Nothing much can exist in a vacuum, with the possible exception of Tony Abbott’s reasoning on climate change. Thus, when Noel Gallagher’s High Flying Birds finally get around to releasing new music, you really to have to give reference to what the other brother is up to. Perhaps surprisingly, Liam’s absolutely aptly-titled As You Were is all about the comfy slippers approach: familiar swing and swagger skirting the risks of plagiarism lawsuits from The Beatles and the Stones, and giving Oasis enthusiasts what they think they want, or want to remember. But the more talented one – who wrote most of the best pastiches in the Oasis catalogue anyway – goes another way. Holy Mountain (Sour Mash) falls through the door built on a glam-era stomp that Mott The Hoople would be proud of with buzzing guitars, handclaps, and the added credibility of Paul Weller guesting on organ – a man who also most deliberately reinvented his music and distanced himself from his past a number of times. If Noel’s getting his advice there, that might be a bloody good idea.
Similarly, a good backstory can get you noticed but only take you so far. Tash Sultana has always been open about her psychological and substance issues, and it’s always entertaining to watch (particularly) American interviewers and tonight show hosts tap-dance around the subject, and/or blanch when she bluntly informs them of the facts. But get past that, and realise that the talent in this woman plays just about everything on her new thing, the bit soul-ly, bit reggae, altogether funky strolling jam that is Mystik (Independent). ARIA-award nominated, and overseas notice growing, and all utterly deserved.
Jen Cloher is rightly, if belatedly, becoming the other internationally-appreciated talent in the house and life she shares with that Courtney Barnett being. Slightly oddly, this new level of reputation and fame came with somewhat of a change in her music. Her folkie muse, honest with outbreaks of dark wit or even sneer, was supplanted by the release of her inner Patti Smith. She now stalks the stage, going out of her way to look you in the eye and challenge the conventions and preconceptions. The perfectly unapologetic title of Strong Woman (Milk!) is more jagged waves washing over you – there might even be a touch of middle-era PJ Harvey in here, but this is really all about Cloher nailing to the mast nobody’s colours but her own. Absolutely honest.
Growing up in public in the shadow of some big personalities was pretty obviously a bit of a blessing and a bit of a curse for Davey Lane. But his recent I’m Gonna Burn Out Bright album is ‘that kiddie who plays guitar in You Am I…’ making a record that was the statement of being his own man, as well as an absolute historian, and an absolute fan of many musics. My Apple Lady Cried (Capgun Kids) has retro hints to it, but maybe not the classicist pop rips you might expect. There’s a touch of prog in there, but the big echoey early-‘70s sounds of it might be better cross-referenced with the Todd Rundgren cover that Davey is brave enough to have a run at elsewhere in this package.
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After his albeit well-received flirtations with trains and skiffle, Billy Bragg seems headed back to the thoughtful politicism that first made him. That said, Saffiyah Smiles (Cooking Vinyl) is not so much a ‘To the barricades!’ rabble-rousing call-to-arms, but brings it back to more personal struggles and standing your ground as ‘cosplay Nazis’ are shown up for the ridiculous - if sometimes dangerous in groups - complete dicks they are, via a soft waltz with ye olde Hammond organ rolling away underneath. Billy - as ever - can make you think, break your heart, inform, and entertain all at once. It remains a helluva good trick.
Conversely, there’s artists still in a state of flux. Nick Murphy seems to have a few more twists and turns in him yet as his alter-ego Chet Faker fades further into the distance. So, here’s Medication (Future Classic), as his ‘usual’ uneasy buzzing smoothness here becomes more an odd electro tumble, which then trips into a halting breakdown. It’s a bit nervy, but somehow seems to know what it’s doing – although Nick himself might almost be working out how far he can take his art and audience.
Let’s face it, the posthumous release can often be – at best – just mawkish, and at worst just straight-out grave robbing. And although now gone, you reckon Sharon Jones would somehow come back and kick the arse of anyone fucking with her legacy. It’s also a bit of a relief – not the least for that something it would likely put in my eye – that Matter Of Time (Daptone) is not the heartbreaker ballad they may have chosen to preview the album, but a big anthem of affirmation, with herself belting it out as The Dap-Kings lock into the groove behind her. Damn good business.
