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ALBUM REVIEW: JAWS / THE CEILING

(Written for Let it Happen)

You can grow up listening to bands, but the rarity is a band who grows up alongside you. The kingpins of the B-town music scene, since their emergence in 2012, have spun a silken web of shimmering dream-pop which has spanned three albums. They began as the architects of their own vanilla sky, nourished by the colours which dance in the spaces between hooks and highs. Yet as they matured, JAWS managed to curate their flair for grooves on their debut record ‘Be Slowly’ and blend them with a more solemn, contemplative mood on its successor, ‘Simplicity’. As much as there is sunshine, there is something bitter to taste. Their latest album, ‘The Ceiling’, has a daunting legacy to topple.

There are few bands who can execute what JAWS do with the same finesse; though indie music is notoriously a landfill, they are, musically, quite untouchable. Their sound is pedigree; although pedigree is a hallmark of prestige, it is also on the brink of being boring. The risk they take is based on their reluctance – whether they realise it or not – to stretch their arms a little wider and dip into other genres. ‘The Ceiling’, from the starting block, sees them boldly travel down sonic avenues previously unexplored.

‘Feel’ comes as quite a shock to the system. While the verses are tender with piano, the pulse of the heavy bass kicks leads up to a burst of pop in the chorus which quite frankly takes you aback. This kind of energy is something we haven’t seen for a while. A track of this calibre, with a staccato mix of instruments and soaring optimism, could easily be filed alongside the best of Bombay Bicycle Club. ‘Fear’ goes one step further in embodying the zeitgeist. Connor Schofield’s vocals are distant and otherworldly in a galaxy of infectious, minimal beats. JAWS have ventured bravely into the territory of low-hanging fruit music, taking a refreshingly alternative approach to mainstream formats.

Since the release of ‘Simplicity’, we know JAWS have been unafraid to wear their fragility on their sleeves – they haven’t lost sight of this. ‘Driving at Night’ is gorgeously nocturnal, reinforced with the swelling synth that props up their melodic guitarwork. It rushes by like the hum of late-night motorways: a masterwork in atmospherics. On ‘Looking / Passing’, vocalist Connor Schofield muses, “I’d enjoy myself if I didn’t care”, which cuts through a cascade of shy guitar strums and synth. Though their sound has diversified, JAWS don’t make their experimentation into an enormous gesture – they have control over nuances and subtlety.

JAWS have a dabble in the heavier side of the rock spectrum on ‘The Ceiling’. They prove, not once, but over and over, their capability for a hellfire of serrated riffs and cutting drums. ‘Do You Remember’ – dare I say it – sounds brazenly pop-punk, which is a curveball I couldn’t have foreseen. The rhythm is propulsive, the choruses violent, the vocals jagged. It’s angsty, which is no criticism but instead a gulp of much-needed fresh air. ‘End of the World’ lulls you with its innocent, jangling beginnings before reaching a powerful crescendo that is a towering wall of garage rock.

With an album so (relatively) experimental, when JAWS slip back into their comfort zone it’s wholeheartedly disappointing, and actually distracts you from the fact that ‘The Ceiling’ and ‘Please Be Kind’ are excellent in their own merit. This is a risk they have run, and they have run it well. I would rather see them wear a mix of styles masted to their sleeve than have my expectations tepidly met.

‘The Ceiling’ is a triumph in experimentation, which has firmly proved that JAWS can encompass a flurry of genres that sees them break the ‘guitar band’ mould. Like or loathe this new approach, bravery should be met with credit. 

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INTERVIEW: SLEAFORD MODS

(Written for Soundsphere Magazine)

Sleaford Mods are often brushed off as lager-sloshing, geezer-group leaders spouting to a league of baldheaded men. Once again, the hypothetical ‘Joe Public’ has got it entirely wrong. Sleaford Mods are misunderstood because their dynamic and sound goes beyond what we recognise. They are two middle-aged, working class men – truly working class, it’s worth noting, not the marketable brand identity that it has become – who are not ‘geezers’, but are unafraid to explore the many shades of masculinity. Jason Williamson is a straight man, married with two kids, but wears his brilliantly camp stage presence on his sleeve; Andrew Fearn is openly gay. They offer many shades of British male identity for their fans to see eye-to-eye with. Far more than that, however, is that Sleaford Mods are by far the best political lyricists and social commentators of austerity-era Britain – they live next door, not tucked away in London townhouses. Their eleventh album, ‘Eton Mess’ takes aim at these ivory towers in a way that is more relevant than ever. 

“You get to this point when you want to go bigger, and you’re no longer satisfied with what you’ve got.” Williamson muses, looking back on their twelve years together. Their embittered explorations of working-class life, laden with profanity under his thick East Midlands accent, has been Sleaford Mods’ undying fuel. For as long as inequalities in our social system, and injustices in our politics, there will be another Sleaford Mods album, it would seem. “It’s a bit of a double-edged sword,” he continues, “because you can go up your own arse a bit, and lose sight of what you’re in it for - before you know it, you just look like a twat. But, in saying that, it’s good to never feel satisfied because it pushes you along – I’m not talking satisfied in terms of bank balance (though it’s nice to have a bit of money), but creatively – in the sense of how you can capture more people.”

When we asked Williamson what one of the biggest challenges he faces in Sleaford Mods is quite simple: “Ignoring all the wankers. You know, we do get a lot of stick because it’s such base-level music – that’s all it is: working-class music. It gets people’s backs up because they just palm it off as a joke, a fucking comedy act, or whatever – but it’s not. It’s a case of trying to ignore that and proving everyone wrong.” He adds: “More than that, we’re trying to keep it interesting and not repeat ourselves. We don’t want to turn into disingenuous idiots – there are a lot of them. Some people aren’t even aware of it. Sleaford Mods have been going for five years now, in the commercial sense; we’re aware that when we reach ten years, it’s not going to be as good, perhaps. It might not stick to the current climate. It might change like that in two years, you never know - so you’ve got to be aware of all these things, and just keep going.”

