Joe Hill’s epic retrospective of the decade concludes with 2017-19.
2017
Erectile Dysfunction
Ed Sheeran — ‘Shape of You’
People are having less sex than ever, and while I’m not blaming Ed Sheeran, there is no song which illustrates this frigid era more than ‘Shape of You’. Data from Star Trek had more impassioned romances than this.
There are some singer-songwriters like Arthur Russell and Kacey Musgraves who amplify mundane intimacy, showing how simple human interaction can feel earthshaking from the inside. Others like Prince and Robyn can wring out the ecstasy and power of love-making from a fairly anonymous fling. Then there’s Ed Sheeran whose sexy slam-jam sounds like a nursery rhyme about doing laundry. There are sexier songs in Grease 2 than this, and one of those illustrates lovemaking through the metaphor of bowling. Even Blurred Lines—pushy and unpleasant though it is—is sexier than this. The guys from Blurred Lines are having a good time. Ed Sheeran sounds like a basement-dwelling shut-in aroused solely by his life-size cut-out of Lara Croft.
“We talk for hours and hours about the sweet and the sour and how your family is doing ok.” I went on a date like that once. Don’t worry, my friend called me pretending to be in a car accident so I could get the next train home. In essence, ‘Shape of You’ is the story of a mediocre detached hook-up, the most passionate moment of which is the narrator sniffing the bedsheets after his plaything leaves for work. That would be fine if Ed (or anyone else) was in on the joke, but he’s not. As a recent Tinder refugee, I saw a lot of people having this song on their profile, and that makes the world of sense. It’s the Smartphone love-song—even the synth riff on it sounds like an iOS ringtone.
Why are these two characters even attracted to each other? Their motivation for being together boils down to “Might as well”. There’s no intimacy, no passion, no vulnerability. The only way this song could be in the least bit interesting is if it were sung from the perspective of a robot prostitute. If that sounds like a good idea to you, you should know that Gary Numan beat Ed to the punch by 38 years and didn’t fall into the trap of trying to make himself sound like a stud.
Historians will forever argue whether this or ‘7 Years’ was the worst single of the decade, but unlike Lukas Graham’s mile-long fart-smelling cry-wank, ‘Shape of You’ remains utterly inescapable. It won’t go away. It can never be undone, like a stain on human dignity. Maybe its continued omnipresence is the universe’s way of telling us that this must never happen again. Listen to the universe, and/or anything else.
Heavy Metal
Jlin — Black Origami
Jerrilynn Patton says that her former career working in a steel mill “did not substantively influence her work”. If she means that, then we don’t have much licence to question her. That being said… really? Black Origami is a frenetic metallic organism. It turned a lot of new listeners onto the footwork genre, a house-music subgenre built around jackhammer rhythms, tribal rumbles and split-second samples.
If you’re waiting for a more thorough introduction to the genre, I have no idea what I’m talking about. All I know is that this record turns my brain into a Rube-Goldberg machine. Jlin’s music shakes dust from the synapses. This collage of hisses, rustles, clinks and yelps is enough to make you want to… dance? Fight? Assemble giant robots out of aluminium and lumber? If I were a producer of martial arts movies, I would be building storylines around her music. What’s more, records this experimental are rarely so riddled with hooks. The patterns take on a bizarrely tuneful quality. Black Origami is nothing but rhythm, but there’s melody in every beat.
Try: Kyanite
Nightmoves
Moon Diagrams — Lifetime of Love
Through no fault of its own, techno is an overlooked genre. Hardcore fans of the scene might be in-the-know, but curious dabblers don’t know where to start. The main reason for this is simple: it’s not an album genre. Bands like Daft Punk and The Chemical Brothers turned the rock kids onto dance music, not just by changing the sound but by changing the format. The album can convey a sustained atmosphere and sonic narrative that 12” singles can’t.
This all brings us to one of the very best records of its kind—whatever kind that is. Moon Diagrams is the nom-de-plume of Moses Archuleta, the drummer from modern indie-rock statesmen Deerhunter. “Drummer’s side project” is among the least exciting concepts in music, as Keith Moon’s karaoke album will attest. However, it would appear that Archuleta has spent his first decade as a professional musician hiding his light under a bushel.
