Best of 2020: 14. This Is The Kit ‘Off Off On’

I’ll admit that it took Kate Stables’ run off performances last year with The National, following her appearance on their 2019 masterpiece ‘I Am Easy To Find‘, to make me fully realise how fond I am of her work as This Is The Kit. In particular, 2017’s ‘Moonshine Freeze‘ was a record that had slowly grown on me with its approach to melody, but a new producer and vocal sound for ‘Off Off On‘ ensured it became a firm favourite almost immediately. 


Anyone who spent even a brief amount of 2020 in the company of 6 Music will know ‘This Is What You Did‘, but this is really not all that representative of the album as a whole. Opener ‘Found Out’ does share some of the gnarly, whirly plucking of that first single, but ‘Started Again’ is a wonderfully metronomic yet woozy drift across a misty landscape. ‘No Such Thing’ was compared to Tortoise in the press release and this link certainly holds up in terms of the deliciously hiccuping drum patterns deployed. It also has a chorus which focuses as much on the sound of its words as the words themselves, with a drawn out delivery of “I do not see that; why should I see that? Why should that be? I did not say that; why would I say that? That would not be.”

A similarly musical approach to the lyrics is taken on the title track, reflecting on a friend’s serious illness and the hospital visits prior to his passing. The pattern of the words “Off Off On” are given weight by the neighbouring phrases such as, “Breathe out. Breathe in, but breathe out. Both ways, you’re leaving.” The syllabic echoes and the lulling delivery combine to capture those moments remarkably. 

The laconic swagger of ‘Was Magician’ saw it recently elevated to ‘single’ status with an intriguing narrative drawing on influences across literary fiction and musical contemporaries, while ‘Slider’ is a magnificently soulful piece which slowly intensifies until a saxophone solo from Lorenzo Prati somehow picks up where Stables’ words left off. It’s a hugely textured record which sounds confident and perfectly sculpted. There’s a Simon Armitage comment about poetry that I especially love which I think is pertinent when considering This Is The Kit’s approach to lyrics this time around:

“Prose fills a space, like a liquid poured in from the top, but poetry occupies it, arrays itself in formation, sets up camp and refuses to budge.”


Having expressed my fondness for the record, I then had the pleasure of conducting a lengthy Zoom chat for a piece that ran on the Clash website back in October. To add a little context, I’ve included some excerpts below: 

You have a different producer this time around, Josh Kaufman, and would it be fair to say that the vocal sound is pretty different for you?

I’m someone that always makes a fuss about reverb but Josh, god bless him, put his foot down. There are less effects than there were – we sort of came to a compromise – but I’m really pleased that he insisted because it makes it different. I think my main problem with reverb is that at a gig, when the sound engineer doesn’t know your music, they just decide to put loads on because you’re a female. That’s where my reflex against reverb comes from, but when it’s used carefully and thoughtfully it’s obviously a really great tool. 

On ‘No Such Thing’ from the new album, aspects of the delivery sound almost like a vocal going down some stairs with the angular way the notes are drawn out. There’s also a counterpoint on ‘Start Again’ with two distinct, simultaneous parts.  Is experimenting with your voice something that excites you?

I really like messing around with vocals and with the rhythm of them and I’m really fussy about harmonies. Un-thought out harmonies annoy me, so I’m quite fussy about which ones get used. Luckily, Rozi [Plain] and Jamie [Whitby], who do the backing vocals in This is The Kit are really good; they come up with things I like. I really enjoy it when people aren’t singing the same words: the kind of cacophonous effect. Also, part of it is because it’s fun to set me, Jamie and Rozi the challenge of then doing that live. It takes quite a lot of training sometimes for us to be doing one thing and then trying to do another on top – we try and make it as difficult for ourselves as possible. Sort of brain gymnastics trying to ward off the Alzheimer’s. 

How did you arrive at the album name ‘Off Off On’? Is it something about the title track that elevates it to being used for the whole record or is there another reason?

There’s this thing I have with words, just what it feels like when you say them. Sometimes that’s all you need to decide, the feel of words in your mouth, and I guess I’m a little bit drawn to things that are, not tongue-twistery, but just have that sensation. I just enjoy saying Off Off On and I find it funny when I have to introduce a song and say “this is a song on ‘Off Off On’” and I find it funny saying “this is a song off of ‘Off Off On’,” you know. It’s just me getting my own kicks, really. Don’t know if I should be owning up to this!

It’s as good a reason as any! The lyrics of the title track involve lots of mirrored phrases – such as “breathe out, breathe in, but breathe out / both ways, you’re leaving, both ways” – and clustered syllables. Is the sound of the words as important as the words themselves? 

For me, it’s such an instrument, the English language. Well, any language, but the English language is the language that I have learned. It’s a musical instrument, language, and it’s really fun to play with it and to make sounds with it.

I notice I’m not the only one to detect a jazz sensibility in this record. Was that a further aspect of changing your sound?