Sleaford Mods prove to the kids in bedrooms with no hi-tech equipment but with a creative gift to give, that yes, you can tour Europe; yes, your voice is valuable; and yes, you can have your own proper Wikipedia page. Despite having a growing following of young people, “For a long time we just had white middle-aged men in our audience.” Williamson confessed. “Then it changed a bit – more women came. Particularly in Europe, you find a lot more young people turning up. I’ve noticed in the last couple of years there have been a lot more in English gigs. It’s great if it inspires young people.”

Despite having toured across the continent, Sleaford Mods don’t forget the smaller cities often neglected by heavyweight acts. Some might accuse Sleaford Mods of making a tactical move – a part of their working-class ‘business model’, perhaps. “It is a business model!” Williamson cries. “You have to treat it like a business, otherwise it will just go – we’re in a fickle industry. We’re not a buzz band anymore; four years ago we were, and people came after us. We didn’t have to put too much into it. Now that has passed, you have to learn to promote yourself and compete in the market. I don’t think there is anything wrong with treating your band like a business. We didn’t want to do loads of in-store performances where you have to buy the album for entry or a place in the charts. I got a bit cynical about that in the end. I’d like a nice chart place, but since we’ve gone independent there’s not much chance of that happening. But who knows? We wanted to do a signing thing rather than doing a half an hour set and fucking off. It’s better to go to local record shops, because not every town and city has their own Rough Trade where everything happens.”

‘When You Come Up to Me’, taken from their latest album ‘Eton Alive’, is a track which strikes you with its overtones of solitude. It’s far more reserved and confessional compared to the rest of the album, and makes Williamson sound more aged than his 48 years. The inspiration for ‘When You Come Up to Me’ was when “somebody was doing a drug deal right outside my house,” William says.  “The dealer had an epileptic fit, and the people he was selling to came to my house and asked if I would call an ambulance. I went out, and at first, I thought he was off his nut - but the two guys said he was just like that sometimes. When the ambulance came, it struck me how different we were from each other – even how different the two guys were. Everyone was just very singular. It reminded me of what an insular world we live in. This is something we all know: it can be a lonely place and it’s becoming even lonelier for people. Everyone was non-responsive to each other, almost. The ambulance sorted him out and everything was fine, but we were all disconnected from each other. I really started to notice it. I based the song around that, really; it rolls back into the name of the album title ‘Eaten Alive’, and how the various members from Eton College who constructed the austerity policies have basically turned the country into a cold dinner. Everyone is numb and unresponsive, just going about their daily business.”

While his train of thought is on ‘Eton Alive’, he adds, “It’s the strongest album we’ve done to date, really – strongest in the sense of quality of the songs. The other albums were reactive, they were angry, they were impulsive, they were of their time, so to speak. This one is more pop – more mature, perhaps. It’s a lot tighter and more confident. So, from that perspective, it is the most commercial album we’ve done so far. I’m quite proud of it.”

Since the early days, Williamson would leave work and head straight for Andrew’s house, where they would stay up until 3AM recording music and having a “piss about” – just like many aspiring bands and musicians not only across Britain, but across the world. From the perspective of a working-class duo, who, with no formal training have managed to sell out venues and gain column inches, Williamson has this advice to offer: “You need to be honest with yourself when you’re creating. You need to collect around you psychological instruments that are going to enable you to realise what makes a good song and what makes a crap song. That can come down to all kinds of mechanisms: the formula, the content, the political or social message. You’ve got to look around yourself and match your music to the times and move with them. Apart from that, just keep going. If you’ve decided that this is what you want to do, then you keep going with it – that’s all I can say. You’re going to find routes and ways and means to make sure you do it. If that means taking any old job, take any old job. Keep yourself as light as you can possibly be. Don’t attach yourself to too many things that are going to drag you down on the way. Don’t stop.”

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SINGLE REVIEW: ADIR L.C / REACTING

(Written for The Line of Best Fit)

Adir L.C’s latest single is so sonically crisp, it might as well be visual. ‘Reacting’, extracted from his forthcoming album ‘Basket Star’, is the troubadour’s effortless attempt at reaching the dizzying heights of a cinematic skyscraper. Adir L.C dusts off the film reel and plunges you into the middle of your own imaginary montage, where – like its music video under the creative direction of House of Nod and Bad Pedestrian – the colours are bright; they crackle and bleed. 

‘Reacting’ explores our insular minds, the compulsion to act harshly, and the importance of taking a deep breath and seeing things clearly: “So bad at reacting - bleeding out the cause / We’ve been talking way too much, we’ve been acting way too tough”.

The guitars unravel like spools of thread tumbling off a table, running away with a youthful frivolity. It runs far past Adir L.C’s sleepy vocals in the verses and the anxious, fuzzed-out bass, leaving a calling card with the kind of shoegaze bands that feature on the soundtracks for Wes Anderson flicks and indie staples like ‘Garden State’. What really brings ‘Reacting’ to life are the brass sections in the chorus – they really gild the lily. It’s reminiscent of the more triumphant sound of Of Monsters and Men; much like them, Adir L.C is unafraid to reimagining a bland indie landscape that looks far beyond the guitar.

‘Reacting’, reared under the hothouse lights of Brooklyn, New York, has the kind of towering American ambition that indie music so desperately needs.

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SINGLE REVIEW: JINKA / ROMEO

(Written for The Line of Best Fit)

Welcome to Jinka’s liquorice-sweet soundscape: the Transylvanian artist, we’ve been told, is turning 100 – and you’re invited to her birthday party. Jinka is in her play-pretend land, where the sonic architecture is made of billowing soap bubbles of pop and sprawling, synthetic basslines. None of it feels quite real, but you can hardly call it ripping up the rule book if, in Jinka’s world, there never was one in the first place.

‘Romeo’ is the latest single taken from Jinka’s debut EP ‘Dr.Ara’. It’s a true trip-pop confection, with the same cartoonish adrenalin that is Charli XCX and SOPHIE’s calling card. The track proves that her talent for curating earworms has come on leaps and bounds since her first smattering of singles in 2017. While you’re listening to ‘Romeo’, you’ll wonder what brand of madness you’re indulging in. One thing is for certain: you won’t be able to get it out of your head.  