There is simply nothing like Lifetime of Love. It picks up a groove very gradually, drifting from spooky ambient, to sleepwalking indie rock, and eventually into a suite of magnificent 4am insomnia techno. By the time the record spins out with the charming dew-dropped dance-pop tune ‘End of Heartache’, everything suddenly makes sense. It’s a record held together by mood, not by genre or function. You could cherry-pick a couple of the longer beat-driven songs as DJ-ready singles, but as an LP, Lifetime of Love becomes a richer listen time and time over.
Try: The Ghost and the Host
Alone Together
Liars — T.F.C.F.
It’s a tough pill to swallow when you find out that loneliness is more than being single. The discomfort of isolation is, of course, a common subject in music. However, few records approach it with such visceral thoroughness as this. The gloriously garish cover of T.F.C.F shows Liars’ frontman—sensitive Australian ogre Angus Andrew—in a wedding dress, after being jilted at the altar.
Andrew himself had recently gotten married, but the rest of the band had left for health and family reasons. All of this personal and creative upheaval was funnelled into this intense, strange and sea-sick album. T.F.C.F proves once and for all that Angus Andrew is a laureate of doubt and dread. While the songs are full of melodic and almost-melodic hooks, there’s something about them that feels instinctively wrong. Something in your head is telling you it’s not “supposed” to sound like this, but it’s such a consistent aesthetic that you can be sure this is deliberate. It wants you to feel uneasy. This isn’t an act of sadism or schlock. It comes from a place of empathy.
Through spacious soundscapes and pummelling noise, Andrew unspools his obsessive worries surrounding intimacy, loneliness and work. It’s cryptic, but urgent and honest. Liars’ muse has always been anxiety, and they’ve been creating an abstract users’ guide for it across their entire career. The nature of chronic fear shapeshifts constantly and so do they, with each album delving into new styles and new neuroses. T.F.C.F isn’t just another great Liars record. It’s proof, once and for all, that Angus Andrew is the heart and soul of one of the best and most interesting bands of the 21st century.
Try: Staring at Zero
Then I Remembered Someone’s Kid Is Dead
Phoebe Bridgers — Stranger in the Alps
The singer-songwriter might be the most respectable kind of popular musician. It’s because of that magic word “authenticity”. Joni Mitchell and Ed Sheeran are seen by the general populace as more “real” and “honest” than the likes of Daft Punk and Calvin Harris. Of course this is total clapfuckle—Daft Punk’s music has made me weep with joy on multiple occasions.
Nonetheless, every now and then, a singer-songwriter appears who somehow feels more “real” than the others. Phoebe Bridgers’ debut announces that kind of rare talent. She reveals the forensics of her psyche with heroic restraint, keeping herself together, and never quite dissolving. There aren’t many who could deliver a line like “Jesus Christ, I’m so blue all the time”, and wring out all the humour and dignity it needs to work. Some singers sound constantly on the verge of melting into a puddle of tears (Sam Smith, Anhoni); others have a trademark dryness and detachment (Stephin Merritt, Lana Del Rey). These traits are neither bad nor good—they’re simply styles to be used well, or... otherwise.
In this sense, Phoebe Bridgers is the best of both worlds. This delicate balance crosses over into her writing too. There’s an intense sweet and sour kick in these songs and stories, like recalling a once-funny joke you shared with a now-absent friend. As of December 2019, there’s still no announcement of a second solo album from her. That being said, anyone who wields their vulnerability with this much finesse need only make one classic to be an icon. She’ll get there. One last thing: the album ends with a Mark Kozelek cover, and she now owns that song like Aretha Franklin owns ‘Respect’.
Try: Motion Sickness
One Silver Lining
Beck — Colours
After two decades of being a consistently interesting, weird and inspired musician, Beck decided the time was right to start coasting a little. In 2014, he won Grammy Album of the Year award for what was (at the time) his least inspired record. The Grammys have been an embarrassing behind-the-times joke for longer than I’ve been alive, so this was no surprise. The actual surprise came some time later, when Beck used his newfound fame and budget to make an album full of advert-pop.