I think it just happened by accident; it’s just a kind of weird alchemy or chemistry between the people in the room at the time. I feel like there’s probably one particular track that gets people’s jazz radars going called ‘Slider’, because we got our friend Lorenzo Prati, who’s a really amazing musician, to play sax over it, all the way through. 

We were all just sat there in the room, not listening to the track, just listening to his saxophone playing and it was amazing. It was so important for me that we kept as much of that as possible. It was incredible being in that room and we were all totally silent, because there was no separation, no booth or anything. Maybe that track flags up a bit of jazz, or just the horns in general, I guess. Having horns just nudges you a bit closer to jazz. But not in a bad way – I’m happy that people hear that in it.

 ‘Was Magician’ is at least partly inspired by Ursula Le Guin. How was your reading over lockdown? Plenty of people said they found it hard to concentrate.

Mainly I couldn’t read, but then I had about a week or two where I could only read or I had to be existing in a book rather than in reality. I could only read Ursula Le Guin! I couldn’t read anything else. She’s written so many books that there’s still stuff I haven’t read. It was familiar in that it was her voice, but in stories that were new to me.

Buy ‘Off Off On’ from Crash Records

Best of 2020: 17. Cornershop ‘England Is A Garden’

It was heartening to see the love for this album just as winter was coming to an end. It’s a record that sounded like it could engineer some of the most collectively joyful moments at the summer festivals and which would fill the nation’s venues with a huge, warm presence. A lot of people seemed to remember just how good Cornershop are and ‘England Is A Garden’ was certainly helping with that understanding. In the end, while its capacity for communal delight remains on pause, it achieved something not entirely dissimilar as one of the early subjects of Tim’s Twitter Listening Party. It wasn’t quite the raucous affairs that have since developed but it was lovely to witness people getting acquainted with this wonderful set of songs.


As someone who writes about vinyl a lot, I try to avoid the word warm. It is often deployed about the format, not necessarily incorrectly, with reference to the fact that – essentially – the inherent flaws in the nature of such a means of playback often round off the sound in an endearing and less clinical fashion than other media. But ‘England Is A Garden’ is warm in sound and in nature. Flutes, violins, synths and big, splashy drums abound across an album which was surely great fun to record. As is so often the case with Cornershop, most of these songs could go on forever and give the impression of being euphoric jams out of which have been carved infectious chunks of pop.

It works best listened to in its entirety, but so many of these tracks could enliven pretty much any playlist or compilation you should wish to assemble. ‘St Marie Under Canon’ is a strident, soulful opening with a naggingly emphatic organ part that is as central to the song’s brilliance as its thoroughly hummable chorus. ‘No Rock Save In Roll’ takes a similar tack, but fuzz guitar and sitar are the dominant instruments this time around. These two tracks sandwich the lilting, back of your trouser leg dragging on the floor behind you rhythm of ‘Slingshot’, which is contrasted with the lightest, most buoyant flute line dancing about overhead.

‘Highly Amplified’ has a giddily melodic flourish towards its conclusion, apparently because the lyrics were too short, while ‘Everywhere That Wog Army Roam’ is the catchiest song not to be played on the radio this year.  ‘I’m A Wooden Soldier’ is a repetitive bit of Bolan-esque glam with some Eighties computer game noises thrown in for a good measure while the title track offers a brief, instrumental interlude before ‘Cash Money’  seems to offer a slower take on the structure of ‘No Rock Save In Roll’.

The penultimate track, ‘One Uncareful Lady Owner’, is ridiculously catchy, with a Hanna-Barbera drum part,  sitar played after three bags of Skittles and a chorus that doesn’t so much win you over as somehow induce nostalgia for something you’ve never heard. It encapsulates in just under four minutes what is so great about this album. Cornershop have always defied convention with the structure of their albums and the length of some of their songs, but they do it from the position of constant melody. Hooks are their trade and, no matter where else they might wander en route, their songs are a true tonic.

Buy ‘England Is A Garden’ from Drift

BEST OF 2016: Suggested Listening – Part 1

As is the nature of these things, I said I would write about some of my favourite albums of the year, rather more informally than normal, across the past month. I really intended to, but only the piece on the Villagers made it to the site. Now, with only two days of 2016 remaining, I’m going to resort to several summary pieces. The first of these can be found below. Click the album titles if you want to have a listen to anything. A second summary piece and a rough rank order will follow. Probably.

Meilyr Jones’ excellent solo debut, ‘2013’, was an early highlight, mixing hints of Randy Newman and Morrissey’s better side. 2015’s taster track ‘Refugees’ didn’t exactly set the scene, although subsequent singles have had the same pleasant problem. It sounds like a best of that ranges across the various eras of an artist’s career rather than the product of one period of writing. It makes for heady listening and pay close attention to the little details, including some beautiful field recordings.

