Timothy Showalter has created 2014’s best album about being a teenager. The fact that he’s in fact 32 makes him all the more qualified to do so- the last people you should talk to about being a teenager are teenagers themselves, they’re absolute idiots so in thrall to their hormones that they’d either be Earth-shatteringly depressed by the request or attempt to somehow have sex with it depending on what time of day it was. Everyone below the age of, say, 29.5 is an entirely useless human being and their opinions should be aggressively discounted. ‘Heal’ looks back on Showalter’s teenage years and reflects on how much he is ashamed of himself, yet still mourns the fact that such shame and sadness has continued into his adulthood rather than ebbed away like he’d always hoped it would. Yet still the album reflects on how music got him through these difficult times, perhaps in the hope that it becomes some sort of self-fulfilling prophecy and some lonely Pennsylvania (other places are available. I think) teen will pick up ‘Heal’ and experience similar epiphanies. The music itself harks back to 80s pop and grunge, echoing the contentious nostalgia of the lyrics. A superior achievement. Maybe should be higher…

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Timothy Showalter is a wonderful exponent of facial hair, his locks here are something we should all aspire to. Yes, you too women- the bearded lady look is definitely gonna be big sometime in maybe 2016.

There’s also evidence of how Showalter’s beard is quickly helping him out with the other sex

4/5

Hmmm, say how good the album is, or just a massive spiel about how much I love Robyn? Let’s see if we can combine the two: ‘Do It Again’ is technically an EP, but it works brilliantly well as a long player and if this team up ever decide to continue onto a full record it’s hard to imagine them bettering these 5 tracks and 34 minutes. If there’s one tiny gripe it’s that the record never quite repeats the majesty of opening track Monument, but there’s certainly no shame in that as the song is an absolute knock-down-slap-face-kick-my-balls classic. Even if the set only existed to act as a presentation of how masterfully Robyn can underplay a vocal then it would be massively worthwhile, the fact that the album is such a wonderful collection is just an added bonus akin to realising the restaurant forgot to charge you for that seventh bottle of wine that last time you went out for a meal by yourself (an apppointment you made with the express intention to simply weep miserably into the gazpacho starter). Perhaps it’s less interesting when it seems to be playing exclusively to Robyn’s strengths, but that doesn’t make something like Say It any less enjoyable. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m off out to have it large listening to the title track. Now where did I put my whistle? And that MDMA I had?

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Oh this is quite horrifying, it seems Röyksopp are actually some ISIS-type terrorist group from the not too distant future and have pushed Robyn in front of the camera to read out their demands less she lose that beautiful head.

I can’t approve of this

1/5

Originally from Rhode Island, band leader/pretty much only constant member Joel Thibodeau obviously felt he needed to record the band’s third in the new capital of music, so off he flew to Reykjavik. The idea of Iceland certainly comes to mind more when you listen to ‘Island Intervals’ chilled and blustery glacial rhythms, or perhaps it’s simply the album’s massive similarities to a slightly more folksy Sigur Ross. Simply read the lyrics to the songs and you will quickly decide that you absolutely hate the band- I’m surprised such sickening Tolkeinesque whimsy wasn’t recorded in Elven and I can’t be sure but I swear I heard a ‘hey nonny-noo’ somewhere- this is music seemingly designed to be played by wandering minstrels as they fiddle from town to town, and its ridiculous descriptions of rustic nature frequently renders the whole exercise simply silly sounding. Just listen to the music however, and it’s absolutely glorious, reaching an apex with the absolutely stunning Loom.

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Ok, this one is definitely some kind of Rorschach test isn’t it?

Unfortunately I can still only see someone bending over and exposing their anus.

I need help.

2/5

The Roots’ eleventh album has been criticised in some corners for it’s lack of content, with some complaining that its 34 minutes and maybe 8/9 true songs constitutes something of a cop-out. It seems that hip hop artists can’t win- produce a 28 track behemoth including no less that 12 skits about your voyage to Burton’s to cheekily change back the trousers you soiled yourself in the night before and we complain about the ridiculous excesses of the art form and ask why can they not simply be a little more harsh with their editing (track 18 Attikus Funk Be-Donk-A-Donk ft. The Wheezy & Sickly Geoffrey should really go for a start) yet when the brilliantly succinct and wonderfully named ‘…And Then You Shoot Your Cousin’ arrives we complain that it should be longer. What a World. The album is certainly not perfect (try not to cringe when The Roots go off on one of their trademark toe-curlingly self-important sermons in The Devil, go on I dare you) but the highlights are so high that it can’t fail to be one of the year’s best listens.

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You’re fixed with an angrily accusing glare.

Some guy just turned up and completely Picassonated the two of them and you saw the whole thing.

And yet what did you do? Nothing…

3/5

Aha! Now this is more like it! Brian Eno and Karl Hyde didn’t really feel they got their first collaboration quite right, but everyone was nice enough to give them another shot at it mere months later. They straight away noticed the principle problem with ‘Someday World’ and smacked away Hyde’s hand with a cane when he tried to reach for the microphone again- naughty boy!- Eno’s voice rather predictably suits his music far better, and the previous album’s slightly jaded aimlessness is barked back into being ship shape again. ‘High Life’ consists of six wonderfully looooooooooong songs (taking up 45 minutes in total) that despite their length never outstay their welcome and even sound rather succinct. Opener Return (I see what they did there) is what U2 sound like in some bizarre and frightening parallel universe where they’re actually as good as they believed themselves to be, while Time to Waste It- with it’s heavily treated vocal samples and Afro-beat rhythm- might be the most ‘Brian Eno’ song Brian Eno’s ever done.

