If You Think Robbie Williams Is Just Parodying Himself Now, You'd Be Right

Let’s face it, you want ‘your’ artist to be the one thing you like – and being any more than one-dimensional can sometimes confuse the punters. Case in point: Dan Sultan. His 2014 album, Blackbird, was terrific – no argument, but perhaps wasn’t the full breakout into the mainstream that some – not the least his record company’s marketing department – thought it might be. Possibly because the singer was caught between being seen as a heartfelt folkie who can genuinely speak to the indigenous experience, and a helluva rock and soul singer. So to the next, and Magnet (Liberation) is more in Column B, a huge tearing howl that can hit you in the head, heart, guts, and crotch all at once. Throw in a clip where young Dan is CGI’ed into being a Max Headroom for the 21^st century, and that entry into the mass-conscious of the mass-market might be that bit closer again.

Another couple of disembodied heads singing humanly at you comes in former Mazzy Star singer Hope Sandoval’s precursor to her new album, Let Me Get There (Tendril Tales). Although they’re a little more shaped from clay rather than a 3D printer. The second voice is the perhaps surprisingly complementary tones of Kurt Vile as they express a soft, puzzled affection that floats past and then away in a manner a little more fragile and a little more thoughtful than would be usual in the pop music. 

Or you can just rip in. Bad//Dreems are the carriers of the flame of when Oz rock was a damn fine thing. They are the proud descendants of everything from The Angels to the Living End, and with the glorious tyre-screech of Mob Rule (Ivy League) you can throw in some Midnight Oil and Weddoes social conscience into what they do – although this might confuse a certain unthinking bogan end of the suburban market. This is just a terrific band, going in hard. I can only question their championing of West End beer, which is just taking working class bargain hunting just a little too far. 

Kimbra’s voice is a defining and recognisable thing to her music. But the styles she attaches to it are sometimes infinitely variable. Sweet Relief (Warner) is the result of her pinballing between New York and London, which here manifests itself as a somewhat breathless stuttery funk, obviously the result of going on a Prince binge after he took that last Paisley Park elevator ride. The visuals are similarly fuzzy and furry, but muscly — like a Burmese cat you’re trying to hold on to, which is happily accepting your pats and attention, until such time as it wants to leave your lap. Which is right now, and you’ll like get swiped as it does so. It is seductive – probably because it’s not trying too hard to be. 

And some fans can wait patiently. It’s about 17 years since American Football were last extant. But post-adolescent romantic angst is apparently eternal.  Desire Gets In The Way (Polyvinyl) is emo of the classic manner, which they still make like there had never been that hiatus. The guitars knot and strangle together, while Mike Kinsella sits quietly in the corner sighing “No, I’m fine…” while rocking relentless back-and-forth and passive-aggressively convincing you otherwise. “I kinda like the pain…” he eventually admits. This, or something similar, will be the soundtrack emanating from cheap bedsits near universities, seemingly forever.  

Relatedly and not, Robbie Williams will be playing the dissolute playboy role he’s been perfecting since the turn of this century through to the next as well. But, as the orchestral strings and Volga Boatmen massed vocals kick in through Party Like A Russian (RW Music), and the suitably underclad ballet dancers recline and end up in a food fight (I mean, doesn’t that just always happen?…) you might start thinking he’s maybe now just parodying himself. And you conclude, well yes of course he is, and it doesn’t matter a jot, ‘cause Robbie’s still having a damn good time as long as the world will let him. And even manages to include the word ‘oligarch’ is a pop song lyric. A Christmas duet with Rod Stewart – with the obligatory swarms of nubiles dressed as yuletide angels seems inevitable. C’mon, you know you want it to happen.

Less decadent, but still another default setting for music videos, particularly in these troubled times: the dystopian future landscape, rebellion of the machines, threats from faceless foes, the world ganging up on the individual. You know the drill. But the soundtrack that Weyes Blood adds to Generation Why (Mexican Summer/Misteltone) is maybe not quite what you’d expect. Natalie Mering’s voice haunts from a distance, a folkie unearthliness suggesting a life brought up on old Joni Mitchell records, but knowing someone who’s a good synth programmer. It’s oddly arty and perhaps a little too studiedly detached, but does get into your head.

That ‘folkie’ word that’s come up a couple of times through this can cover a range of moods as well. Noah Earp might be of that pigeonhole, until the guitars suddenly overflow further confusing the issue. Also provoking questions, calling the song The Raw And The Cooked (Independent) – which may or may not have something to do with The Fine Young Cannibals album from 1988, or Claude Levi-Strauss’ 1960s anthropology book, which has nothing at all to do with jeans – but may have something to do with genes. All that punnery aside, Noah seems to be making a statement of sorts, although being his first full release, it may take us a while to work out just what that pronouncement is. But this song kinda makes you want to know what he’s thinking.