A late addition to the list was The Radio Dept.’s ‘Running Out Of Love’. An emphatic recommendation from Totnes’ ever splendid music emporium Drift, this Swedish group’s fourth outing occupies a space somewhere between Erland Oye’s solo album and a fair chunk of New Order’s output over the years. It appears to have upset some of the faithful because of the reduced use of guitars, but it’s a magnificent record and one which works majestically in its entirety. Had it not escaped my attention on release it would likely be higher up my list.

With ‘Super’, Pet Shop Boys once again showed that they’re not ready for the  smooth, elegiac descent that ‘Elysium’ implied, continuing the fine form of ‘Electric’ and delivering one of their finest ever singles in ‘The Pop Kids’. It’s a short, lively record that isn’t perfect but which indulges a fondness for high camp and almost comically excessive harmonies to a remarkable degree.

Although not really a 2016 release, or even 2015 if you go back to its original French language form of 2014, Christine & The Queens’ ‘Chaleur Humaine’ is a very special album indeed. You’ll know the glorious single ‘Tilted’ and may have been lucky enough to see some of her magical performances across the year. These are songs with a social message, a powerful, particular voice and a genuine purpose, as well as some of the finest pop hooks I’ve heard in an age. Most of that could also be said about Solange’s  ‘A Seat At The Table’. Vintage soul grandiosity is a touchstone, but there’s no mistaking when these songs were made, adding all sorts of alternative, jazz and electronica references across its 21 tracks. It’s as fine a critique of modern America as several dozen lengthy New Yorker pieces will ever give you. I’ve still not quite fully got my head around it, but I already know it’s great.

Teenage Fanclub’s ‘Here’ offered welcome autumnal sunshine, marking their finest album since 1997’s ‘Songs From Northern Britain’. Mid-paced jangle and soothing textures are the order of the day and ‘I’m In  Love’, ‘Hold On’ and ‘Live In The Moment’ are useful ways in for the unitiated. Georgia Ruth broadened the sonic landscape of my album of 2013 to craft ‘Fossil Scale’, co-producer David Wrench adding yet another triumph to his collection, as her strident folk melded with a little more electronica than of old. Radiohead’s ‘A Moon Shaped Pool’ provided several of my all time favourite songs of theirs, not least the exceptional ‘The Numbers’, which has an oddly jazzy looseness to it that is utterly stunning. The deluxe edition was a right con though and the mastering left more than a little to be desired.

Michael Kiwanuka made a fair old leap from his rather lovely debut ‘Home Again’ on ‘Love and Hate’, being to the orchestral soul sound of the 1970s what Amy Winehouse’s ‘Back To Black’ was to the emphatic propulsion of 1960s Motown. It’s an album that needs taking in its entirety and it will hypnotise you over a decent pair of headphones. Another which suits that method of consumption, but also served to be one of my preferred driving records of the year, was Ryley Walker’s superlative ‘Golden Sings That Have Been Sung’. His previous album had already shown a fairly remarkable talent in the making but this was a tour de force, underlined by the bonus edition containing a forty minute workout of ‘Sullen Mind’ that pushed and pulled the song all over the place. Lyrically great and musically full of confidence, there were still shades of Tim Buckley but with added touches of Jim O’Rourke and Wilco at their most strung out. It’s an album with an evocative atmosphere across its duration, slightly out of step with the times of its creation.


2016: Taking stock

I know I am not the only person who is going to be rather glad to see the back of 2016. The political events of the past twelve months would be enough to warrant such hostility towards this particular year. Add in the loss of some totemic musical giants and it feels like it wasn’t enough to simply see a rise in the bad – we had to lose so much good as well.

In October, with only minimal warning, my father died. He went into hospital in late September and didn’t make it back out. It tipped the year off balance and skewed my perspective on so much but it happened in such manic times that I’m still not sure how much I’ve processed his passing. It was all the more painful considering the delight he had shown when, in early spring, I had told him that my wife and I were expecting our first child. Elin arrived last week and she is curled up on my arm as I type this. Sadly, the two were never to meet and, as much as preparation for a new arrival was a welcome distraction during the times that followed dad’s death, it’s yet another reason for 2016 to move along now.

In amongst all of this, as well as with increased commitments at work, I took the decision during the summer that I was done with giving my writing away. I remain enormously indebted to Paul Du Noyer and Jude Rogers for taking a chance on me at The Word all those years ago, to Nick Annan, Mike Diver and Matthew Bennett who oversaw some happy times during the print era of Clash Magazine and to Dan Stubbs who commissioned my sole appearance in the NME. That ‘Anatomy of an Album’ piece on Gene’s ‘Olympian’ made my teenage self very happy indeed. As the music press contracts and online drivel expands, there isn’t much of a place for my writing in the current climate. There are still vital writers doing wonderful things with words – Dorian Lynskey, Pete Paphides, Sylvia Patterson, Laura Barton, John Mulvey, Laura Snapes, John Doran, Peter Robinson, Emily Mackay, Jazz Monroe to name a small selection – but the platforms are limited and the battle for our attention has never been fiercer. I’ve been lucky to have the experiences I have had, but nobody needs me to be churning out another philanthropic 600-word online album review in my minimal free time apart, possibly, from the place so keen to take advantage of the willing for so long. This really isn’t meant to be self-pitying, no matter how it sounds – and, frankly, if you’re going to take that approach I’d lead with the dead dad stuff, personally – but it seemed the right time to say it and a writer has to write about not writing, surely?