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Hmmmmm….

Is that…? No…

Got him!

Phew, I can normally find Wally a lot quicker than that

TV On the Radio have gone through some difficult times since releasing the stone cold classic (and winner of the 2008 Palmers of course) ‘Dear Science’- they split from their long time label Interscope and the release of the brilliant follow up ‘Nine Types of Light’ was somewhat overshadowed by bassist Gerard Smith dying days later. It’s perhaps unsurprising that ‘Seeds’ doesn’t find TOTR in an especially inventive and experimental mood- it’s like right now they’re simply desiring simplicity, a deep need for things to just be a bit more boringly, wonderfully normal again. So this is Tv On the Radio merely trying their best to sound like Tv On the Radio, which though of course means you might miss some of their usual boundary-pushing ambition, TVOTR operating in maybe 2^nd gear is still a beast capable of some wonderful music.

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I don’t even know what that is. Get it out of my face

1/5

Lykke Li’s third takes quite a lengthy time to really fully appreciate- for the first 5 or 10 or 1000 listens it sounds drab and uninspired, with Li merely moping around in a sad mood after a massive relationship breakup. Eventually though- like the very best parasitic worms- it burrows under your skin and you start to appreciate just what an exemplary example the album is of the sheer sumptious beauty of the pain of heartbreak. Nom nom nom, yes let me feed on your misery! Li’s talent for incorporating such dense and sumptuous soundscapes finds a perfect home here, and while it probably still is her weakest album, considering the quality of her first two releases there’s absolutely no shame in that. Points lost for the remix of No Rest for Wicked containing A$AP Rocky’s assertion that Lykke Li is a ‘Pretty motherfucker from the North Pole’- first of all Li’s from Sweden, second she’s not simply ‘pretty’ she’s absolutely divine– how dare you!

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Lykke Li holds her heart tight after it’s been violently shattered into a thousand pieces.

‘Ouch’ she says to her boyfriend ‘Very ouch’

That’s where your heart is right?

2/5

Ah, Azealia Banks, remember her? Course you do! She had that brilliant and brilliantly profane song 212, remember? Think that was some time in the 90s, pretty sure I remember her playing it on TFI Friday. Banks is a brilliant example of how not to best seize your moment- if she had actually released this debut closer to when the emergence of 212 (which is here and still sounds absolutely brilliant despite how many times you’ve heard it) briefly made her the hottest new artist on the scene then this really might have been something. As it is Azealia got sidetracked somewhat through arguing with her record company, arguing with other celebrities on twitter, arguing with her management, arguing with her bin men for no longer collecting every Wednesday, arguing with the Royal Mail for so not knocking on the door before they left that card. Rarely outside Cargill and Smithfield Foods has quite so much beef been produced from one source- hell if I release this into the stratosphere she’ll be coming after me. Standing back from it though, Azealia Banks could have never really become that big- her music’s far too weird and fragmentary to ever really be mass-market, there’s nothing here you can honestly imagine being a hit, and I mean that in absolutely the best way possible. The fact that some of these tracks date from as far back as 1923 means the album’s predictably a bit all over the place and lacks real cohesion, and Azealia makes far too many dips into strangely prosaic electro pop which suits her about as well as a Christian hymn dedicated to chastity. If she concentrates on the kind of out of the box weirdness that influenced her decision to include a bonkers cover of Ariel Pink’s Nude Beach A Go-Go then she will become a great yet.

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Pretty brilliant, and you have to assume she bought the ballet shoes off Super Hands to make sure she recieved the Squarepusher CD and the wrap of speed

4/5

As far as I can remember, Beck invented irony back in the 90s and he has since spent the latter part of his career deeply ashamed of it all and releasing meloncholic acoustic album after melancholic acoustic album furiously overcompensating for what he believes to be his past transgressions. ‘Morning Phase’ is frequently absolutely gorgeous, a release that desperately treats ‘Sea Change’ as a career highlight that he must always attempt to furiously replicate, but you can’t help but yearn for the times when he would regularly confront conventions and break down walls between genres, each release not just challenging himself but challenging people’s ideas and expectations of what pop/indie music could be. Sure, he obviously regrets the ‘With the plastic eyeballs/Spray-paint the vegetables/Dog food stalls with the beefcake pantyhose’ nonsense lyrics of his earlier career, but does replacing it with the kind of oblique vagueness scattered across ‘Morning Phase’ really invest his music with any more of a sense of legitimacy?

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Beck’s disembodied head floats the Earth forever cursed to solemnly regret that Prince pastiche album he once did

2/5

This album is so gorgeous that I’m currently following it down the street calling it a stuck-up bitch for not responding to my catcalls. ‘Familiars’ is simply deeply enbued with a beuatiful and rich river of wonderful music that sounds like the most especially delightful parts of Spritualized’s ‘Let It Come Down’. The songs themselves are not particularly sad per se, instead merely undercut with a pronounced feeling of sadness, much like James Corden. Although unlike Corden- whose sadness is horrifically cutting and eating away at his very insides- ‘Familiars’ finds wonderful beauty in its own melancholy. It certainly has a BIG sound without ever feeling overwrought, though perhaps it’s an album best enjoyed in small bursts to avoid all of its crescendos and repeated tricks possibly becoming too much to take on. I didn’t even mention how good Darby Cicci’s voice is did I?

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This is one of those psychological tests right? I mean, I know that some people are going to say it’s two people hugging, but all I can see is a shot of someone bending over and presenting their bottom to the camera. Look, that’s the anus right there. Right?

Where are you going? Come back!

3/5