Speaking about the track, Jinka said: “When you stream music it’s like you have access to an all-you-can-eat buffet. If you have an omnivorous taste like me this might turn out to be dangerous, unless you embrace it and you’re are not afraid to take a multidirectional approach and explore different perspectives […] The moment we had finished Romeo I was like: okay – this is the sonic palette which is going to serve as grounds for my future work in 2019.”

Jinka called on Polish director Emilia Kurylowitcz has painted a surreal, nightmarish scenario with a menagerie of Jinka’s party guests: Twin-Peaks’ BOB-turned-manic-stripper, Jinka’s keyboardist Carinz as Nosferatu, a cleaning clown, garishly jolly twins and a lip-syncing metal guitarist. It’s the only video far-flung enough to be a part of her world. Her debut EP ‘Dr. Ara’ promises to be the rush of pure hedonism we all need. 

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ALBUM REVIEW: SELF ESTEEM

(Written for Peanut Mixtape)

In an age where imperfections are far better airbrushed; where followers are a currency for self-worth; where we are forced to measure up and compare, it would be fitting – if not, exceptionally honest – for Self Esteem’s Rebecca Taylor to name her first debut album ‘Compliments Please’. 

Taylor’s struggles with self-doubt and insecurities is the stuff this record is born of. She lays these bare in a way that is far more than unapologetic: it is brazen. She takes the sugar-coating and cuts it mercilessly out. ‘Compliments Please’ is no nonsense: she confronts what we all want but are too afraid to ask for. “I wanted to make pop music for my fellow flawed, squashed and disgusting humans having a go at life,” she said. There’s something downright admirable about that. 

‘Compliments Please’ was made from the scattered debris of Slow Club. Taylor found that being one half of the acclaimed duo was suffocating, rather than collaborative. Ploughing out light, meandering indie tracks in the end felt more like a compromise; she felt reduced, like a “meek” version of herself. The opening track, ‘(Feelings)’ is bracketed almost as if it’s an aside, but those thirty seconds of a snippet of conversation contain everything Taylor felt about the musical cocoon that consumed the last ten years of her life. “When you’re in a band, not everyone wants the same thing you want […] You’re trying to go up, further – so you have to make a decision and not worry about hurting somebody’s feelings.”

‘Pop’ is still something of a dirty word, but Taylor wears her genre proudly on her sleeve. However, her sound is far sparser than the bubblegum confections of Charli XCX and Scandi-pop’s Sigrid who dominate the field. The focus is on her vocals, pure and crisp; the instrumental dissolves into the backdrop. However, on the likes of ‘Girl Crush’, the thrill of violin strings gives the clattering drums much-needed substance. The production is unlike anything you’d be likely to encounter in the realm of pop music. The record is either minimal or somewhat unfinished, depending on how this approach settles with you. Rather than coming across as a seamless, smooth album, it strikes you more as a patchwork of incongruent sounds.

‘Compliments Please’ is a 16-track odyssey, which is staggeringly long – too long – for a pop record. But Taylor has a lot to say: these intimate revelations about her actions during a failed relationship are like reading her diary – asking her to cap what she wants to say for the sake of our feeble attention spans would be reductive. “So I’m going to get drunk, and slag you off / Then I’m gonna go home and eat my feelings up” she sings, her usually crystalline voice sapped with autotune. Taylor has no earth-shattering revelations to make: her message is endlessly relatable, inspired by experiences we can all tap into.

Drawing on the sumptuous choir to accompany Taylor’s own rich vocals is a triumph on the likes of ‘Monster’. This, combined with a sparkling instrumental and heavy bassline, gives the track the distinction of being the most multi-dimensional on the album. Unlike the rest of the tracks, the layers on ‘Monster’ seem to blend together smoothly, rather than feeling like mismatching jigsaw pieces being jammed into the puzzle.

Self Esteem plays with a spectrum of moods and tones: ‘She Reigns’ is saturnine, with looming bass strings and an appreciation of playing with the speed of its delivery. It’s sophisticated enough to compliment her own powerful voice, when much of the album does it a disservice.

Taylor has lofty ambition for Self Esteem, but ‘Compliments Please’ hones its focus on self-expression and catharsis rather than creating an album of merit. Her good intentions and talent have laid the foundations for what promises to be the beginning of a rewarding path for Taylor, but as it stands, she may have missed the mark.

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EP REVIEW: GAWJUSS

(Written for Let it Happen)

Born from inky, sleepless nights spent on Garageband; raised on rough, unforgiving northern terrain, is the eponymous debut EP of Kieran Wade Clarke (Gawjuss). A project separate from his collaborative efforts with alt-rock outfit Forever Cult, Gawjuss is an outlet for his unfiltered, innermost feelings that are best expressed coming from him, and him alone. 

The EP is humid with melancholy. Clarke’s voice rings out as solitary narrator who weighs up, staring at the bottom of a glass in the smoke-filled dive bar of his mind, if he’d rather be in this place filled with people or better off alone. ‘No Reset’ sets the foundations for Clarke’s distinctive style: serpentine riffs and purring voice create a sound that is menacing, but not without an underlying wistfulness that gives the EP more dimension than a ‘guitar music’ cardboard cut-out.

‘Drive’ takes to the seedier backstreets, with a slinking rhythm that sees Clarke’s bare-wire vocals bleed into the droning guitars. It’s a dangerous track – watch your back. The bonus track, ‘Pressure’, tucked in at the end, is an excellent experiment of stasis, pace and movement. He toys with everything, to a frenetic effect.

The third track of this four-act spectacle, ‘Young Losers’ is the EP’s saviour. Without it, Clarke ran the risk of becoming a one-trick pony. ‘Young Losers’ is far more melodic. Above the basslines that groan line a rusty switchblade, a guitar blushes: it twinkles brilliantly, but uncertainly, leaving a light taste of more atmospheric The Stone Roses. It’s an absolute stand-out track, which leaves you wondering what Clarke could achieve if he tapped into melodies with more conviction.

In the space of four songs, Clarke has proved his merit as a craftsman of atmosphere, with an incredible understanding of the nuances of instrumentals and the emotions that drive them. As Gawjuss, Clarke wears his heart boldly on his sleeve; his work wills us to do the same.