Here we have an artist—defined by his ambition and uncompromised personality—giving up. The latter half of the decade has seen a lot of established superstars slowly fading from the limelight. The future is looking wobbly for Ed Sheeran, Taylor Swift and Drake—and Eminem has become hip-hop’s sour homophobic uncle. Meanwhile, Beyonce’s reputation is more solid than ever. Why? Because she’s outgrown the charts. With records like ‘Lemonade’, she’s aiming for ambition more than success. This is how she’s kept her old fans loyal while winning a whole lot more in the process.
For an indie institution like Beck, Colors has the exact opposite effect. Far too many of these songs sound like they’re clumsily lunging for the Hot 100. ‘Up All Night’ is a squeaky-clean rewrite of The Weeknd’s ‘Can’t Feel My Face’; ‘Dreams’ is an iPhone commercial without pictures, and the stellar production on ‘Wow’ still fails to hide the worst songwriting of his career. Only the title track, which opens the album, is any good. And it’s good. It’s an astonishingly good song. It’s a fireworks display of scrambled voices, swaggering pan-pipes and euphoric synth swells. Somehow, this makes the rest of the album even worse. It’s like being given a tenner by a stranger, only to realise they’ve blown their nose on it. Colors is not the worst album of the decade, but it is substantially the most frustrating.
2018
Country & Western & Hypnosis
Suss — Ghost Box
Let the record show that rural escapism is going to be a thing. It’s already happening—’Old Town Road’ became the longest-running #1 single in America, cowboy ruckus simulator Red Dead Redemption II became one of the best-selling video games of all time, and the most talked-about horror movie of the year was set miles from any phone signal in the Swedish countryside. The next decade will embrace the countryside as the ideal setting for dreams and nightmares. If I’m wrong, I owe you all a drink.
The reason for this is clear. A life ruled by the artificial noise of 4G, notifications, rolling news and content-on-demand isn’t making us happy, so we’re looking elsewhere. Soon (hopefully soon enough), more of us will be searching for spiritual fulfilment in the countryside, and this band could provide the official soundtrack. With their subtly innovative ambient country music, Suss have cast a new light on an old tradition. They haven’t added a meditative quality to the genre—that facet was already there. They’ve simply brought it into the foreground. The effect is warmth itself. Rich organic sounds, hypnotic melodies and an unshakable atmosphere. It doesn’t compete for your attention, but it does earn it, allowing your imagination to drift into its realm, somewhere between sleeping, waking, and Texas.
Try: Wichita
Bursting With Empathy
Kacey Musgraves — Golden Hour
There’s a pub near me full of metalheads, wannabe pirates, and vast quantities of dark rum. In this pub, there’s a wall covered in band logos, from Metallica to Primus to The Rolling Stones to Slipknot… and Fleetwood Mac, in a Rumours-style font no less. Ignoring their bluesy origins for a moment, Fleetwood Mac made sophisticated pop music—they have more in common with Carole King than Led Zeppelin. For me, this is evidence that even hardcore genre-purists have broader tastes than even they’d like to admit.
It’s hard to examine or describe the appeal of country-pop upstart Kacey Musgraves because, in essence, either you get it or you don’t. What sets her records apart is how many minds they change. She finds ways of reaching people who “never normally like stuff like this”, and Golden Hour is her calling card. There’s something very universal about this. Her music is smart, but not too smart; emotional, but not manipulative; accessible, but nuanced. While Taylor Swift’s country records invoked tired images of princes and princesses, Musgraves exhumes the supernatural within the mundane. The sheer thrill of being alive, being in the right place, at the right time to witness something beautiful—that’s magic enough.
Fairy tales and fantasy aren’t necessary here. Musgraves even makes fun of it in the twin tracks of ‘Velvet Elvis’ and ‘Wonder Woman’, with good-natured silliness in tow. Aside from her astute lyrics and clear rough-diamond singing, Musgraves’ trump card might be her sense of melody. These songs are so indelible, so impossible to spoil—they feel like they should have already existed for decades at this point. Either way, they’ll remain for a long time yet. There’s no reason that this shouldn’t be as big as Rumours. None.
Try: Slow Burn
A Hug On a Burning Rooftop
Damien Jurado — The Horizon Just Laughed
The Horizon Just Laughed plays like a series of letters—not just to old friends, but to dead writers, cartoonists, fictional characters and (among other people) the singer of ‘Hello Muddah Hello Fadduh’. At no point does this name-dropping come across as an attempt to seem clever—you needn’t dash to Wikipedia to appreciate them. It’s about as natural and unselfconscious as undressing before bed. Jurado doesn’t have a huge vocal range, but his expressiveness speaks for itself. There are phrases on this record that would be pedestrian in less capable hands.
