Frank Ocean Proves He Is One Of The Striking Talents Of This Century With New Song

In the wonderfully fragmented environment the delivers music into the consuming public’s maw of the abyss these days, you should respect the artist who simply does it their own way – and whose reputation builds not just because of that, but because their art is increasingly extraordinary. Yet again, Frank Ocean has just let another of his muses on the human condition out to run free in the world without fanfare, and here in the interwebs we’re left to stumble over it and tell of its existence. Chanel (Boys Don’t Cry) again openly and matter-of-factly deals with the sexuality that once so troubled him as he came to terms with it. But he does acknowledge some nod to the business part of the ‘show business’, with a couple of versions of the song being extant: this one, with A$AP Rocky’s input is the busier variant – the one likely to be heard late at night on your favourite ‘hip and aware’ radio station, while a simpler take – centred on that tinkling piano line and Ocean’s gauzy treated and sometimes troubled voice – is extant on your favourite (or second favourite) streaming service, for a small fee. Whatever, he is one of the striking talents of this century. 

You do what you can to get noticed, even if that means calling in some of your mates to make dicks of themselves in your honour. The Bennies head into ‘fuck tha police!’ mode in a typically #Strayan way: not so much punching faces, as punching cones. Corruption (Poison City) stumbles around the kitchen looking for leftover pizza with a bit of a stoner reggae undertone, before it cranks up when they find the Tim Tams. Lovers of celebrity cameos will pause-and-shuffle through the clip for appearances by Doctor Lindsay overacting shamelessly, Smith Street’s Wil Wagner being the man in the street, and the ever-popular “…and many others”. 

Sometimes, returns are welcome. Dappled Cities return from hiatus seems ever more a full reboot, with new album and big production Vivid Festival performances in the offing. Stone Men (Chugg Music/MGM) has all the layers and polished pop restraint to it, but somewhere its perfectly squelchy 80s synths could it be just that little bit too polite? Whether they loosen up as they go on, and get past what might be a slight tentativeness will become clear over coming months. Probably.

And some resurrections just leave you going ‘Why?’, although you’d be unlikely to rule out the profit motive. Mike + The Mechanics, really? But they keep to some of their traditions, even nearly 30 years on from The Living Years. Again, the redemption that might happen after singing so sincerely about it, only might be there in Don’t Know What Came Over Me (BMG), although its tale of infidelity is somewhat undermined when referring to cheated-on party as “His lady…”. Oh good god. How much of this queasy attitude can be slated to Mike Rutherford’s new collaborator, Clark Datchler of 80s nobodies Johnny Hates Jazz is up to you, but makes it almost perfect fodder for their upcoming support spots on Phil Collins’ comeback shows. And there’s a phrase to make you shudder in itself: ‘Phil Collins comeback’. MATM = MOR, terminally.

England, you remain a confusing little case study. Get back to us when you work out that Brexit thing, eh? For you struggle to find an explanation for The Amazons status as likely next biggish thing. There’s nothing wrong with them, per se – very orthodox old-style rock, just scruffy and dangerous-looking enough to be appealing, complete with the right hair product to fit into their video of the usual moody images of being trapped and disaffected: caged birds, handcuffs, long tunnels. But Black Magic (Caroline Australia) seems to have all the sulky angst of a kid whose mum won’t lend him the Corolla. Really, do we need a new Kasabian? I say no. 

Let us go to music of a more woody sincerity. And damnit, let’s have it on vinyl. Seven inch vinyl. Yeah. We grow and change – or should. Adam Young started off in the 90s, fronting a flanno-shirted poppish band called The Daisygrinders. His work now inhabits a country-flavoured territory that I still reckon should be called Australicana, but probably won’t be. Wolfe Island Blues (Stanley Records) comes on a big rolling organ line, the whole thing getting even bigger when the brass kicks in. This is sturdy, craftsman-built songwriting. Another tangent of his influences obvious when you flip the plastic thingy over, and find a respectful cover of Tom Petty’s Insider, with Katie Brianna’s duet vocal a thing of beauty and quality. 

Oh, you want pop music? Oh Canada, save us. And lo, they did. TOPS is just such a tops name for a pop band, and in their scribbly guitars, Jane Penny’s sweet but not saccharine voice, and the spaces they leave between these elements, Petals (Arbutus) is just terrific. Again, there’s that bit of early 80s new wave floating about in its shuffling and harmonies, but only enough to make it timeless rather than homage. Look, they’re TOPS - either way you choose to read that sentence.

Conversely, ‘heavy’ as a music term is a bit a relative as well. Ocean Grove have all the angst and doubt the form requires, and Thunderdome (UNFD/Rise) is modern and buzzy enough even before the chorus flails in at you. It’s moody, but not as posed as some of their contemporaries can make it. Then you find their drummer/producer Sam Bossal pit together most of their record in his bedroom at age 19 – precocious little bugger.