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ALBUM REVIEW: NICK WATERHOUSE

(Written for Let it Happen)

You would be forgiven, at first glance of Nick Waterhouse, that Buddy Holly had risen from the dead. You would also be forgiven for mistaking yourself for being in a cavernous, dimly-lit bar in New Orleans, the blues being rattled out on an old piano spilling into the streets. Nick Waterhouse’s fourth, eponymous album has the ability to take you places, as you act out the grainy, cinematic montage of your mind’s eye. 

Each track is a veritable slice of Americana. Waterhouse’s vocals, chameleon-like, blend to suit the scene he has created. ‘Song for Winners’ is a smoky, saloon-shaking track that gallops, with its seductive saxophone accompaniment, like a pack of wild horses along the frontier. ‘Undedicated’ takes us to the French Quarter, slinking along the neon-lit strip of bars by night. The crooning choir and the thrill of keys, as his voice sinks low, gives it a nocturnal quality.

It would be easy to file Nick Waterhouse alongside other replicas of the 50s swinging rock’n’roll scene, writing off this album as faux-American diner music and nothing more. Though it is true that Waterhouse dusts off a school of sound that had been shelved for antiquity, he beckons it into modernity with his own slicked-back panache. The bass in ‘Black Glass’ and its shimmying tempo give it a cool confidence that seems inaccessible in modern music. The sparse hand-beaten drums and undulating saxophone solo shows that Waterhouse doesn’t depend on a bombardment of sounds to create an effect. He taps into instruments, knowing their strength and purposes, with masterful precision.

Nick Waterhouse’s album is a delicious form of escapism. While his albums seem to run linear to one another without any notable progression, here is an artist who knows with complete conviction the kind of music, and the kind of place, he wants to make and take you to. There is a sense of true enjoyment in the making of this album. It allows you to shut out the trappings of modern living and indulge in the dreamboats and petticoats of his world.

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INTERVIEW: ALEXANDER MILAS

(Written for Soundsphere Magazine)

In the boxing ring of journalism, Alexander Milas has more than a fair few champion title belts under his name - a little less heavyweight, a little more heavy metal. Embarking as a contributor to Kerrang!, the British oracle on all things hard rock, Milas interviewed a spectrum of the genre’s fabled heroes from Metallica and Slipknot to ‘The Prince of Darkness’ himself, Ozzy Osbourne. With his work across a smattering of publications, his career reached its apex when he became Metal Hammer’s Editor-in-Chief. Picking off the mammoth titles of GQ and Timeout, Milas has been crowned PPA Editor of Year during his decade at the iconic heavy metal music magazine. You might wonder where you could possibly go next, but Alexander Milas shows no signs of slowing down. 

“So many people hate the way they’re going to spend their daytime,” Milas speaks, considering his departure from Metal Hammer. “Because I experienced that misery really early on, that has always motivated me to chase things that I’m passionate about. That hasn’t always helped my bank account, but it has always felt like I’ve never wasted my time. I had to think long and hard about what I wanted to do after writing for Metal Hammer. It led to me travelling around the world and meeting so many cool musicians and bands. I didn’t just want to take a desk job and kind of retire – I’m only 40 (which I know sounds like I’m older than time itself to most people), but I still feel like I have a lot ahead of me. I decided I was going to start something of my own and follow my instincts and resulted in Twin V.”

Twin V is a creative solutions company that has become Milas’ full-time occupation since 2017. The award-winning network of photographers, directors, social-media strategists, community managers, audio producers, and journalists, chaired and founded by Milas himself, have produced programmes for Iron Maiden; feature-length documentaries for Amon Amarth; and have even collaborated with the European Space Agency. “A lot of people think Twin V is to do with engines,” Milas laughs, “but the name was inspired by the legend that English archers and their longbows were so effective against mounted, heavily-armoured knights that they’d often have their first two, bowstring-drawing fingers chopped off when they were captured. Holding their two fingers up in the two-fingered salute became a common taunt. It has been a real ride, two years in, and it has been a lot of fun.”

Within two years, Twin V’s clients have been prestigious to say the least. Their work with the European Space Agency gave rise to Spacerocks: a celebration of space exploration and the art, music, and culture it inspires. In 2018, Twin V managed to secure Queen guitarist and astrophysicist Brian May and ESA astronaut Tim Peake at Spacerocks’ panel show at the O2 in London. Speaking on Twin V’s rapid success, Milas is quick to say, “Your relationships are everything.” He continues, “If you ask yourself what a relationship is, it’s just trust. You’ve got to be relied on to do things, and I guess that’s where a lot of it came from. Some of the first people I worked with were people that I knew. Spacerocks, however, was very different. I felt like I had to get out of my own lane for a change, and I had a great opportunity to do that. James Isaacs was the extraordinary arts editor at Metal Hammer who is also a great creative; Todd O’Sullivan, the guy who produces The Golden Gun, it was made a lot easier because I’d had these great relationships with people I’d worked with for years. That’s the defining characteristic of everything successful that I have done: I have worked with great people. A lot of people make this happen, out front and behind the scenes. With Spacerocks, working with a European space agency, that’s a whole new set of relationships, which is of course very different from the music industry. You’d be surprised to know that a lot of people there really love music and art, and want to see it go forward.”

‘Successful’ isn’t quite the word Milas would use to describe himself. “Nothing I do feels successful at the time because I’m in the middle of it. I’m conscious that from the outside it looks like there’s a lot going on, but the truth is, like anybody, I’m still hungry and always looking for what’s next.” He reflects. “I think the worst thing you can ever do is coast on the inertia of past success. It’s done. It’s over. It’s all about what you’re doing right now and being in the moment. What I love about Twin V is that though it’s not always easy, it has given me a huge amount of freedom to literally create things. It’s a huge privilege. If I wake up in the morning and love what I’m doing, then I’m on the right path.”

