The Single Life: Wagons, Alt-J, Brian Wilson & More

Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, I have some bad news. Which you may well have realised already: Pop music is dead.

Well, at least, it’s not what it was. You know, the major cultural statement for so many people. And something that made a helluva lot of money for a lot of people. That’s not to say Taytay Swifty shifting eight million-odd units last year ain’t a nice little earner. But compared to the halcyon days of Britney - let alone the multi-quizillion sellers like Fleetwood Mac, or Michael Jackson before he was translucent and batshit crazy – a great pop song is not the mass-consciousness experience it was.

Sure, Gaga got some coverage the other day at the Oscars for showing she really can sing – although I still reckon she should have been truer to herself and done that Sound Of Music tribute in a latex nun’s habit – it’s still only a ripple compared to the column inches (Hey, remember ‘columns’? Come to that, remember ‘inches’?) Madonna used to get for ripping off Marilyn Monroe or insulting Jesus, or Allah, or Buddha, or your imaginary friend of choice.

So, what constitutes musical success these days? Getting your friends to share your tune on Faceo or Twitter? A few thousand YouTube of Spotify hits that will earn the artist a total of about $1.48? For some, it might be getting your song to soundtrack a highlights package on the cricket, or played over the credits on an American cable series. Some might be happy with the old-school thrill of hearing their song on the radio. Hey kids, remember ‘radio’?

Paul Andrews got a few of his songs on the radio in his previous band Lazy Susan – notably that one that pondered about no-one ever saying ‘Reykjavik in a song’ while doing just that – and in any sort of sensible world Shanie Love (Independent) from his new combo, Family Fold, should be spiralling out of airwaves over your cornflakes. Frankly, it’s exactly the kind of smart and well-made music for grown-ups the reborn Double J should be playing. In another wrinkle of modern technology, you are suggested to not do a direct Googling of ‘Shanie Love’, as rather than the tune you’re likely to find some NSFW visuals of a Dominica’s leading porn star. But you just did, didn’t you?

Cross-media wise, there’s actually many who’d know Henry Wagons as a TV barbeque cook without even knowing the man can croon the house down. Entering the potentially dangerous territory of covering Bruce Springsteen songs, the band that bears his surname take a run at the Nebraska album’s State Trooper (Spunk) replacing the acoustic starkness of the original with Wagons in full locomotive band rumble, which adds an energy to the shaky desperation and is pretty damn good on its own terms.

Or there are those who appear to making art for art’s sake. Or maybe it’s just a touch of pretension to what Alt-J are pushing with Pusher (Infectious). Outbreaks of French philosophy, ominous concrete buildings, and the obviously serious intent of elements of the clip being in slow motion, and black & white suggest this is a ‘statement’. Or maybe just wringing the last notice they can from the album.

Above and apart from all such commercial considerations – or so you’d think – Brian Wilson. If you don’t know – and why the hell don’t you? – he is a god. Albeit, perhaps a slightly broken one. This beautiful mind is still writing pop symphonies in his head, his latest burst of creativity following the sadly short-lived Beach Boys ‘reunion’ – cross reference: if Brian is a god, Mike Love is the anti-Christ (who owns the name, and thus gets the money) – and so The Right Time (Capitol) also has a couple of lesser and later BBs aboard in Al Jardine and David Marks, previewing an album filled with guests honoured to be asked to work with him - from country singers to Zooey Deschanel. And calling the album No Pier Pressure gets bonus points for punnery.

From the name alone, Best Coast would likely have a knowledge of the Wilson back catalogue as well, although they claim their new tunes take some further inspiration equally from Drake and The Go-Go’s. OK, sure. California Nights (Harvest) floats uneasily across your eyeline, but remains a pop song. It’s a curious contradiction and balance that they often get right, but sometimes push a little too hard. This restrains itself nicely, and it will be interesting if they can hold it across an entire album.

Further across the Joshua Trees and cacti-studded desert, the mariachi trumpets of Calexico send a cool breeze that can raise those goosebumps which suggest you’re hearing something wonderful. Adding further quality, here on Falling From The Sky (Anti) those zephyrs are supplemented with the identifiable voice of Band Of Horses’ Ben Bridwell for even more alt-country goodness, although the jury’s still out on that squelchy analogue synth noise they seem to have discovered for this next record.

Continuing our tour of the border states All Our Exes Live In Texas are, despite the name, mostly from the frontier edges of Sydney’s wild inner-west. Sailboat (Independent) is more in their plaintive harmony mode - with some melancholy – rather than the honky tonk walks down a dirt road they also handle with some style – with an obligatory couple of shots of something strong afterward.

Having gained notice and affection from support spots to Lanie Lane and Lamb (and that’s just the ones starting with ‘L’), Olympia is a singular talent. Her voice reaches into your chest and bruises your heart. Her guitar is her sole accomplice in this tender assault on your senses. There’s no direct comparison to what she does, but perhaps think of Honey (EMI) as a country-flecked sibling to PJ Harvey, circa Stories From The City, the apparent gentleness hiding some steel.

And sometimes it just comes down to love of the music you’re doing. Darts are scruffy, the music fuzzy and occasionally ragged. But that could be the beauty of it. Westward Bound (Rice Is Nice) scuzzes in, buzzes about your head, and just seems to have a joy to it. So, pontifications on fame and meaning aside, just turn it up and revel in its enthusiasm - 'coz that’s all that matters in the end.