Alex The Astronaut Is As Real As Lana Del Rey Is Fake

One of the eternal struggles of the popular music is that of style versus substance. And the fact it seems if you’ve got enough of the former, the latter isn’t really an issue.

The argument only reaches critical mass occasionally, and in the most obvious cases, such as the rise, fall, rise, and plateauing of the career of Lana Del Rey. Ah, the controversy as to how ‘real’ she was, how much she was just an art project in the name of commerce. It’s almost perfectly all distilled in the act this is called Love (Interscope). It comes in muted colours, it’s all beautifully constructed, fitting together seamlessly – but then, so does a Tupperware lunchbox. The clip even seems to revel in its own artifice – the smile a little forced, the wink a little too self-conscious. The question might boil down to are you being laughed with, or at? 

Compare and contrast with the candid nervous humanity of Alex The Astronaut as she rides the adrenaline rush of thoughts, doubts, and relief of climbing onstage in Rockstar City (Minkowski Records). For the purposes of this exercise that’s a postcard from the long-way-from-home New York is. You feel she’s sharing this stream-of-consciousness processing of the evening events because she has to, perhaps even more than she wants to. That’s endearingly charming - or if not, an even better acting job than Lana attempted. But this is easier to embrace, as the smile is not as easy to be sceptical about.

Or you can just bring it down to the craft of the song. Brisbane’s Halfway are one of those puzzling bands – beloved by their supporters, adored by other musicians, appreciated by many - but consumed by far fewer. East (ABC Records/Footstomp) is typical of their sturdily-built work. Somewhere down an alt-country line, but definitely and almost defiantly Australian – hints of a Triffids heat-haze or The Go-Betweens’ ‘striped sunlight sound’ – that last bit reinforced with former classic-era Go-B John Willsteed actually in the lineup. No-one overplays, but equally no-one gets lost in the balance. Those in the know will nod knowingly, and everyone should just listen and learn. 

See, these are the days where the old ways don’t work anymore. Not many are sitting with their ear to radio waiting for that new sound that makes their hair stand on end to be delivered by their favourite disc-jockey, or even the music programming committee telling him – and it usually was a ‘him’ – what to play. So, how about a marketing plan of sometimes subliminal product placement to put that earworm in your head? Hats off to the venerable oddballs of Spoon, playing the long game with Can I Sit Next To You? (Matador) – slightly disappointingly, not the old Acca Dacca song. By various means, they’ve inserted snippets of the tune in ‘unusual’ places: in American airline lounges as you wait for your flight, as just-back-from-the-ad-break music on Colbert’s and Fallon’s tonight shows. And somehow its twisty and woozy progress is maybe subconsciously familiar. That’s either quite brilliant, or borderline psychological warfare.

The more typical promotional approach is offering the illusion of something a bit dangerous, but carefully focus-grouped to be designed for those self-same tonight shows. Even the name of The Pretty Reckless sounds a little decided-by-committee to appeal to its target audience. The angsty girl cues are taken from a variety of sources: some Courtney Love faux-outrage, some Shirley Manson mouthiness, some Alison Mosshart fuck you/fuck off. Oh My God (Razor & Tie/Cooking Vinyl) adds some feminist sloganeering, and its contrivance will either win you completely or leave you laughing and pointing. 

It might just be in our national nature, but such overt emotional manipulation in an attempt to cadge an audience doesn’t seem to happen as much here. Or maybe we just do it better, and I’m every bit a dupe as that kid in Buttpimple, Wisconsin. The maybe counter-intuitive title of Ordinary (Liberation) is pop, but just not forcing itself to be. The near-ideally named for a pop star Sean Heathcliff – formerly of the sadly unrealised Snakadaktal, and for a moment who worked under the banner of Kagu – is finding his own identity and voice to make a song that is at once thinking, reflecting, puzzling, and wondering – just as a young man should. His voice sits among a mix of machines and man-made music, finding a natural place. It could be quite something. 

Their spaces let you hear the resigned sigh that’s often present in the musings of Tiny Little Houses. Medicate Me (Ivy League) might even be a little more upbeat – it’s a drive to the beach for a holiday from the grey, but they end up staying at three-star caravan park, where the sandpit looks a bit damp and dodgy. The music seems to come with a conditional happiness – like they’re relieved, but need reassurance that they’re actually enjoying themselves. Music to listen to, then ruminate over for an hour - as you feel they might be doing.

The contradictions of Vancouver Sleep Clinic intrigue and give it some of its humanity. Tim Bettinson’s vision is a compelling thing – sometimes sweeping electronica which can underline the fragile gentleness that can sneak through a crack in it, before the choir barges in to paper over the worries. Someone To Stay (RAL/Sony) is an example of his self-admitted desire to make ‘big statements’, but somehow thoughtfully. Those confusions and the fact you’re almost in on his thought process can strangely recall other Australian acts who could get lost in their own heads, although things like Cordrazine and Augie March owe more to the rock and folk idioms – so it’s probably more mood than mode.