There is a promise of more progress with Spacerocks for 2019; between that, and a number of hush-hush projects Milas wants to keep under wraps, he tells us that one project that is on the cusp of launching is World Metal Congress. The inspiration for his, he reveals, was an extension of his work at Metal Hammer. He flew to Mumbai, and other unlikely places across the world, and discovered incredible heavy metal music scenes. “It was just so energising to see so many people cooperating in that way, not only making amazing music, but really caring about metal.” He tells us. “Quite a lot of Metal Hammer’s coverage was about bands from further afield: Indonesia, Afghanistan, Syria – the list goes on. Once I left Metal Hammer, I didn’t want to just let that go. Working with an amazing team of people, we managed to organise a two-day event where we invite people from the industry – not just from the US or the UK – but the world. We’re talking musicians from as far away as Singapore, South Africa India, Lebanon. It’s really a global community. One thing that we hope to achieve is creating a forum for people to connect on a worldwide scale. There will be panels, bands playing, a couple of screenings, one of which is about the metal scene in Syria. Can you believe that exists?”

When we asked Alexander Milas to tell us what moment was the highlight of his career, it is quite an unlikely choice. “We got a bunch of metal-heads to write that metal was their religion on the UK census. That was brilliant – not because we beat the scientologists and the druids – but just because it pissed off a lot of people and stirred an incredible debate. I think I must have done 60 interviews around the world about that very thing. We’re having fun, but we were making a very serious point. There are a lot of people for whom heavy metal is more than a genre, it’s a lifestyle. People take it very seriously; it’s worth paying attention to. It felt like a middle finger up to all sorts of people, which I felt was in the spirt of metal.”

This shares a joint position of pride with creating Heavy Metal Truants, a charity he devised with Rob Smallwood, the manager of Iron Maiden. The now infamous charity cycle rides have generated more than £600,000 (not far at all from their goal of a very fitting £666,000) for children’s charities such as Nordoff Robbins, Teenage Cancer Trust, and Childline. “Gosh, that’s an ongoing joy,” Milas says.

The advice Alexander Milas has to offer applies not only to journalists, but to any creative. His pearls of wisdom are particularly valuable, after having worked in the industry for decades with people of all positions and walks of life – and, of course, having the honour of being top of the pile. “I feel unworthy to dispense advice really, because in many ways I’m still learning myself.” He confesses. “One thing that I have learned is that ‘it’ll do’ is not good enough – ever. You have to hold yourself to as a high a standard as possible at all times. It’s important to develop and cultivate your contacts. Don’t get over-ambitious; what you see as a photographer when looking at someone in the pit shooting a big band is someone holding a camera, but what you won’t see is how it took 25 years of experience to get there. Patience and humility to learn, enjoying the process, realising that you’re not going to get there today, but maybe tomorrow or the next day or the next day is a big part of it. I think, in a creative industry, you’re probably an idealist at some level because you’ve decided that you want to make the world better. Maybe you want to make it more visually appealing, maybe you want to share things that you are passionate about, so I think that this can lead to impatience. I am 42 years old, and I have never felt that I have reached a plateau that I am happy with. It’s not about reaching a plateau, it’s about asking yourself ‘Do I love what I am doing? Am I happy?’. If you’re waiting for some bright afternoon where everything falls into place, then you’re in the wrong industry. You’ve got to understand that there is always someone who’s going to be further along, and those are the people you can learn from. Let them be your guiding light. I’m very much on the same journey that anyone starting out is, except I’m probably just a little bit further ahead. The best advice I can give to any creative working in any field that is self-driven is to stay optimistic. It’s so easy to be beaten down by rejection, failure and competition. Every gets that way, including me, which is probably symptomatic of being a sensitive creative type. Tomorrow is always another day.”

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ALBUM REVIEW: DRENGE / STRANGE CREATURES

(Written for Let it Happen)

Drenge’s long-awaited third album, ‘Strange Creatures’, ensnares you in a web of torment: the Loveless brothers are the spider, the architects of nightmares – yourself, the fly all too willing to be caught in their trap. Since their self-titled debut album in 2013, Drenge have crafted a warped soundscape, built on the foundations of post-punk existential terror. ‘Strange Creatures’ is undeniably their most cohesive work to-date, straying from the swamp of pedigree guitar music, and instead alloying their sound by lending from jazz and electronic sensibilities. The album was made “after months of chiselling away, ripping themes and ideas apart, and sewing them back together”, the band say. It’s a fitting description: much like Frankenstein’s monster, ‘Strange Creatures’ is a godless amalgamation of everything that bites.

“We are the fly in the ointment, the hair in the food/ The snag, the catch, the conundrum”, Eoin Loveless spits, his voice heavy with vitriol. Drenge turn your expectations inside out: they open with a crescendo. ‘Bonfire of the City Boys’ is far more than a song, but a propulsive piece of poetry with its own rhythmic movement. Drenge’s song writing has always been the ace hidden up their sleeve, but the opening track welcomes a precedent of their most illustrative, sensory lyrics thus far. Venom is concealed behind a mask of devil-may-care nonchalance; it rises and falls not unlike a Johnny Cooper Clarke poem. The chorus is an assault – its approach is nauseating as if you’re stood on the edge of a cliff, and you dare to look down. A hail of drums and guitars pummel your ears with haemorrhage-inducing violence. In the first three-minutes of these ten acts, Drenge have you by the collar, up against a wall, and aren’t showing any signs of letting go.

Often, throughout ‘Strange Creatures’ you can retrace Drenge’s steps back to the post-punk revivalists. ‘This Dance’, with its painstakingly laced guitarwork and infectious chorus, shares parallels with Bloc Party; all the while ‘Teenage Love’ and the track ‘Strange Creatures’ have hefty helpings of Interpolian signatures. Paul Banks’ analogue drawl bleeds into Eoin Loveless’ vocals as the band tamper with electronic elements.

‘Avalanche’ stands apart from the other tracks, taking on an ethereal quality among an album defined by a certain menace. It slows the pace, as if Drenge are stopping for a moment among the wreckage to take in what they’ve done. The intergalactic synth, though expansive, still sounds unnerving. The guitars rumble, taking a backseat, though still looming over a track laden with doom.

