The most mentioned reference point for RVG’s last go-round was The Go-Betweens – all awkward honesty and literary allusions.
There’s not as much of some of that in Eggshell World (Our Golden Friend). This seems to come with the feeling of another Melbourne time – as the ‘70s slipped into the ‘80s, and blackclad angst as guitars clanged over clenched feelings became the currency. Not as melodramatic as Nick Cave or Rowland S. Howard, but probably the voice of someone left in another room while they went and shot up.
Romy Vager has a delivery and a presence that can threaten – although is that a threat to you or herself? Whatever, this will rock you back in your chair.
The once set-in-stone marketing plan of putting out a focus track to announce an album seems to have gone by the board. Like so much else in the world, things are more extreme. Albums can now appear without fanfare - or even warning. Or can come with more trailers and teasers than the latest instalment of the average new Marvel or Star Wars franchise offering.
For their new full scale product coming in the next month or two, Chvrches might have just been searching for the sweet spot. First came Get Out: neat rolling pop, utterly identifiable as them, but somehow utterly generic and nothing really new. So, they then offered My Enemy: with the added star power, cred, and angst provided by having The National’s mumbling Matt Berninger aboard. And so to Never Say Die (Glassnote), where the male voice counterpoints Lauren Mayberry pitching right between ‘fuck off’ and regret. This is what we were after.
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There’s a million bands and artists who never achieve their dreams and aspirations. Worse, there seems a million who overachieve, often far beyond their abilities. The rule I’ve always defaulted to says there’s a million things that have to go right, and a million things that can go wrong to thwart a talent.
Often, you don’t even see the frustrations that result from those roadblocks. But you don’t often see them so keenly expressed as Harts did last weekend at Bluesfest, with his beloved Stratocaster splintered over the stage after going the full Townshend on it.
Perversely, that meltdown might get 21 & 19 (Marshmallow Pavement) more notice than it might otherwise have had. On its own terms, it’s a happily jittery piece of funk – and some of those Prince links will inevitably get a mention. But how much of this music was made while his insides were melting? Or do we even want to know?
On the quality of some of their past works, American Aquarium should be in the top rank of the rockier end of the alt-country continuum. I have friends of taste and discernment who tell me that endlessly. But does that million things rule kick in a bit here too? Things Change, as their upcoming album would have it.
For frontman BJ Barham, that might reference the up near 30 members who’ve been through a band in the decade-and-a-bit they’ve been around after having the good taste to name themselves after a Wilco lyric. Tough Folks (New West) is another quality piece of heartland twanged and twinged rock. Is it the one that finally settles just how good they are?
Sometimes, the sheer weight of your own gene pool might bear down on you. New Zealand’s Elroy is about to make his debut live performance as a solo act. His dad will be there. And probably his uncle. And his elder brother. And a lot of other people named Finn. Yeah, them. Neil’s second son already has varied musical CV – drummer in a psychobilly band, contributions to the family’s work on The Hobbit soundtrack, and so on – but this is himself apparently.
The Highest Tree (Independent), with its lute-and-flute almost prog-like stumble, is an odd but appealing beast – even if you do seem to be waiting for the inevitable big pop hook that never actually comes. If anything, the most familial hints in it suggest he might have been listening to a lot of Uncle Tim’s early version of Split Enz, circa 1974.
The family thing is obviously an issue with Albert Hammond Jr as well. And that’s not just a reference to the dysfunctional relationship that is The Strokes either. His new album is apparently much coloured by the extremely Freudian conceit of having a still-born twin – you know, just like Elvis. So, with that fact in mind, how much of Set To Attack (Red Bull) is spin for the sake of it? Almost counter-intuitively, the music is lighter than you’d expect from his band history – owing a bit to his dad’s '70s halcyon days when it never rained in California, but boy don’t they warn ya: it pours, oh man, it pours - as Hammond Senior’s biggest hit song had it.
Critical darling still in some parts, Billie Eilish is still only just 17. The music of Bitches Broken Hearts (Darkroom) is still a quiet electronic swirl that repeatedly washes over you. Her voice still full of breathy doubt, even as she tries to convince you otherwise. There will still be lazy comparisons to the once equally-youthful Lorde, but this Billie remains more self-conscious, more like a 17-year-old, than Ms Yelich-O’Connor ever seemed to be.
