shout", while "Cake By the Ocean" almost cribs the "Seven Nation Army" riff, but at least it's still a joyous explosion of pop silliness. It's a fun LP, but lacks an adventurous weirdness that would've helped its funk and falsetto mix make it a Weeknd-esque contender.
The country queen flirts and drinks and digs deep on a powerful double album.
Miranda Lambert's latest opens on a classic country image: a weekend hangover echoing the one in Kris Kristofferson's "Sunday Mornin' Coming Down". But "Runnin' Just in Case" is no brooding existential ramble. It's a gravel-spitting exit from sorrow's driveway, bad memories shrivelling in the rearview. And it sets the tone for the Nashville star's most ambitious LP, a rangy two-disc set ditching country's mainstream playbook for the sort of Great Album that rock acts used to crank out regularly back in the day.
Rubberneckers have anticipated The Weight of These Wings since Lambert split from Blake Shelton, ending their four-year term as country's First Couple (another thankless job). Sure, it's a "breakup record". But it's more about songs for the ages than tabloid raw meat. With an A-list co-author team including Natalie Hemby, Liz Rose, Ashley Monroe and Lambert's boyfriend, Anderson East, Lambert co-wrote 20 of 24 tracks and filled out the rest with well-chosen covers; see "Covered Wagon", a 1971 jam by singer-songwriter Danny O'Keefe, and "You Wouldn't Know Me", by Texas troubadour Shake Russell.
The album's two parts – "The Nerve" and "The Heart" – pivot on songs about romantic rebound. "Use My Heart" chronicles a sort of lovers' PTSD; "Tin Man" extends the cardiac metaphor per The Wizard of Oz; "Pushin' Time" is a steely but fragile collaboration (with East, fittingly) about late-game relationships that can't afford to dawdle. Emmylou Harris' 1995 LP Wrecking Ball, with its floaty Daniel Lanois production, seems a touchstone here. But this is also an album with dirt under its manicured nails: There's the hoarse hollers and guitar skronk on "Pink Sunglasses", and the perm-damaged hair-metal riffs on "Vice", where Lambert's declaration "said I wouldn't do it/But I did it again" echoes Britney Spears minus the ingénue coyness, consequences clattering like leg irons. There are goofs ("For the Birds") and throwaways ("Bad Boy"). But these moments are often less lightweight than they seem; see "Tomboy" (rhymes with "move along, boy") and "Getaway Driver", its unsettled friendship as touchingly queer in its way as Little Big Town's "Girl Crush".
The set's most vintage moment is "To Learn Her", a honky-tonk weeper worthy of George Jones, offering a lovers' curriculum with no easy answers. It's emblematic of an album that never wallows in breakup pain, but instead deals – making plans, getting drunk, flirting, testifying and, above all, moving on. And if you're fingering a few scars of your own, you'll be rooting for her.
Parisian pranksters mellow out on rewarding disco odyssey.
Justice, the Parisian duo of Gaspard Augé and Xavier de Rosnay, landed in 2007 with an ebullient up-yours to the dance music establishment - † was French touch with the dial turned way up, distorted, and overlaid with mincing rock riffs. Follow-up Audio, Video, Disco eschewed † mark II for dalliances with prog-rock, and while diverting, there was nothing quite as visceral as say, "Genesis".
Five years later, Justice have shifted shapes again – Woman is a disco album, as performed by an acid-loving lothario in a gold glitter g-string. Saturated in slap bass, "Safe and Sound" curls around psychedelic synth bursts and "D.A.N.C.E."-style vocals, while "Pleasure" might be a Hair soundtrack offcut, the ensemble harmonising on "Use imagination as a destination." "Alakazam!" is a Moroder-esque rocket ride with crunching guitars, "Stop", featuring Johnny Blake from Zoot Woman, is a Discovery-era Daft Punk slowie. Things get weirder in the back end with "Chorus", a lyric-free epic with ghostly synths, while "Heavy Metal" recalls some of M83's recent baroque experiments. And the dreamy outro pairing of "Love S.O.S." and "Close Call" is Justice at their most sentimental yet.
It's not the seismic statement † was, but Woman sounds like a band maturing with style, without ever making the mistake of taking themselves too seriously.
Devastating folk balladry straight outta the kitchen.
Drawing on members of Deaf Wish and Dick Diver, Lower Plenty convene every couple of years to record an album of laidback lo-fi folk. Their fourth LP was recorded in a kitchen with modest sprinkles of shakers, woodwinds, saxophone and sarangi, which lends a raga vibe to the psych-tinged "Ravesh". These are campfire songs between friends, rambling in structure and swapping between three distinct singers. The rickety ballad "Cursed By Numbers" evokes Will Oldham's early bands, while "All the Young Men" sneaks up with a damning assessment of war. For all the bleakness, Lower Plenty's dishevelled yarns radiate a communal, consolidating warmth.
Australian hip-hop's not-so-quiet underground achiever.
Six releases in on his record-a-year dictate, Sydney firebrand Kerser mostly sticks to an if-it-ain't-broke aesthetic while addressing addiction issues ("Bad Habits") and documenting the mean streets he came up in. Local in feel, international in vision, by now it's a familiar template of brash beats and big boasts, sharp wit and tight rhymes, but Tradition steps to the left enough to prove that Kerser isn't relying on a cookie-cutter production line. "See Me In Real Life" bounces in Eminem's footsteps, while slower points – like the guitar-led "Crash" – are more contemplative. Boost the BPMs, though, as on "Waitin' For This", and Kerser proves why he's a high-flyer despite cruising under the radar.