Beyond the martian, whizzing synth grooves of ‘Never See the Signs’ and unexpected inclusion of the organ on ‘Strange Creatures’, Drenge take it further still to prove that they are unafraid to cast off the ‘guitar music’ safety blanket. Beyond earning the appellation as the most instrumentally diverse track on the album, ‘Prom Night’ also wins the title of the most disturbing. The slow, western-style strums set the stage for Eoin’s observations of his sister’s prom night, seen, at a distance, from his car window waiting for her. This somewhat innocuous rundown takes a dark and sudden turn. With a torch held under their chin, it’s a retelling of Stephen King’s ‘Carrie’ weaved into reality: blood, guts and gore galore. The guitars groan like a rusty switchblade over indulgent saxophones that gives it cinematic appeal. Eoin narrates a ghoulish tale that “something stepped out from under the rubble, whatever it was… it was like Halloween” – Drenge have coined their own particular brand of pulp fiction that borders on garish. They bask in the hellfire, which could be light-hearted, if there wasn’t something so downright unsettling about it.

‘Strange Creatures’ is a neurotic slant on the well-travelled path of garage rock. It’s a disorientating album: at points troubling and at others, a work of wit. No two tracks are the same. Drenge deliberately rips up the blueprints of their previous work, wearing their influences on their sleeve while still retaining their own distinctive style. ‘Strange Creatures’ is an undeniable triumph of a record: the games they play are dark ones, yet they play them with such style. It’s more than an album – it’s a statement of intent. This is Drenge, and they are better than ever. 

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SINGLE REVIEW: TEN EIGHTY TREES / LIP SERVICE

(Written for Peanut Mixtape)

Straight from the metallic, industrial landscape of the outskirts of Newcastle are Ten Eighty Trees. Having toured with the likes of King No-One and AllUsInLove, they’ve established an unshakeable reputation for hard-hitting, infectious tunes.

Their first single of 2019, ‘LIP SERVICE’ was reared in an expansive factory space, and reflects this in its auditory brutalism. Ten Eighty Trees take aim at sycophants who use their charm to gain advantage, all under snarling guitars and an assault of drums. The lead vocals were primed for this genre: rich and distinctly menacing. ‘LIP SERVICE’ is an incredibly immersive track, not so much washing over you as drowning you in their wall of noise.

‘LIP SERVICE’ is only the first of a train of releases for 2019 which will see Ten Eighty Trees emerge from underground obscurity and become a headline mainstay for the north.

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INTERVIEW: DILLY DALLY

“Dilly-dally: verb; informal; to waste time through aimless wandering or indecision.” This definition is ironically the furthest thing from the vitriolic Toronto punk band of the same name. Frontwoman Katie Monks was so certain of Dilly Dally that in 2009 she and the band had their names tattooed on their arms before releasing a single body of music. Crawling straight from the underground, Monks’ coarsely-textured screams over instrumentals that groan and snarl like a rusty switchblade have cemented their reputation as one of the best punk bands of the moment. 

The release of their latest album ‘Heaven’ was the rebirth Dilly Dally were craving. Following the meteoric success of their debut album ‘Sore’, the aftermath was “a period of confusion and sadness – our friendships were tattered.” Monks reflects after performing at Headrow House in Leeds. “‘Heaven’ was very much a record we wrote for ourselves. I think we’d all grown so much spiritually in life, and the only way we could have made it was to shut out the whole world and make something special and healing for us.”

It would be easy to file Dilly Dally alongside the likes of Hole and Pixies, but Katie Monks is quick to point out that there was an effort to keep ‘Heaven’ away from contaminating influences. “I feel like for this record, especially, we almost tried to shut out the world and look inside ourselves instead.” She begins. “We tried to find what makes Dilly Dally, Dilly Dally. We just wanted to try and create our own thing without being confined to guitar music. Actually, a lot of the band listen to different genres so it’s easier to disguise what our influences might be.”

The lyrics in ‘Heaven’ lay down naked truths, at times pleading, at others yearning – more often than not, they are a cry for help. “I guess, secretly, I tried to put it together lyrically in a way that would reach out to people who struggle with depression. There are a lot of messages and hopeful thoughts and feelings to try and give people some positive tools with getting through depression. The music also, at times, illuminates the sadness that people might be feeling who we’re trying to reach out to.”

Many of the tracks on the album contend with our vices: ‘Sober Motel’ washes its hands of romanticising alcohol after bass player Jimmy Tony struggled with addiction. “Alcohol is a huge part of the music industry – I mean, you get paid in it when you’re starting out.” She laughs. Touring, and its toxicity, had marked the undoing of a band that began as tight-knit as Dilly Dally. “The thing with being on tour is if you have any skeletons in the closet, they will reveal themselves to everyone you’re around. Everybody is faced with their biggest insecurities and weaknesses. You have to look at yourself quite harshly in the mirror, sometimes, because the people who are constantly around you suddenly know you better than you know yourself.” 

“A lot of artists I know wear their hearts on their sleeves and allow themselves to be vulnerable with each other. It’s very hard to escape the mental health conversation when you’re in a band. I think, for Dilly Dally, that’s the most beautiful thing about this record: not only have we worked on our mental health in practical ways and focused on taking care of ourselves better while we’re on tour – like not sleeping on floors anymore – but the music itself is infused with healing qualities.”

The music industry, historically, has always been an unhealthy one – both physically and mentally. Dilly Dally are testament to this. However, does the frontwoman see signs of improvement in the age of open discussion and emphasis on self-care. “It’s hard to say.” She sighs, pausing for a moment. “For me, more than anything, it’s that there is a huge class divide in the music industry right now. The millions of fans or artists who are struggling to make ends meet can’t afford to be junkies anymore. You have to work so hard and do all these extra-curricular things; we only hired a manager seven months ago, before that we were hiring ourselves. All the things pile on top of each other, like managing your own tours and time. You just can’t afford to be the rock’n’roll stereotype anymore – unless we get our big break, then we’ll get really fucked up.” She laughs, before adding, “That was a bad joke.”

Success is measured by the records: that’s something Katie Monks knows unquestionably. “My records are my babies.” She says. Rightly so, they have been her greatest source of joy and struggle.  “The whole band is really proud of ‘Heaven’ because we wrote it together in an entirely different way to how we wrote the debut album. It was a lot more of ‘you do your thing, I’ll do my thing’ and we trusted each other. It feels like a Dilly Dally album, it feels so ‘us’, and we’re all really proud of that. A big part of success is if you’re making art you believe in. I have no control over how our music is received, but I go to bed every night knowing that I worked my ass off on something that came from the heart and has a good, positive message.”

