PICK OF THE WEEK
Show Me The Body ft Wiki
Vernon (Letter Racer)
They may share stages at scuzzy basement shows with bands called things like Garbage Brain and Spewing Cum, but Show Me The Body aren’t your typical punk dirtbags. For a start, frontman Julian Cashwan Pratt plays banjo instead of guitar, attacking it with the nerdy intensity of a young Steve Albini. Spellbinding new track Vernon is a stoned, stately, half-speed thrash that positions Show Me The Body as New York’s answer to King Krule, overdosing on teenage ennui and scrawny street poetry, with Ratking’s Wiki adding a spiky yet wistful rap. Top that, Garbage Brain.
Richard Hawley
Heart Of Oak (Parlophone)
You always feared there might be a point when Richard Hawley’s Sheffield Elvis shtick would tip over into sentimentality, and this is it. Abandoning the elemental squall of last album Standing At The Sky’s Edge, Heart Of Oak opts for a humdrum Britpop chug, akin to Travis or Embrace. Hawley’s voice remains glorious, but that’s little comfort when it’s singing lines such as “You’re precious to me / Like Blake’s poetry”. Could do better.
Legwork
Buck Shot (Legwork)
If you prefer your house music to be made by men of a certain age with neat beards and exotic names, then Lance DeSardi & Leopold’s Legwork project is for you. Buck Shot is mercifully free of featured vocalists hoping to launch an MOR soul career, propelled instead by a slippery acid line and a stubborn beat aimed squarely at the dancefloor rather than the Topman changing rooms. In short: music that makes you want to take your clothes off, rather than put some new, slightly-too-tight ones on.
Hooton Tennis Club
P.O.W.E.R.F.U.L. P.I.E.R.R.E (Heavenly)
Brevity is clearly anathema to Wirral’s Hooton Tennis Club, who’ve followed up Kathleen Sat On The Arm Of Her Favourite Chair with the longest spelled-out song title since Pulp’s F.E.E.L.I.N.G.C.A.L.L.E.D.L.O.V.E (a comparison I’m already regretting making, because it’s such a ball-ache to type). The tune’s basically a direct ripoff of Pavement’s Stereo, right down to the punch-drunk guitar lines, arch lyrics and gleefully yelped chorus. But it’s certainly preferable to ripping off, say, Travis or Embrace.
American Authors
Go Big Or Go Home (Island)
To which the simple answer is: go home. Please. This single manages to pack every pernicious pop trope of the last five years into three harrowing minutes: Mumfordian fake folk, Auto-Tuned emoting, off-the-peg YOLOisms, and a spurious invitation to drink whiskey with a smug Adam Levine clone who clearly never imbibes anything stronger than a protein shake. It’s so utterly awful, so calculatedly, fiendishly unpleasant, that – as with Fifa or the Daily Mail – a little part of you wants to salute its audacity.