All of which brings me to the fact that I’m not doing a fancy looking top 30 countdown this year. For a start, I haven’t got the time to craft the necessary words to deliver the usual format in between changing nappies and not sleeping. Secondly, I’m not convinced I can refine the rough list I assembled a few weeks ago. Finally, I think I’d rather do some longer pieces on a selection of truly special records that have meant a lot, especially in the last few months. Some of them have had more words than you could ever wish for committed to them already, but I’m not going to let that stop me. As you can see, this blog has lain dormant since last year’s list ended and we have all coped, haven’t we?

In a world where people object to paying £20 for an album over which an artist has toiled for a year, £10 a month in order to stream most of the music ever made or £5 for a magazine full of witty and passionate cultural writing, the value of creativity is wobbling. Yes, giving your work for free is a foot in the door and a way to get noticed. It’s the right way for plenty of new writers to get started but it shouldn’t be a business model and fuck all of those people scraping by on advertising spends built entirely upon the benign charity of people who deserve better. I know what it feels like to have to write. There are days when your fingers hover over the keyboard, ready to unleash fizzing prose. But the increasing willingness to be one of many is diluting our cultural dialogue and blunting the critical word. If a site only exists to get its fanboy boss onto guestlists, it’s unlikely to ever take a purposeful swipe at something that is legitimately awful in case it offends a PR company. If you’re not paying for a product, you are the product.

The internet is full of writing about music, but I don’t recognise much of it as belonging to the actual genre of ‘music writing’. The tipping point came earlier this year when my access to the latest PJ Harvey album came so close to release that I had already read at least a dozen reviews before I was in a position to file mine. Is there an album in recorded musical history that needs more than a dozen different reviews writing about it? We have to be careful not to mistake an increase in choice for an increase in quality. The internet is a massive tumbler in which we can, theoretically, make an enormous glass of squash, but there’s still only the same amount of concentrate in the first place. I’d rather have that glorious hit of sweetness every so often than be submerged by piss weak lemon and barley.

So, I’m hanging up my 7/10 autofill and declining the chance of several frantic listens, because online coverage is served as close to release as possible, in exchange for enjoying music again. An interesting print option is on the horizon for 2017, but we shall see where that goes. In the meantime, there will be a number of pieces over the coming month on some of 2016’s finest music, but as and when I feel like it and I hope you’ll take the time to read them. And, if you’re reading this now as someone who gives away your creativity: stop.

BEST OF 2015: 1. Daniel Knox ‘Daniel Knox’

Once a week, around lunchtime on a Tuesday, renowned journalist and broadcaster Pete Paphides takes to the air of Soho Radio to host two hours of wonderful music, largely from his preferred format of vinyl. As it has developed, the show has featured some riveting and often elongated interviews and performances by some of the world’s finest musicians. Free of advertising and formats, Paphides plays what he likes and chats for as long as is wise. It is, predictably, a brilliant listen. Despite airing at an unhelpful time, all of the shows are archived via Mixcloud and they are well worth exploring. Back on March 31st, when I happened to be enjoying a week off work and wanted something to play while I rearranged my records, I had the great pleasure of hearing one of the shows that featured American artist Daniel Knox. He proved suitably engaging, both in conversation and performance. Advance to just prior to two hours here and you’ll be similarly transfixed. The inevitable result was an enduring love affair with his self-titled third album which is my favourite of this year.


His label boss talks of Knox’s determination to avoid any pigeon-holing and in the interview I mentioned above he expresses a desire not to describe his own music. As someone who is called upon to find such words, I’m inclined to agree. There are hints of the 1920s and 30s influences which are more obvious on his earlier releases, but one is also reminded of Nilsson, Scott Walker, The Divine Comedy and, in his quieter moments, Tindersticks. Primarily built around the piano, these ten songs have a beautiful sense of space to them, notes drawn out and pauses left as is appropriate. The record as a whole is captivating and it’s refreshingly difficult to do anything else I’ve heard in 2015.

Incident At White Hen’ grows from a burbling synth into something rather grand, the machine gun fire of distant, reverb-coated drums and shimmering percussion elevating the piece to wondrous heights. For a man who pointedly doesn’t retread the old cliches of love songs, that’s not to say this music can’t be stridently emotional in its power to connect. An instinctive and emphatic performer, Knox is a rare talent.