Dilly Dally have forced themselves through a dark tunnel, and found light at the end of it. The release of ‘Heaven’ demarcated a new dawn for the band, but they show no signs of slowing down. “We just filmed this live music video with two different songs off the record. We curated this DIY show in this old warehouse in Toronto.” Katie Monks begins excitedly, “It used to be a coffin factory in the 1800s, and all these artists lived and worked there. It’s getting demolished soon, though, so it’s kind of an ode to this beautiful, creative space. I was living there this month, and very naturally was able to curate this show with all the people I know in the music scene. We made this really magical secret show, and we filmed these two songs. We’re putting that out after this tour. I’m really excited to do that and showcase our live performance to people who haven’t yet had the chance to see us in ways that they might not expect. And then write: which is something we’re able to do a lot faster now. We do have a manger which is really helpful. I’m very much hoping for the third Dilly Dally album to come out much sooner than the second one did. We’re also going to be doing a lot more touring – this time we’re aiming for the States.”

Dilly Dally, after all, had to die a little to reach ‘Heaven’.

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ALBUM REVIEW: HOMESHAKE / HELIUM

(Written for The Line of Best Fit)

Since tapering off from Mac DeMarco’s live ensemble in 2014, Peter Sagar has brazenly pursued his own creative endeavour under the name of HOMESHAKE. Sagar’s first three records made a languid hop-skip-jump to praise as the band slowly acclimatised to a sound that strayed from the vanilla-skied salad days of the DeMarcian den. While that sleep-eyed, lilting and endlessly bored style has left its calling card, HOMESHAKE widen their scope for their fourth record, ‘Helium’: a statement of identity.

HOMESHAKE’s sound on ‘Helium’ captures the mood of our ears. With the meteoric rise of Bedroom Pop, a genre which effortlessly outpaces hi-fi production, ‘Helium’ takes on shades of its stripped-back sound. Yes, Mac DeMarco may sound slouched back, stoned – but HOMESHAKE, I can assure you, are laid down with their heads in another orbit altogether. The thirteen tracks are mish-mash of sixty-second stints smattered among songs that stretch no further than the magic three minutes. The album is an ode to minimalism: it sparkles assuredly, without feeling the need for sweeping gestures to achieve great effect.

If you like your helpings of synth thick with your HOMESHAKE, then ‘Helium’ will not disappoint. With all the finesse of a starter-block Casio synthesiser, ‘Another Thing’ is less a song and more of an experiment; an ‘I wonder how it will sound if I play it like this…’ kind of playtime. It patters along a looping road with the crash of a drum and tinny tap of xylophone that gives an endlessly fun, copy—and-paste beat. The spontaneity is what gives it its charm.

HOMESHAKE’s knack of building infectious tracks on simple layers of sound is at its best in ‘Just Like My’. It opens with an automated shimmer you might hear from an old toy you forgot to take the batteries out of. The staccato clicking of fingers and Stager’s silicon-sweet vocals are far away and unpolished, as if the track was just a dusted-off demo. It has a catchy, bluesy rhythm that is an unlikely earworm.

Far more than rolling out anti-pop delights like ‘Nothing Could Be Better’, ‘Helium’ also intends to set the scene. Beginning with ‘Early’, and flitting to ‘Heartburn’, ‘Trudi and Lou’ and ‘Salu Says Hi’, these short bursts take on a more reflective approach. Nocturnal, otherworldly and just downright surreal, HOMESHAKE can take you much further than their bedrooms. It proves that Sagar doesn’t even need to play his vocals – easily one of his strongest suits – to elevate ‘Helium’ to new heights.

We all know thirteen is supposed to be an unlucky number, but in their optimism HOMESHAKE have made it a treat. The final track is a secret one, best listened to in the moments between being awake and asleep. Sagar’s voice settles like silk on ripples of strings. It takes the best of dream-pop without being caged within it, drawing on its sensibilities without imitation. 

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SINGLE REVIEW: DAZE / BIG

(Written for The Line of Best Fit)

DAZE build a herculean soundscape – quite appropriate, really – for their latest track, ‘Big’. The London indie outfit turn their gaze up toward the silver screen, deriving their inspiration from the Tom Hanks classic ‘Big’: an ode to the pitfalls of relationships. Under the attentive crafting of Sugar House, who have left their calling card with the likes of Pale Waves and Viola Beach, ‘Big’ is expansive and entirely cinematic. Echoing guitars, pulsating basslines and vocals from a bygone era collide to create a track which wields might that is larger than life. It has ample amounts of modernity, counterbalanced with a driven nostalgia. Tracks like ‘Big’ demand to be heard: it is the soundtrack to the montage in your mind’s eye.

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ALBUM REVIEW: QUEEN ZEE

(Written for The Line of Best Fit)

Liverpool’s Queen Zee have been ramping up momentum in volume and velocity for the release of their long-awaited debut album. In a rightful, monarchic fashion, the album has been crowned with the same name as its creators. It is the first, bold step towards carving their legacy – even if that means breaking a guitar and a few bones on the way. With an orb of garish proto-punk firmly grasped in one hand; a sceptre of solidarity and bravery in the other, this is the hallowed coronation of a band who have waded through gender dysphoria and homophobia, only to emerge the other side as icons for the ideology they represent. 

Queen Zee are here to put on a show that incites a mushroom cloud of anarchy, frazzling your brains with a shock of colour in a genre defined by mawkish men in black. This debut album proves that even in the studio, Queen Zee know how to put on a show. The album opens with a two—second hesitance, and that is all the mercy you’re afforded – from that point on, you are plunged at a neck-breaking speed into anarchic world. You won’t have the chance to gasp for air again.

‘Loner’ sets the precedent as the call-to-arms for misfits, with a chorus which is nothing short than anthemic. This, much like every track on the album, is primed for stage, created fresh for the devouring. Unlike many bands, though, Queen Zee don’t haemorrhage when it comes to converting their live energy to a record. Frontperson Zee spills their vocals like they had a swarm of wasps in their mouth; their voice is stung, churning their words and drawing them out like a wad of chewing gum.