For instance—that distant quiver in his breath when he sings “I gave up smoking”. In a year like 2018—and on an album that wrestles so often with fatal despair—to give up smoking is a gesture of hope, and Jurado’s voice lends it all the weight it deserves. On ‘Percy Faith’ he petitions the post-war easy listening composer to soothe his nerves and evoke a hopeful era he can’t remember; on ‘1973’ he confesses his worries to Charlie Brown and his creator Charles M. Shultz, and receives no hope in response. This is a deep listen, but not in the least bit difficult. In fact, it’s just plain gorgeous to have on anywhere—warm, soulful, even seductive. It’s as heavy as you want it to be, and rewards come from every level of listening. A perfect record.
Try: Dear Thomas Wolfe
We Missed U
Robyn — Honey
Ok, time for a history lesson. In 1997, Swedish pop star Robyn released the single ‘Show Me Love’, which became an international hit. American record company Jive (home of the Backstreet Boys) wanted to sign her, but Robyn declined, citing their desire to restrict her creative control. Jive retaliated by poaching her co-writer and producer Max Martin, still the most successful and in-demand behind-the-scenes figure in pop. They paired him with an unknown teenager named Britney Spears and the rest, as they say, is history. Not an ideal history though.
In the intervening years, Robyn has been showing us glimpses of an alternate reality—one in which capital-P pop music is just as revered, resonant and rewarding as more “respectable” genres. Whatever you hear on a Robyn record, it’s there because Robyn wanted it there. She’s her own boss, she takes her time, and it’s finished when it’s finished. The fact that Honey was a long time in the making really doesn’t matter when the result is this rich. We witness her grieving, partying, making love, dancing, being alone. It’s a distinctly honest record, but its atmosphere is far too warm and inviting to feel uncomfortable in, and its leisurely pace never drags.
At this point, Robyn was pushing 40. Some people say that pop music is a young person’s game, especially if you’re a woman. They point to Madonna’s increasingly embarrassing and desperate attempts to appear young as evidence. Honey is a fantastic rebuttal to this notion. It’s most certainly Pop, but its creator merges the wisdom and self-respect of age with the vulnerability and adventure of youth. Robyn doesn’t give people what they want, she shows us who she is. What more could we ask for, and what’s not to like?
Try: Missing U
The Threat and Thrill of Stillness
Gas — Rausch
After standing up, you realise you’re in the forest. It’s beautiful, but you have no idea how you got there. There’s no one around. If there’s something following you, you can’t see it. Rausch takes this feeling and lets it hang and grow for a full hour without reprieve. It’s less an album and more of an extended piece of music—one of the only things in the ambient genre with enough grandeur to be played live like a symphony.
Gentle nauseous strings hover in the air like coils of perfumed smoke, brass sections mumble in the undergrowth and, all the while, a simple beat thuds in the distance—the sound of blood through nervous ears. Even though very little seems to happen here, Rausch never loses its momentum. It crawls forward, its tone changing from one eerie shade to another, maintaining a lush anxious beauty throughout. A triumph of imagination, attention span and tonal narrative.
Dust, Rust and Radiation
Low — Double Negative
I don’t want to listen to this any more. Not for a while. It feels like a warning. It was sent from a dystopian future in the hope that we might change the course of events. Huge chunks of the songs have been burned away, smeared and buried in thick black soot, as if the master tapes have been rescued from a bombed-out building. Its lyrics sound like slogans spraypainted on city walls in an apocalyptic video game: “All that you gave wasn’t enough”; “Let’s turn this thing before they take us out”; “Feed your body to the wolves”.
I could be talking about a doomy metal or hip-hop album right now, but if Double Negative was either of those things, it would be far less frightening. Instead it’s the fragile humanity and angelic beauty in the songs that make it cut deeper. The world is terrifying, bizarre and all-too-real to cope with sometimes, and Low made the record that captured it all. All the fear of reading the news, the great-and-powerful turning their backs on suffering masses, and the vision of a boot stamping on a human face forever: the very worst aspects of the past few years—and the present—are right here. They are laid bare like a scene-of-crime dossier, a symbol of what we’re fighting for and against. Even if it’s only once, you absolutely have to hear it.
