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MODEST MOUSE Strangers To Ourselves Epic
There’s something irresistible about this record. On the one hand, with a running time under the half hour mark, it’s a brief listen that you can easily fire through on a hungover commute – which is ideal because, on the other hand, this is one for the headphones, in that it demands a little attention. Whilst some of the Miami-born producer’s previous releases have been pretty club-centric, Naples has peppered his first LP on Four Tet’s label with numerous styles and diversions. The uneasy drone of opener Riz gives way to a passage of heartbroken synth-pop, which quickly collapses under a wall of colourful distortion. Seconds later, stand out track Abrazo opens with rich strings that launch the listener above the clouds. It’s got a suspiciously long-form feel for such a short listen, at times coming on like a stripped-down version of Kuedo’s Severant, listeners led on a narrative through an unfamiliar place. But whereas Jamie Teasdale’s 2011 masterpiece marched us forcefully through dank, neon-lit streets full of digital thuggery, Naples is a little more casual a guide. He hints at a masterplan, but you wonder if perhaps he’s fooling you around, or if he even knows quite what he’s doing. When it’s over, you can’t help but feel the floor’s fallen out from under you. Then you need to decide if you’re disappointed or not. But such is Naples’s apparent comfort with the release, he probably won’t care. A refreshing understatement.
In Modest Mouse’s 1998 single Never Ending Math Equation, Isaac Brock sung in a fully-formed guttural drawl: ‘I’m the same, as I was when I was six years old / and oh my god I feel so damn old’. One of the most remarkable things about Modest Mouse, now over 20 years since their first EP, is their ability to exist outside of time. With Brock’s world-weary perspective, the band never quite sat right with their indie-rock peers as a younger outfit. Now, with no loss of momentum, their pitchperfect intensity belies their age two decades down the line. As one of their most-quoted lines says: ‘if you go straight long enough, you’ll end up where you were’. That’s not to say there hasn’t been progression, though, and Strangers To Ourselves, their first new album in seven years, is a noticeably slicker affair. This new incarnation of Modest Mouse is slightly less impatient, and more contemplative. Everything is given a little more breathing space, and among the earworm hooks, the devil really is in the details. After the ethereal title track it’s the lead single Lampshades on Fire that brings you hurtling back to familiar territory. It’s all here: the vocal bap bap bap intro borrowed straight from 2004’s The World at Large gives way to rolling drums and instantly recognisable guitar sounds. The production throughout the new album is thicker and more complex than before, while the album lyrically spans ecology, sexism, the human condition – from the living room to the universe. So while real progress is scant, across its 15 tracks Strangers To Ourselves is everything you’ve come to expect from a Modest Mouse album: universal, and completely beguiling.
! Xavier Boucherat
! Alex Briand
ANTHONY NAPLES Body Pill Text Records
KID ROCK First Kiss Warner Bros Records
JON HOPKINS Late Night Tales Late Night Tales
The call rings through, the answerphone beeps, “Scott, it’s me, it’s the Kid. Listen, did you get my last messages… about the… about the sex tape? Jeez… Anyway man… I’ll let you think about it.” Kid drops the receiver into its cradle, unbuttons his pants. The bottle of Jack and the empty pack glare up at him from the formica TV tray. “You spent a mill in a year,” he thinks. “Figures,” he thinks. He grips the receiver tightly, the call rings through. Answerphone beeps. “Hey, is this still the right number? Scott, Scott Stapp? Anyway, it’s me, it’s the Kid. Listen… I… I been thinking about that tape man. I mean, there could be some money in that tape. Anyway… You think about it, OK?” The receiver descends again. He sweats in his favourite chair. Ellen Degeneres murmurs in the background. A numbing relief from a half-year of stagnant ennui. The answerphone beeps. “Scott… I… Fuck it…” Kid lets the receiver drop and picks up a pen. In thick blank ink he writes the words 'First Kiss' . He smiles. “I remember waiting for the school bus…” He hums a rough melody as he writes his first lyrics in six months, “Jenny Clayton was my first crush.” The phone rings. The caller ID reads “Scotty Creed”. Kid ignores the call. Uncle Kracker’s on speed dial and there’s a cool mill waiting if he’ll just pick up.
As we’re putting this review together, every single track from IYRTITL is charting on Billboard. The record shifted half a million copies within a week of its release and clocked in 17.3 million streams on Spotify in just three days. Make no mistake, nobody is flipping units like this. Telling then, that this mixtape-cum-album looks like it might be a ploy for Drake to get out of his contract with Cash Money Records. As he preps for his headlining turn at Coachella (playing the same slot that turned Kanye into Kanye) this is Aubrey Graham’s make or break moment. Lyrically, Drake has never sounded more liberated. Millennial references to Ubers and timelines share stanzas with shots at Tyga (“It's so childish calling my name on the world stage / You need to act your age and not your girl's age”) and golden moments of self-referencing (“Somehow always rise above it / Why you think I got my head in the clouds on my last album cover?”). In terms of production, the kind of heartbeat instrumentals that Drake toys with haven’t been this tight since Take Care. From Boi-1da’s audacious victory-lap shuffle on 6PM In New York to Noah ’40’ Shebib’s signature cloudy textures and snare rattles on 6 Man. The thematic centrepiece of Toronto (referred to as “The 6” for reasons unknown) isn’t the only location getting airtime. Drake’s obsession with UK grime manifests itself through his cribbing of Skepta’s lyrics on Used To, and the dramatic crescendo of Know Yourself makes reference to dancehall clashing culture with gun sounds, airhorns and a spoken interlude from Popcaan. As mixtapes go, a release of this standard is in its own lane. If we take this as Drake’s fourth studio LP then we’ll be holding for something weightier before we start inking his name in the annals. We hope this is the prequel. Whatever is it is or isn’t, the lasting sentiment is simple; Drake is far from done.
The Late Night Tales series has proven enduringly popular. One reason the format ‘works’ is that the artists clearly relish the chance to dust of their oddities and downtempo gems – who wouldn’t? – and their enthusiasm is infectious. But for someone like Jon Hopkins, who is already in the enviable position of being able to incorporate pretty ethereal and abstract sounds into his day-job, you could wonder if there is anywhere for him to go on a collection like this. Well, there is – and in a mesmerising slow-motion cartwheel through lush, ambient backdrops and meticulous, melancholic electronica, Hopkins shows why he’s so revered and respected. Beats are few and far between, but this doesn’t mean the compilation is lacking in dynamism. Darkstar, Holy Other and Teebs all make graceful early appearances, and a clutch of Erased Tapes artists are scattered through the compilation. Songs of Green Pheasant turn in a blissful, gently psychedelic glimmer of a folk song, while a Four Tet track (Gillie Amma, I Love You) heightens the tension with an otherworldly vocal sample. Even the usually naff Leatherette sounds classy in such celestial company. With material from Sigur Ros’ Jonsi, School of Seven Bells and Hopkins all making an appearance, this is a collection that goes nowhere fast and is all the more intriguing for it.
! Billy Black
! Duncan Harrison
! Adam Corner
DR AKE If You're Reading This It's Too Late OVO