Illy May Be A Mainstream Success, But His New Song Proves He's Anything But 'Hip-Pop'

13 October 2016 | 5:14 pm | Ross Clelland

'While occasionally bordering on bouncy, it’s still got some thought and heart to it.'

While many musicians often bang on about ‘developing their art’ (maaaan….), sometimes it’s kind of OK to stay in a comfort zone – particularly if that niche is working for you, and the audience. Nathaniel Rateliff & The Night Sweats have stumbled on a mutually beneficial formula where he and the band bellow and wail at you somewhat soulfully, and you bellow and sweat back. Seems fair. They’ve found a few extra songs in the vault to extend the life of their self-titled debut, and Out On The Weekend (Stax) does the business of what they do, right down to the title. Radio stations toward the classic rock format will also have something new to play, and the crowd will have something else to throw themselves about to, until the encore where they play that one that lets them yell out ‘son-of-a-bitch’.

Our boy Bernard Fanning knows his best parameters too. While hoping Reckless (Dew Process) might be him taking on the Australian Crawl staple – and the more you think about that, the more you think it would work a treat – this is one of Fanno’s own, and musing on life decisions. The backing welling up without ever becoming the full phones-aloft anthem like the ‘Finger used to do, but you probably wouldn’t want it to get that grand. Again, he knows exactly what he’s doing, and this is a bespoke tailored item for him. 

Some of the newer kids know the way that works as well. Edward R. offers Call Me Home (We Are Golden), a slightly more technologically modern take on the tradition. Beginning gently tidal, the layers and emotions mount up as it goes, but somehow retains something of a confessional lament quality to it. Right now, it’s big music probably being played in a smaller room, but you get the feeling that’s likely to change.

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Luckily still retaining some of that ‘Straight Outta Frankston’ suburban blues to what he does, Illy offers Catch 22 (ONE TWO/Warner), an ideal title as he almost seems caught in the one between being a cult act and some sort of wider mainstream success. Anne-Marie’s second voice as conscience vocals make it that bit lighter than the cut-through of Paper Cuts, but while occasionally bordering on bouncy, it’s still got some thought and heart to it. And so doesn’t quite stumble into being commercially obvious hip-pop rather than hip-hop of some sincerity in its message. 

Sometimes a band can wander off somewhere you might not expect, but come back still pretty recognisable. You might not have picked Nashville as a creative destination for Kingswood, but Creepin’ (Dew Process) almost goes for ye olde ‘90s soft-loud dynamic as Fergus wanders in all longing and soulful before the guitars crank up to roll in and over you. There’s a few further contradictions, as a band who supported AC/DC on their (perhaps) last go-round throw in some Swan Lake allegories and visuals to add a cultural element to the racket. Sure, why not? 

Or sometimes it has to be a screeching punkish angst. Washington’s Priests come at you with JJ (Sister Polygon) – an amphetamine reflection on the relationship you really knew was a shit-shambles but keeps coming back into your mind and pulling you in different directions somewhere on a spectrum from ‘fuck you, douchequiver’ to stalking their movements on Facebook. It’s all a bit scrappy, kind of like having The Kills in your garage, but they’ve left the Buick running, and the carbon monoxide fumes have them thumping with increasing desperation on the Roll-A-Door.

But there’s no scruffy like local boys sprawling about trying to get the guitars back in tune. Slumlawwd are a terrific mess, put in well and good – if only for a little under two minutes – as Set Timez?? (Independent) has them happily getting the shits as they’re asked the eternal question as to what hour they finally getting on stage, so you don’t have to waste your time on the often crap support band. It’s slack, frustrated, and buggered with the whole thing – but the fuzz solo that sees it out suggests that while they’re trying hard to appear to be taking the piss from the whole fact they’re in a band in the first place, they might like to be good at it. 

And to some it can be a calling. Kind of. Toby Pazner was tooling around the ruins of Greece when the vision of what The Olympians should be came to him. So he went home to America and constructed the historically correct studio environment – calling it The Temple, no less – seemingly on the old ‘If you build it, they will come’ philosophy. And they did. They being a crew who resumes have names like Sharon Jones’ Dap-Kings, The Menahan Street Band and such on them. The result is previewed with Sirens Of Jupiter (Daptone), where instrumental soul is the currency, and sounds like the opening theme to a ’70s cop show – probably set in Detroit or Chicago – is the result. Cool, or hot - whatever word means ‘damn good’ then or now.