Try: Always Trying To Work It Out
Stop The Planet of the Apes, I Want To Get Off!
Fucked Up — Dose Your Dreams
Fucked Up have come to embody modern music’s righteous lack of limitations, all with fury, empathy and rebellion intact. Punk is a spirit more than a style, and they know this. Leading the charge, of course, is Damian Abraham—a beardy baldy bellower who sing-shouts like he just ran through a row of walls to reach the microphone. It’s a credit to his and the band’s versatility that his gravel-scrape of a voice can slot into whatever idea they turn their hand to.
Nonetheless, what makes Dose Your Dreams so emotionally rewarding and timely is its urgent compassion. Screaming and shouting feels like a very natural reaction to the state of the world. More light is being shone on those who treat human life as a commodity, and if we don’t speak up when we need to, they might win. And yes, Dose Your Dreams is explicit about this. It screams at you to raise your voice and it makes you feel like you matter because you do. It’s one thing to make a genre-buggering, super-fun vital era-defining album without a wasted note—but this is a double album. The Sign O The Times of punk.
Try: None of Your Business, Man
2019
The Dark Horse
Lil Nas X — ‘Old Town Road’
The most satisfying #1 single of the decade wasn’t Daft Punk finally being given their due, or Carly Rae Jepsen breathing new life into bubblegum, or even New Zealand’s indie dark horse Gotye. No-one saw Lil Nas X riding over the hill on his trusty steed, about to claim the longest-running #1 single in US history. The fact that “no one saw it coming” is a huge part of why it was such a glorious victory. The record industry is full of cold-hearted number crunchers who are fighting to turn art into maths. They think they know exactly what people want, and the result is a mainstream pop scene flooded with by-the-numbers mediocrity.
How could they have possibly predicted that the most beloved song of the year was going to be a gay teenager singing about leaving this crazy world behind while riding on a horse, all backed by a sparse Nine Inch Nails sample. As much as a curveball as it was, it makes total sense in hindsight.
We are being constantly and actively bullied by technology, materialism and politics. We carry a phone in our pockets everywhere which only makes this claustrophobia more intense, and this late-stage capitalist mess we’re in seems to have no escape. Despite the fact that it got its big boost from the help of an app, ‘Old Town Road’ is the perfect anthem for this era. Not only does it righteously carry the banner of “Screw this place, I’m outta here”, it does so on a horse—a mode of transport which pre-dates sandals. Everything from its unapologetic attitude to lines like “you can whip your Porche”—it all boils down to “We don’t have to play by these rules, and we don’t have to live this way.” What a brilliant brilliant song.
We Need Her
Carly Rae Jepsen — Dedicated
People who dismissed Carly Rae Jepsen at the start of the decade as lame-ass bubblegum are probably scratching their heads as to why she’s still hanging around. None of the songs from this album cracked the US Hot 100, and the album itself didn’t even reach the top 10 in her native Canada. Does that mean she’s a has-been, or about to become a has-been? No. It frankly means that the pop charts, much like Western democracy, has a proud history of voting against its own best interests.
What does Carly Rae Jepsen have to do for you people?! 2015’s Emotion proved that she was a lot more than a one-hit wonder, but Dedicated doubles down on this promise. It’s not as pyrotechnic as her previous work, but what it lacks in whizz-bang pizazz, it makes up for with craft and primal joy. Lyrically, she’s self-aware but never cynical. On ‘Too Much’ she tries to make sense of why she turns to risk and excess during sad times; the bittersweet ‘Real Love’ finds her exhausted in a search for authentic connection, and on ‘Happy Not Knowing’ she turns down the object of her affection due to being too stressed out to handle it.
If these sound like sad songs, maybe some of them are, but they don’t feel like sad songs. It’s delivered with such verve that the result is a catharsis and a celebration. She’s one of the only people who can actually do justice to complex uncomfortable emotions without diluting the sugar-rush that only pop can provide. I sincerely hope she keeps this up. Even if we fail at everything we need to do in the next decade, can we at least make Carly Rae Jepsen into a bona-fide superstar? For Christ’s sake, Madonna never made an album this solid start to finish.
