After a year of lockdown records, it’s time to welcome into our lives the new genre of ‘post-pandemic’ album. One such example is Japanese Breakfast’s
Jubilee. Celebratory and suffused in optimism, it chimes with the sense of a long dark night finally drawing to a close. This isn’t by coincidence. Michelle Zauner – the Korean-American native of Eugene, Oregon, who has used Japanese Breakfast as a stage name since 2016’s
Psychopomp – could write the book about coming out of the shadows and facing towards the dawn. Following an extended and disorientating lockdown of the soul, she’s ready for change.
Jubilee finds her figuratively cracking open the shutters and engaging once again with the outside world.
This might be blasphemy, but when I hear an MBV or Dinosaur Jr. track, I don’t think, “This has got to be the loudest live band in the world.” I’m not sure they
need to be. It’s arguably an ancillary thing. The opposite is true of Part Chimp, easily one of the world’s heaviest guitar squads. Pop on
Drool and it’s altogether likely that you’ll immediately reckon something along the lines of, “I bet the sheer, unholy thunder of these knuckleheads playing in a cramped bar could explode an unlucky dove just like a 2001 Randy Johnson fastball in a spring training game against the Giants.” Well, maybe you wouldn’t think that, exactly, but the point is it comes through on record. It is immediately evident. You don’t even need to imagine it, to suss out how their gigs might go. You just know it to be true. Would it even work otherwise?
Think of all your favourite songs by Scritti Politti, Grace Jones, Mylène Farmer, Adele Bertei, Wham. Now imagine that none of the people who wrote those songs really wrote those songs. Imagine they all ripped them off – the melodies, the rhythms, the sound, the feel, the lot. Imagine it was all stolen from some other artist, some obscure studio-bound hermit without the looks and the money and the record label pull. Imagine some baroque conspiracy to have the music of that original artist suppressed. Every copy of their work deleted and pulped. Just one third gen copy remaining, buried in a ditch for decades, then finally dug up, a little warped, a little grimy. Do you ever hear a record and feel like it’s been made just for you?
Composed in the apartment where Pauline Anna Strom lived for years,
Angel Tears In Sunlight narrates a non-visual encounter with an alternate, sci-fi inspired reality. Opening track ‘Tropical Convergence’ is like an auditory experience of an Ursula K. Le Guin novel. Nature and magic are entangled – shimmering, glockenspiel beats are raindrops landing on the forest canopy. The jungle theme returns with ‘Tropical Rainforest’, which is punctuated with watery sounds, calling to mind Strom’s recollection of her early sound experiments. During the 1980s – alone while her husband was at work – for hours, she would manipulate a bowl of water with one hand and hold a microphone in the other, attempting to weave the splashes into a melody. It’s from these small, clandestine details that dense, psychedelic worlds emerge.
Self-released, self-produced and home-recorded,
Nebula Rasa was apparently worked on almost non-stop for six months before Matt Loveridge’s laptop was stolen from his Bristol flat, then somehow retrieved a few days later. Thoughts: being able to fit
this much sound inside a clunky tea tray blows yer mind, don’t it? Being able to back it up on cloud storage is even wilder! And we nearly missed out on a pretty phenom suite of music here. Every given song is formed of multiple segments, with most of those segments suggestive of a few stylistically different things, so rather than trying to liveblog the 44 minutes it might be better to note (some of) what one might hear on
Nebula Rasa. Slimelight industrial pop, synthesised folk-metal like Goblin doing Korpiklaani.
Emotions are not something serpentwithfeet’s Josiah Wise does by halves. The artist who described his grief in such rich and sometimes agonising detail is just as present when he describes his happiness. The details on
DEACON are rooted in the mundane rather than escapism: chance meetings, watching Christmas films in July, corny clothes and jokes, the man who calls everyone’s mother ‘Mama’. This new focus is reflected throughout the tenor of the album. Wise’s vocals – reaching sky-high falsettos and weaving in the gospel traditions he was raised with – are a calling card for his work. The emphasis for
DEACON, however, is more on dexterity than drama. The effect is often collage-like, with calls and responses, wordless flourishes (at their most playful as a trumpet on ‘Same Size Shoe’) or as a show of mutual strength as, like when they are layered on the outro of ‘Fellowship’.
WINK is Chai’s first record working with external producers, and tellingly pushes the group to a wider sonic scope than ever. It pulses with an excellent hip-hop and R&B polish, blending waves of sheen with their proclivity for brash pop and the cascading dance-y punk energy of a group like Le Tigre. Take ‘It’s Vitamin C’, which shimmies with the echoes of the dancefloor while also playing with breezy jazz hip-hop inflections.
This eerie small-album suite of pieces by Francesca Ter-Berg has a sense of levitating above and around the material world. These pieces are perhaps best triangulated by other recent (excellent) strings-based records: by the story-telling of Silvia Tarozzi in the links to song, the places that are present in cellist Leila Bordreuil’s work, and the rich dynamics Lori Goldston pulls from her solo playing. The cover perhaps makes it look a bit ambient (I spit), but what’s on here never approaches that genre’s wallpaper-ish tendencies, drawing tunings and songs from Ter-Berg’s studies of Klezmer music, including traditional Yiddish song ‘Oi Ihr Narishe Tsionistn’ and short Sinti song ‘Me Sunowa’.