High Pointe Drive’ advances in ceremonial fashion, all elongated vowels and ominous piano, evoking a sense of Scott Walker at his most sonorous. It forms the album’s centrepiece and, at almost seven minutes in length, it perfectly demonstrates Knox’s knack for knowing where to take each song, as there are stylistic switches all over the place.

Don’t Touch Me’ is imbued with a glorious, high-camp sense of the dramatic in its account of the artist’s fear of germs. ‘White Oaks Mall’, meanwhile, is about driving past a familiar location on numerous occasions and how it has provided a similar experience to so many people, twitchy strings gradually building to a soaring, atmospheric wall of sound on a par with Knox’s vocal.

Still working as a projectionist in the Music Box Theater in his base of Chicago, it’s clear that points on the map matter and place names and businesses feature across the record. Casting back to his childhood, ‘Lawrence and MacArthur’ is an intersection in Springfield, Illinois, where he grew up, known for its copious accidents. Knox would sit and observe, studying the people who emerged and filming footage of what ensued. The two minute song of that name has been released with a video crafted from some of those recordings, but it’s also musically fascinating with its drawn out drum sounds and delicate, lulling delivery.

Blue Car’ opens the record, flittering synths hinting at a rather reserved piece, only for Knox to unleash his stunning voice at its halfway point. It’s an out and out hairs on the back of the neck moment and all the other tired old phrases I’m meant to avoid but which perfectly allow you to grasp what I’m getting at. Apparently, it’s a response to perceived time travel, when ten year old Knox encountered a driverless car at his house and assumed it must there be himself coming back to say something to his younger form. It’s a staggering statement of intent and a piece which is revisited on the penultimate track, ‘Car Blue’, beginning a little like ‘Can’t Help Falling In Love’ with a resonant, closely mic-ed piano. The strings soon emerge, doing little to dispel the comparison, but also referencing the melody of the album’s first track.

Events conclude with ‘14 15 111′, excerpted from a longer piece by the same name Knox wrote to accompany footage shot by artist John Atwood. A lyrical callback to ‘Blue Car’ is notable before a choir burst in and take the record somewhere else entirely only moments before it ends. It’s an enjoyably odd way to round out these ten songs but entirely fitting when one recalls Knox’s reluctance to be labelled.

With songs culled from several other projects and recorded en route to the final part of a trilogy he has been working on for the best part of decade, ‘Daniel Knox’ is a genuinely incredible album. It received minimal coverage upon release but all I’ve encountered who have heard it seem to love it. All of which suggests that it’s just a matter of connecting it to the right ears and letting these wonderful songs do the rest. My album of 2015 has little to tie it to its year of release but it is a true highpoint of what has been a very fine time for music.

BEST OF 2015: 2. Low ‘Ones And Sixes’

Some bands possess alchemical elements that ensure that their music is distinctive and compelling. The Smiths had Marr’s peerless guitar work, The National have Bryan Devendorf’s otherworldly drumming and Low truly take off when the voices of Alan Sparhawk and Mimi Parker combine. Twenty-one years after their first, the Minnesotan trio have crafted an eleventh album that employs new textures around those magnificent vocals and deviates from a path upon which they seemed to have settled. My album of 2011, ‘C’Mon’, is a beautiful, at times luscious, record and the clarity of 2013’s rather subdued ‘The Invisible Way’ suggested that the scuzzy, unsettling sounds to which they had gravitated in the mid-Noughties were consigned to the past.


Ones And Sixes’ is sequenced so as to ensure such assumptions are quickly shattered. Sparkhawk has spoken recently of his restless desire not to plough the same furrow too consistently and, while it might make a neat quip to describe this as their last record channelled through the noise of 2007’s ‘The Great Destroyer’, there’s rather more to it than that.

The subterranean bass that drives ironically titled opener ‘Gentle’ is so ferocious that it partially obscures Parker and Sparhawk at various points. The weary march of the distorted drums sets the tone for what lies ahead, flagging up the chaos out of beauty motif that runs throughout ‘Ones And Sixes’. Many of these songs may well have worked with the gentle Jeff Tweedy production of their last outing, but here, with B.J. Burton at the controls, they are pushed, pulled and mangled out of shape to devastating effect. Early teaser ‘No Comprende’, with an insistent jagged riff initially setting the brooding pace, is torn apart at the three minute mark, Parker’s vocals eventually offering some balm after moments of turmoil.

Despite the shift, the textures are far less ugly than their previous noisier endeavours, with the harmonies and melodic uplifts of recent work still very much in play. ‘Spanish Translation’ starts like the synth breakdown in a house track before the band’s vintage wall of sound heft thunders in on the chorus. The electronic pulse of ‘Into You’ sets up a multi-tracked Parker vocal on one of a number of songs which seem to tackle the highs and lows of the intimacy necessitated by twenty-two years bound together by band and marriage. The finest of these is ‘What Part Of Me’, on which vocal duties are shared to predictably beautiful effect around a naggingly catchy chorus.