Try: No Drug Like Me
Pity the Powerful
Lower Dens — ‘Young Republicans’
Protest songs have gotten a bad rap in the years since the Vietnam war. When America was preparing to invade Iraq in 2002, there wasn’t enough articulate backlash from artists. Ideally the music industry wants their artists to appeal to as many people as possible without causing division, and nothing is more divisive than politics. Plus, in this day and age we’ve got nuclear tension, the climate crisis, poverty and the dehumanisation of minorities all on the table. Where do you start? You start by attacking the load-bearing pillar: greed.
Most of the world’s problems are being caused, exacerbated or enabled by extreme wealth—and that needs to stop. Are the absurdly rich even happy? It’s a worthy question, because there must be something driving the quest for more opulence.
‘Young Republicans’ by Lower Dens might be the very best protest song of the decade—maybe the song that defines the current era of mass financial injustice better than any other. It’s a statement of anger, sorrow, bravery, disgust and solidarity, from a band who had everything to lose. Band leader Jana Hunter, who has spent the decade gradually transitioning from female to male, is a man determined to live a life without regret. We should follow his example.
Intensive Self-Care
Tōth — Practice Magic and Seek Professional Help When Necessary
Quirkiness is like comedy. Everyone has their own brand, and if you like it, you gel with it—if you don’t like it, you’re likely to get angrier and angrier until the source goes away, or is booed off stage. The proudly idiosyncratic Alex Tōth often sings as if he’s halfway through an invasive dental appointment, but he’s somehow very good at doing that. Besides, his style is far more primal than forced. This is such a sure-footed set of songs that it’s hard to believe it’s his solo debut.
In fact, it’s his solo debut in more ways than one—his former bandmate was also a romantic partner of eleven years, and this is their breakup album. It’s an indie-pop record with earworm choruses, smart lyrics and some of the most unique arrangements you’re likely to hear in the genre, flushed as they are with trumpets, chilly one-man choirs and synthetic harps.
While many breakup records blacken the sky with their misery, Tōth finds ways of soaring through it. There’s a wildness to his sorrow, as if his domestic despair is merging with a cartoon surrealism. “You threw a friendly chair across a friendly room, and then you made me breakfast in the afternoon”. Practice Magic… is unmistakably quirky, but that’s because Tōth is showing all of himself. It’s a record with its own sense of humour, grace and rhythm. Most importantly, however, it’s a liberating album for maker and listener because, through highs and lows alike, it finds joy in the ability to feel human.
Try: Song To Make You Fall In Love With Me
Big Sky, Big Sea
Fennesz — Agora
Four undulating and sensual drone pieces that evoke a yawning horizon and the back of your eyelid at the same time. Bathe in it.
Try: In My Room
Spiked Breadcrumbs
(Sandy) Alex G — House of Sugar
There are plenty of great films which show off their tiny budget - think of Eraserhead, The Evil Dead or even Wallace and Gromit. It takes a great deal of imagination and genuine eccentricity to work around such a limitation. If the same applies to music (and it does), Alex G is stretching the bedroom studio into outer space. His latest LP House of Sugar is utterly dizzying, bordering on the nauseous, but as you settle into its spin cycle, you find something unique, memorable, compelling and utterly joyful.
Given the chance, many talented musicians leave their shoestring origins and polish their sound until it shines, often sacrificing their personality in the process. The fact that Alex G is using his ever-increasing budgets to accentuate—not iron out—his natural strangeness is immensely gratifying. As his sense of style becomes stronger, so does his vulnerability. He hasn’t “made it”—he’s lost, like so many of us.
This album’s title is a reference to Hansel and Gretel, which feels apt. There are visions of a distorted childhood here, especially on the simultaneously bombastic and eerie ‘Sugar’, whose melodies and sound palate would fit in well with a knights-and-dragons CD-ROM game. Nonetheless, the weirdness is balanced beautifully with Alex G’s intimate sense of humanity. His lyrics are cryptic, but genuine song-worthy emotions are more complicated than we like to believe. What he feels isn’t obvious. The depth of how he feels, on the other hand, is not up for debate. People simply don’t make music like this unless they really really mean it. It ends with his own equivalent of a lighters-in-the-air Bruce Springsteen anthem, recorded live for a respectful crowd. Who knows—maybe this hints at the next album being his “big statement”, or “masterpiece”. Whether it is or it isn’t, it’s fair to say that we can trust him not to fuck it up.
