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KANYE WEST YEEZUS Def Jam 18/20 The mission statement of Yeezus is made clear in the first line: “Yeezy season approaching, fuck whatever y’all been hearing”. The words are set to electro throbs which declare that the luxurious soundscapes of 2010’s My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy have been traded in for a raw, industrial-leaning sound palette. As the LP moves forward, the overwhelming sense of anger and determination becomes invigorating on the frenetic beat on Black Skinhead and the angst-ridden mantra “Y’all niggas can’t fuck with Ye!” on New Slaves. 808s and Heartbreaks gave us SadYe, Twisted Fantasy gave us GlamYe and we are now subjected to the relentless force of MadYe. His verse on Can’t Hold My Liquor is full of a new kind of arrogance. It’s a psyche founded on success but fuelled by frustration and delusion. His lovesick crooning on Blood On The Leaves is furiously underpinned by remorselessly visceral, TNGHT-supplied foghorns. The production and instrumentation is as smart and innovative as always, but Kanye’s weapons have changed. Jamie Foxx and Jay-Z has been swapped for the Chi-Town dream team of Chief Keef and King Louie. It’s not about sensation or precision – it’s an urgent, primitive rap album built solely to exist in the here and now. On Bound 2, the album’s closer, Kanye comes closest to winning back the fans he lost post-Graduation with a soulful Ponderosa Twins Plus One sample. Soon enough, however, the sweetness turns to raw lust when Kanye spits: “I wanna fuck you hard on the sink, after that give you something to drink/step back – can’t get spunk on the mink.” Kanye bows out with a “BAM”, and then Yeezus – a 40 minute long record of self-subverting, anti-establishment exasperation executed by one of the most talked about men on the planet – is over. A hypnotic and addictive record created by an over-excited, totally unhinged mastermind with almost unlimited resources at his disposal. DH
MATIAS AGUAYO THE VISITOR Comeme
DAVID LYNCH THE BIG DREAM Sunday Best
8/20
15/20
There’s nothing necessarily new about injecting techno with a Latin infusion: both are, or rather can be, hugely percussive, both shake, both sway. Which explains how Aguayo somehow made the jump from the introspective, gorgeous deeper-thandeep, sadder-than-sad emotive techno of his Closer Musik project with Dirk Leyers to the lurching panglobal-polyrhythmic stew of 2009’s Ay Ay Ay with relative ease. The Visitor, his third solo record, sadly, irritates more than it delights. The pseudoplayful tics of Dear Inspector make the listener’s skin itch with the knowledge that somewhere, under the layers and layers of percussion and the looped vocal ‘whoops’, there might be a good song buried away. This problem repeats itself throughout: good moments – the machine gun schaffel beat that propels Llego El Don, the disorientating vocal loop that turns Aguayo into a stuttering synth running through Do You Wanna Work – but they come slathered in a gloop of unnecessary accompaniments. Perhaps that should be seen positively, perhaps Aguayo’s willingness to stuff the sonic field to the max should be praised. But then another jarring element is added to the mix and we’re convinced that he wants to
The languid drum machine and twanging guitars which open David Lynch’s second album sound inevitably otherworldly, but there is also a nagging sense of nostalgia at play. Lynch’s vocals fit like a glove: tonally off-kilter, but sitting tight in the mix. Cold Wind Blowing has the qualities of a soundtrack, not far removed from Lynch’s exceptional work on Twin Peaks with composer Angelo Badalamenti and vocalist Julee Cruise, while The Ballad Of Hollis Brown is the most lyrically linear track here, telling a sorry tale through the eyes of the titular protagonist, deep in the plains of South Dakota where the cycle of life and death plays out its fateful conclusions. But the best track is saved for last. Are You Sure? feels like a transcendental meditation on the natural world and man’s relationship with it. Overall, this album is another Lynchian success, a journey of self-discovery that is ultimately as confusing as it is revelatory. While music may never be Lynch’s most accomplished medium, there’s no escaping The Big Dream’s dark landscape, where light can be found by taking a journey inside the mind. Dreams can often be the interpreter of our experiences, and no one summons this innately surreal realm quite like him. PJA
irritate, wants to annoy. And if he does, he’s succeeded. Big time. JB
PHAELEH TIDES Afterglo
FREDDIE GIBBS ESGN ESGN
14/20
15/20
In a furrow where cosmic atmospherics and tuneful melancholy collide, Bristolian Phaeleh’s 2010 debut Fallen Light became synonymous with IDM – a catchall term coined by the hipsterific label brigade in response to the glut of postambient producers of the 90s. Lest we forget his emergence during the warbling proliferation of dubstep, his opus curtailed the rabid, bass-heavy brain melts and club-friendly beer swilling for a motif more akin to a 6am conspiracy theorist plotting paranoid scenarios. His follow-up, Tides, is of a similarly bereft nature, crafting an intricate dance for the cerebral. Lead single Whistling In The Dark could well be the dissonant symphony to the latest Planet Earth special on ‘Living Landscapes’, as could the entirety of Tides’ parts, as it seldom fails to transcend the dewy-eyed decadence of its predecessor. It’s not without folly, though, the overly sinewed textures can be numbing to point of stupor, or worse, comatose. But it’s the inclusion of guest vocalists Jess Mills, Soundmouse, and Cian Finn that will really keep you swooning during that post-rave purgatory. Phaeleh is certainly back en
After almost a decade in the game, Midwestern rap heavyweight Freddie Gibbs finally presents his first studio album. There’s a reason you’d be hard pushed to find a single dissenting review about Gibbs’ rapping style, and that’s because of his ability to totally dominate any beat thrown his way with a hefty but flexible flow. While last year’s Baby Face Killa scooped up favourable reviews, the mixtape felt stylistically erratic and a little cluttered with A&R orchestrated guest verses. After walking away from Young Jeezy’s record label with his middle finger raised high, Freddie Gibbs has dropped ESGN via his own imprint, and the album – 70 minutes of uncompromising, testosterone-fuelled hardcore gangsta rap – radiates the adrenaline of the maverick’s attitude. With so much profanity, machismo and violent imagery, this is Gibbs at his fiercest, and sensitive listeners might struggle to digest the record whole. But we strongly recommend sticking around for the second half where highlights like Certified Live, Paper and Dope In My Styrofoam pop up. And let’s not forget finale track Freddie Soprano, where the appeal of Gibbs’ lyricism is summed up with one rhyme: “I ain’t one for slacking on my habits/I
route with his second, albeit treading the same beaten track. JN
brush my teeth with Hennessy, sleep with my automatic.” DR
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