The album’s most notable moments come in its final quarter. ‘Landslide’, clocking in at almost ten minutes, is a shape-shifting epic which brings to mind some of the most mesmeric mantras from Spiritualized’s career, torn asunder by some ferocious guitar work by Sparhawk. It’s breathtakingly ‘big’, especially in contrast to the studied calm of ‘The Invisible Way’. Despite this grandiose landmark, the true treasure comes just before it. ‘Lies’, occupying a far more modest four minutes of the record, is another of the duets, although Sparhawk sits far further forward in the mix. Its true beauty, however, comes from the ascending synth line which peppers the chorus. It’s a trick that Low have never deployed previously and it is, however implausibly, as emotively powerful as the vocals behind which it resides.

There will be those who favour the delicately rounded corners of the band’s recent work ahead of the scuffed up layers present on ‘Ones And Sixes’, but don’t be fooled by any early disorientation. The band’s strengths are here in abundance, but they are reimagined, twisted into new shapes and given a visceral intensity that is utterly irresistible.

BEST OF 2015: 3. Natalie Prass ‘Natalie Prass’

Towards the end of album opener ‘My Baby Don’t Understand Me’, Natalie Prass repeats the line “our love is a long goodbye” numerous times, each iteration slightly more pained than the last. It’s stirring stuff, but the bit which told me pretty much instantly that this would become a favourite record is the slightly fidgety “waiting on the train” that cuts across that phrase on several occasions. It’s delivered high, putting the spotlight on Prass’ unusual but affecting voice. It’s a fitting way to set out the stall for an album which, while driven by quite the musical collective, is all about a singular artist.


Much has been written about how this album ended up waiting on the shelf at Spacebomb Records after the unexpected success of Matthew E. White’s ‘Big Love’ several years back. ‘Natalie Prass’ was ready to go back in 2012, the same musicians working on both records as part of the label’s house band. Looking to do something not dissimilar to the classic soul labels of the Sixties and Seventies, White and producer Trey Pollard developed a knack for making limited resources stretch quite remarkably and the same luscious sound that greeted our ears with the co-founder’s debut is also present here.

Essentially a soul record with a few nods to musicals and country, ‘Natalie Prass’ documents heartache in impressively pithy fashion. The expansive rhythm section and warm orchestration that the Spacebomb team lend to proceedings make for something truly special. Some of these songs can be found online in early demo form and, while their charms are still evident, they have come a long way. ‘Your Fool’, in particular, had an openly retro twang that is some distance from the strings, horns and percussive strut it possesses in its current form. “You’ll come back to an empty house with a note signed sincerely, your fool,” is quite the refrain, especially when you learn that many of these songs were co-written with an ex. So effective is this particular lyric that it emerges again as ‘Reprise’ towards the end of the record, spaced out aspects of the original whirling around a  narration of those same words. It’s a curious, timeless manoeuvre which serves to further underline the old-school ethic at the heart of the Spacebomb project.

Each and every one of the tracks on the album are worthy of comment, for one reason or another. ‘Christy’ is a dour, string laden lament to a helpless love triangle, Prass’ vocal a part-sung, part-whispered ache of confusion and resignation. ‘Why Don’t You Believe In Me‘ is the most Matthew E. White-y of the songs here, initially evoking memories of the second half of ‘Brazos’ from the end of ‘Big Love’. For this, Prass uses the full range of her voice, building up to an accusatory chorus that demonstrates resolve in the face of sadness.

Violently’ starts quietly, light piano and some weaving electric guitar intertwining, only for the line “break my legs because they want to walk to you” to cut through as strings emerge from the background and convey a snarling frustration. They soar across the song as Prass explains “I’ve had enough of talking politely. The red is there, it’s all over me. It’s overlaid eloquently.” The rousing orchestration seems a little at odds with the message, but it’s a magical combination and one of the album’s numerous highpoints.

Never Over You’ and ‘Bird Of Prey’ both do the mid-paced swagger to great effect, the latter possessing a swooping chorus and some neat, understated ‘oooh-oooh’ back-ups in the middle-eight that will get under your skin. The record manages to be remarkably cohesive considering the willingness to nip about stylistically. Most striking is the final track, ‘It Is You’, which melds harp, flute and vintage, saccharine strings to sound like a defining moment from a musical. It should be jarring but it is an oddly apt way to draw together the beguiling strands of Natalie Prass’ talents. A piece which highlights the rather otherworldly quality of her voice underlines just what it is that makes the record such a compelling listen. It’s hard to imagine anyone not warming to this album. While it made for quite the summer record in 2015, it could well also prove a neat way to unite the family in the claustrophobic festive fug of the next fortnight. Wonderful songwriting, soul-tingling musicianship and truly affecting delivery make ‘Natalie Prass’ a genuinely special album.