Try: In My Arms
The Art of Vanishing
The Caretaker — Everywhere at the End of Time (Stages 1-6)
For a long time now, James Leyland Kirby has been making beautifully cobwebbed music, pieced together from damaged 1930s ballroom recordings. Kirby soon clarified that he had two chief inspirations: Stanley Kubrick’s The Shining (hence “The Caretaker”) and Alzheimer’s disease. Patients of dementia are often observed to be curiously lucid when listening to songs from their youth, and some are able to recall them more readily than, for example, their own names.
This had always been a subtext in the music of The Caretaker, but Everywhere at the End of Time is not inspired by dementia. It embodies it. Art takes over when language fails, and what other tools do we have to illustrate the disintegration of the self?
Starting in 2016, Kirby released a new part of his magnum opus every six months, each one representing the ensuing stage of the disease. “The Caretaker” becomes a character in themselves, remembering and misremembering their past through the innocent melodies of yore. It’s quite astonishing how Kirby has captured such distinct states of being using the same materials. Stage one is perhaps a little punchdrunk, but not unhappy; stage two, in which the patient realises something is wrong, is far sadder and more claustrophobic. Stage three is one last look into the light before sinking into the “post-awareness stages”.
The remaining music on Everywhere at the End of Time (stages 4, 5 and 6) is among the scariest and loneliest ever put together, smothered in dissonance, with past motifs slipping in and (mostly) out of focus. It’s a truly hopeless, punishing journey into the dark, and yet the result has an almighty sense of dignity. It’s the final journey of the soul, viewed through cracked lenses. Everywhere at the End of Time might not be something to cheer you up after work, but it’s a vital experience. A work of art which will broaden the empathy and worldview of anyone who lets it in, and which must be preserved at all costs.
Try: A1 It’s Just a Burning Memory
The Tide of Filth
Matmos — ‘Breaking Bread’
I haven’t listened to Matmos’s Plastic Anniversary in full, for the same reason I haven’t seen the sequel to The Act of Killing. I’m not sure I’d be able to handle it. This duo have made a host of adventurous and fun electronic records, one from the re-tooled sounds of cosmetic surgery, another made entirely from their Ultimate Care II washing machine. However, this record bucks the trend by being a full-on protest album about one of the most terrifying problems we face: plastic pollution.
After hearing ‘Breaking Bread’ (made entirely out of the squeaks and scratches of record vinyl), it was enough for me to be haunted for life. The fact that it’s so catchy only makes the horror more potent and enduring. If I see you littering I’ll fucking lamp you.
Loveslavery
Tyler, The Creator — IGOR
If you want evidence for the progress of social attitudes this decade, know this: the most acclaimed hip-hop album of the 2019 is a gay break-up album. More importantly, that album is by Tyler, The Creator, a man once banned from the UK for his homophobic lyrics. Suddenly, his subversive past work makes far more sense. During those early albums, he would occasionally break the fourth wall to assert that he was making “fiction”, and alluded to exorcising his irrational anger through music. Judging by this record and 2017’s Flower Boy, taking that rage-dump has made room for a far more cerebral and compassionate artist to emerge.
In essence, IGOR is about a love triangle. Tyler has fallen in love with a man who loves a woman. With a situation like this, it makes sense that he named the record after Frankenstein’s ugly devoted servant. Ouch. The great thing about IGOR is that it’s not a plea for pity—it’s someone taking ownership of their feelings. Plus, the music is utterly superb, slipping from gear to gear and merging dissonant moods with expert ease.
Like his friend and former collaborator Frank Ocean, Tyler is totally disenchanted by labels. He has never called himself “gay”, “bisexual” or otherwise, and his music is so stylistically fluid that even the term “hip-hop” is reaching new levels of redundancy. Rolling Stone magazine named The Clash’s London Calling as the best album of the 80s, even though it was released in 1979. Maybe art as effortlessly forward thinking as IGOR will one day be seen as omens of a better future. Fingers crossed, eh?
Previous parts found below:
Part I (2010-12)
Part II (2013-14)
Part III (2015-16)
Words by Joe Anthony Hill
Further writing available at Lost and Safe.