The album also aims to reawaken the satanic-panic, leaving your grandmother white in the face from the glee with which they’re inverting crosses. You don’t even need to play ‘Lucy Fur’ (get it?) backwards to hear the hellfire of Queen Zee. Hiccupping, Marilyn Monroe-esque coos make the track a nightmarish soundscape; a chorus dripping in lurid glamour is topped off with a resounding, “Fuck off! Hail Satan!” It’s a pastiche of themselves, an exaggeration on Rocky Horror proportions, made to revolt small minds.

This love of parody is what makes this album so rewarding. It’s worth keeping yourself alert to Zee’s fiery quips – ‘Boy Mastered’ is over-brimming with them. “New gender, who dis?” They taunt.

Droning guitars announce the arrival of ‘Sissy Fists’, taking aim at transphobic and homophobic abuse. Zee screams, with a fury that sounds like a rusty switchblade, “Raise your sissy fists!” over and over until the track knots itself tightly in a ball of venom and hurt. It draws you out, holding you in suspense until it finally begins to unravel in a morass of spiralling guitars, screeching feedback and guttural cries. ‘Sissy Fists’ is so primal and undeniably catchy that it’s bound to be your personal highlight.

Queen Zee take you further down a path of vices. ‘Hunger Pains’ is an ode to cocaine and the down spiral of frenetic addiction. False promises of “I’m going to quit tonight / But first pass me the card” are spat through gritted teeth, propelled forward by melodic guitars. It’s two and a half minutes of the ugly euphoria of escaping your own head.

‘Anxiety’ is the hangover – it’s the price you pay. The instrumental lollops as Zee croaks, “I don’t feel well today,”, a grey cloud hanging over their head that a few hours of sunshine can’t shift. It’s perhaps the most tuneful track on the album, yet the guitars still quake like unsteady hands. It trails away to a faintly mocking rasp, “Not well at all”, with a weak laugh at the end – maybe a laugh of self-pity, or a laugh resolving to do it all over again.

The final track, ‘I Hate Your New Boyfriend’ is the one you’ll play on repeat, and no doubt scream until your throat gives out at their upcoming UK tour. “Don’t you think he looks like Kurt Cobain?” a voice drawls, with the quick reply, “More like Courtney Love / After she went insane”. It’s a song barely-concealed bitterness – in fact, there’s no attempt to hide it at all. Bitterness and jealousy concoct to make a particular ugliness we’ve all experienced. It’s an exploration into vulnerability, and the layers of hostility we protect ourselves with. They play like they’re trying to tear the song apart themselves and maybe take down whoever’s listening, too.

The spectacle of Queen Zee and their sonic plumage is just a distraction from the undercurrents of feeling in this album. They’re unafraid to care; unafraid to lay these feelings bare. Theirs is a voice that is the most crucial to today’s music scene, culture and – wider still – society. Queen Zee is the band and the album we need.

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WATCH: TALIWHOAH / LOVE CYCLE

(Written for Soundsphere Magazine)

Taliwhoah, the rightful heir to the R’n’B throne, releases her new single ‘Love Cycle’, a nocturnal ode to bisexual love. Her mother, Boney M’s Toyin Adekale, bleeds into Taliwhoah’s velveteen vocals, but her music is far more reflective. A mellow, stripped-back beat coated in shimmering synth feels as if it has come from a bygone, far more golden era.

Having recently come out as bisexual, ‘Love Cycle’ explores the struggles of coming to terms with her own sexuality, and the difficulty of being honest with your family and friends. “Love cycle is a story so many have experienced!” Taliwhoah says. “[It’s about] the triumph of a “forbidden” love going against all odds to make it happen! I wanted to tell a story that I could relate to myself and so many of my close friends have experienced also.”

The music video straddles the boundary of modernity and nostalgia. Classic cars and VHS flickers contrast with neon lights and a very modern relationship.

‘Love Cycle’ only cements Taliwhoah as an R’n’B talent bound to skyrocket. The release of her album later on Rostrum Records will prove her capabilities as a gentle, yet undeniably powerful soul singer. 

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SINGLE REVIEW: YELLOW CAFE / FLIGHT

(Written for Peanut Mixtape)

Yellow Café is a project born of an unbreakable creative, and more so emotional, symbiosis between Jakob Winder and Bella Hirst. In their bedroom, surrounded by plants and spurred by coffee, their music may be ‘yellow’ by name, but mellow in nature. Their latest single ‘flight’ is the dose of anti-pop you’ve been searching for.

Bella’s vocals are feather-lite, gliding smoothly over Jakob’s immersive yet minimal beats. It’s kicked back and relaxed: a small-town song that fits into a much bigger world. ‘flight’ is built on jazz sensibilities, which are distorted to flicker like city lights – all stripped down and nocturnal. It’s shockingly sophisticated, and proves once again that DIY music doesn’t lack – but instead thrives – in quality and style.

Yellow Café are nothing if not dedicated. That, along with their naked talent, certifies that they are the rightful heirs to the UK anti-pop throne. 

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SINGLE REVIEW: PLASTIC MERMAIDS / FLOATING IN A VACCUM

Psych-pop force of five, Plastic Mermaids, return with their second single in the run up to their album ‘Suddenly Everyone Explodes’ in May. If you close your eyes, ‘Floating in a Vacuum’ makes you feel like you are gazing far beyond the planetarium dome, into space itself. It’s some kind of heavenly body, with its twinkling sense of wonderment and uncanny vocals that sound at once familiar, yet distinctly alien. Plastic Mermaids step bravely into space-rock territory when many bands are afraid of venturing off the beaten path – there’s little wonder that Radio 6’s Lauren Laverne and Radio 1’s Jack Saunders have been given them high praise. Bravery of this kind: to do what you love and have fun doing it, shouldn’t go unrewarded.

A Plastic Mermaids video would have to have spacemen on skateboards – and of course, aliens firing off streamers. Plastic Mermaids said the concept for the ‘Floating in a Vacuum’ music video was founded on “how it might be to float into space away from earths troubles. The lyrics "every time that we fall it hurts even longer" ran true every time Doug and Jamie came off their skateboards at 20mph; flaming asteroids being flung into your face protected by a £2 amazon space helmet; and nitrogen powered streamers being fired at you point blank (not always on purpose).”

Oh, and in true Plastic Mermaid spirit, they nearly burnt through that street light power cable.