I should also flag up the marvellous ‘Side By Side’ EP that was released recently. Recorded live in the Spacebomb studios, it features fresh takes on ‘My Baby Don’t Understand Me’ and ‘Christy’. Perhaps more noteworthy, however, is the choice of cover versions included. Anita Baker’s ‘Caught Up In The Rapture’ works neatly, Grimes’ ‘REALiTi’ is played straight, its modern jazz leanings pulled to the fore, but the third selection is arguably the best. Simon and Garfunkel’s ‘Sound Of Silence’ finds the funk and builds around some wonderful organ playing into something irresistibly joyous. A curious diversion it may be, but a welcome additional release for those already smitten with the fabulous album.

BEST OF 2015: 4. Evangelist ‘Evangelist’

Along with the early work of Travis and Deejay Punk-Roc, small scale British indie label Independiente released ‘Crazy On The Weekend’ by Sunhouse towards the end of the Nineties. It remains a special record, lost amongst the impenetrable detritus of the Britpop death rattle when it should have been held aloft. Those people who were lucky enough to encounter it at the time still hold it dear. Somewhere between folk and rock with a snarly edge and warmly weathered vocals, it is one of frustratingly few offering from Gavin Clark over the years.


The quite remarkable voice at the heart of that debut, as well as several albums by Clayhill, Clark died unexpectedly in February of this year aged only 46. He had been working on a collaboration with Toydrum, a duo formed by UNKLE collaborators Pablo Clements and James Griffiths, building on previous successful encounters with both bands. In the months that followed, these songs were completed in tribute to a lost friend.

Conceived as a loosely autobiographical concept record built around the highs, lows and failures of vice-prone preacher, ‘Evangelist’ is a varied but intense listen. It ranges from the kind of spacious acoustic songs for which Shane Meadows often turned to Clark when building the soundtracks for his work, to the shuddering combustion of ‘God Song’ on which the preacher figure cuts loose. The one coherent factor is a voice that is imbued with perhaps too much humanity. Clark was known for suffering from crippling anxiety and the aforementioned Meadows had previously produced a film about his attempts to get his friend back on the stage. A natural star he was not, and that tension always manifested itself in stirring fashion in his recordings. Whether solo acoustic or atop a wall of electronic noise, his ragged, aching tone is captivating.

Same Hands’ stomps along with shuddering drums and marauding synths adding a murky edge, while ‘I’m In Love Tonight’ is a brooding, claustrophobic piece that is held together magically by the trademark violin work of Warren Ellis. Another noteworthy participant is Clark’s eldest son Michael, who provides backing vocals on ‘The World That I Created’ and ‘Never Feel This Young’. The former is the record’s brief opener, the fuse which sets the story of the Evangelist alight, while the latter is its longest track which builds to the sort of fuzzy chorus that wouldn’t have been out of place on that Sunhouse record back in 1998. It features a piano coda from Ludovico Einaudi, somebody with whom Clark had previously worked as part of the musical textures for Meadows’ ‘This Is England’ series. It is one of many well-judged touches which make this release a fitting tribute to a remarkable artist.

The album’s best moment is also its most sparse. ‘Whirlwind Of Rubbish’ is essentially just Clark and his acoustic, a neatly unsettling synth backdrop aside, and his quite beautiful vocal feels like he’s singing just for you. Concluding with the line “the old life is over”, it is utterly heartbreaking and perhaps a little too bleak a note upon which to conclude proceedings. As a result, the cello-assisted ‘Holy Holy’ offers a swirling devotional upon which to draw a line under a fascinating record.

It is mystifying and rather sad that Clark’s talent wasn’t more appreciated while he was still with us, but ‘Evangelist’ should ensure that a new audience becomes acquainted with one of the finest songwriters of modern times. Clements and Griffiths have sculpted something truly special out of their final time with their friend and, while too late for all of the numerous lists, it deserves to be held up as one of the most affecting and impressive releases of a difficult year.


For the initiated, I’ve included some of Gavin’s other wonderful work below:

BEST OF 2015: 5. Julia Holter ‘Have You In My Wilderness’

Having already made more genuinely special music in three albums than most artists deliver in a lifetime, Julia Holter has once again managed to find somewhere else to take her sound. In the time since 2013’s superlative ‘Loud City Song’, she has worked with reborn American folk artist Linda Perhacs, assisting in her first record in forty-four years, and contributed to a compilation album featuring a fine cast of artists interpreting unheard lyrics from another figure from folk mythology, Karen Dalton.


Amongst all of this came a limited single release for a cover of the Bacharach/David composition ‘Don’t Make Me Over’, made famous by Dionne Warwick. A beguilingly understated reading which still maintained the emotional punch of the original, it hinted at an interest in the traditional confines of popular music. Much has already been made of the more conventional song structures favoured here compared to some of her previous work, most notably 2011’s ‘Tragedy’, based around Euripides’ ‘Hippolytus’, but any fears that this might somehow subdue the overwhelming imagination of Holter’s music are rapidly allayed.

The notion of wilderness mentioned in the title abounds on this record, with characters disappearing or escaping here, there and everywhere and the sonic space on some tracks creating that sense of confusion and isolation for the listener. Despite this, and perhaps the most notable change from what has gone before, ‘Have You In My Wilderness’ is an album that needs to pour out of speakers and occupy the room.

The layers of sound, as with her finest work to date, conjure aural pictures out of nothing, not least the lapping waves on ‘Lucette Stranded On The Island’. Partially inspired by a Colette story, ‘Chance Acquaintances’, in which Lucette has been wounded, abandoned and left to wake in a state of total confusion, the evocative nature of the music perfectly aligns with its story. The disorienting opening slowly evolves into a woozy shuffle before the water appears to come crashing over her at the song’s close.

Such ambition is perhaps to be expected from a fan of Joni Mitchell’s jazz phase and Miles Davis’ electric era, two remarkably coherent coordinates in the wilderness of these ten songs. The brushed-cymbal, jittery drums and spoken word, other-worldly vocals on ‘Vasquez’ combine to create something genuinely confusing, occasional moments of string-assisted clarity emerging from the mist.

The intricate pop of ‘Sea Calls Me Home’ reinforces its themes of freedom through a joyous and carefree whistling part before a sax-break elevates the whole thing to another plane. Starting with lopsided clock chimes, ‘Everytime Boots’ is a country song of sorts, built around a gloriously playful and mischievous beat. As with much of ‘Have You In My Wilderness’, the music is as adept at telling the story as the lyrics it accompanies.

The album-closing title track at first seems to be a story of all-consuming love, but the lyrics also hint at a sense of possession and control, building towards the final words on the record: “why do I feel you running away?” The delicate backdrop moves through the gears, rising to a point of tension, highlighting the mixed message at the heart of the song. It is typical of a record where music and words are inseparably intertwined. It’s hard to imagine anyone else ever recording these songs, so indelibly does Holter leave her mark. Such has been the consistency of the run of albums from ‘Tragedy’ through ‘Ekstasis’ to ‘Loud City Song’, garnering praise from all corners, there is a risk that we might take such quality for granted. Just one listen will remove any such complacency.

BEST OF 2015: 6. Nicolas Godin ‘Contrepoint’

Having plied an adoring public with soothing jazz-tinged electronica on 1998’s ‘Moon Safari’, Air resolutely resisted the temptation to deliver more of the same and veered off course with delightful abandon. They delivered the far more varied and dowmbeat soundtrack to ‘The Virgin Suicides’, before unleashing the synth-prog-electro-pop of ‘10000Hz Legend’. All are great records, but the band’s true high point came with 2004’s warmly atmospheric, majestically layered ‘Talkie Walkie’ which doesn’t burst out of the speakers, nevertheless managing to fill the whole room, sound drifting every which way. Its great success was the melding of crisply recorded percussion, carefully caressed synths and sparsely deployed hushed vocals. There are very few records like it. ‘Contrepoint’, however, is arguably one.


Inspired by the counterpoint harmonies of no less than Johann Sebastian Bach, Nicolas Godin’s first offering away from that rightly revered duo is a quite beautiful recording. In an age of tiny, tinny white earbuds and music designed to sound good battling the noise of traffic through a car stereo, the soundstage is truly something to behold. It is, perhaps, entirely fitting that an album inspired by one of the greatest classical musicians of all time should be so perfectly rendered.

Fans of Godin’s previous work will spot numerous sounds and textures that evoke fond memories, but this is an impressive set in its own right. ‘Club Nine’ goes all Dave Brubeck at its outset – ‘Take Nine’, if you will – brushed drums and nagging piano setting the scene for some rolling, swinging jazz. The closest thing here to the archetypal Air sound is ‘Widerstehe Dor Der Sunde’, with a hushed, starry-eyed female vocal and a choral breakdown, but even that has an enjoyably robotic coda attached.

Clara’ is a particular delight, building out of mournful strings into a lulling bossa nova bedecked with sun-kissed synths, but there’s another piece here that is sure to steal the limelight. The so-bad-it’s-almost-good title ‘Bach Off’ is redeemed by the seven-minute plus curio to which it is attached. Shifting and mutating through numerous moods, paces and genres, it is like the soundtrack to five different films being played simultaneously. There’s a piece on Air’s aforementioned accompaniment to ‘The Virgin Suicides’ entitled ‘Dead Bodies’ which has always felt like the perfect match for a manic noirish late-night car chase scene and elements of ‘Bach Off’ occupy similar territory. It’s a staggering achievement and new details continue to emerge, even after dozens of listens.

With Air currently parked, Godin needed a new challenge and, rather than turning his back on music as he initially planned to, he instead threw himself into highly technical piano lessons so as to conquer the work of Bach. The chance to spin new songs out of elements of the composer’s scores proved irresistible, but he is keen to point out that this is a more general tribute to the many classical writers who have inspired him in his career. Out of something very, very old has come something deliciously new.