The Single Life: The National, Sarah McLeod, Neil Young & More Deliver New Hits

Subtlety and nuance are things that don’t often get a mention in discussion of the popular music. But then there’s The National. The elements of their music are immediately recognisable: the muffled drum clatter, the meshing of guitars and hum of noise, while Matt Berninger wearily mutters, almost offhandedly. But somehow in that near-formula they conjure such a range of moods and feelings. Guilty Party (4AD/Remote Control) is the clenched heartbreak of a crumbled relationship, while trying not to blame anyone – including one’s self. Again, they have put something in your eye - even if you can’t quite work out how. They can be so understatedly magnificent, and here certainly are. 

Equally, an artist can come at you in an unexpected way. Those expecting the teetering and lacerating guitar bumping into the almost krautrock meccanik dancing of some of St Vincent’s former work, might be taken back a bit by the rippling piano and spaces left in New York (Loma Vista). This is love also broken and gone, perhaps caught somewhere between mourning and anger in the grief cycle. A strange gentleness, and echoed harmonies with an occasional Tourette’s outbreak of calling maybe the other party - or maybe herself – an absolute ‘motherfucker’ before curling back into regret. The curious can put their own spin on how much of this is based in the truth of the artist sometime known as Annie Clark’s recent ‘celebrity’ romance through the prism of America’s odd moral prurience about same-sex relationships. 

Sometimes, often for that American audience, any semblance of subtlety or doubt in your motives much be removed. With cancelled appearances and speculation of his health swirling, new Neil Young material is somewhat unexpected - even if the protest and uplifting outrage of Children Of Destiny (Reprise) is absolutely identifiable as his. Throw in a 56-piece orchestra, and the ideally named Promise Of The Real as backing band (the latter containing Willie Nelson’s son, trivia fans…) and this the call to arms and hope suitable for use in an updated remake of Les Mis. “Stand up for what you believe/Resist the powers that be…!” he commands with usual righteous whine. Corny? OK, sure. But it might be exactly what’s needed.

Or you can find the voice to suit the song or the style. Pesky Bones is not so much a band guise for Pete Farnan – former Boom Crash Opera, and latterly soundtrack constructor (Boy Castaways, etc.) – who find the right artist to go with what he’s assembled. If there was a fault, it was some of the friends he called on were maybe a little too identifiable – Paul Kelly, Tim Rogers, Paul Capsis – and perhaps overwhelmed the songs and have be considered more theirs than his. This is not to diminish having the splendid Ali Barter doing the singing bit for My Radiance (Independent), but her restrained soul angst, with some electro to it, lets you notice the craftsman songwriting and architecture of it.

Between getting the band back together, some almost contradictory acoustic and electronic dance sidetracks, it’s taken Sarah McLeod twelve years to make another ‘proper’ solo record of the rock you’d expect from The Superjesus singer. That last one – a big budget, major label, let’s package her our way album – was, even then, that bit too shiny. But, as preview to the next – the neatly titled Rocky’s Diner, Giants (Inertia) is more like it: big cascades of just-about-to-bleed-into-feedback guitar, and her deceptively sweet but strong vocal, big hooks into the chorus. The business, as it should be. 

But if we’ve got the ‘real’ Sarah back, there is still room for some artifice in the rock and/or roll. Alex Cameron seems to be ever refining his wonderfully cracked actor take on a failed lounge singer from a David Lynch vision of Vegas. Candy May (Secretly Canadian) also has touches of Nick Cave’s nightclub cabaret period, and could even be about Lana Del Rey – but it’s a bit more self-aware of its irony than what she might have done with it. Will the average suburban punter get it? Does it matter? Thing is, the whole shtick might all actually fall to bits if it wasn’t so beautifully built.

And sometimes you want just what it says on the box. Itchy are a German punk band. Ain’t that a wonderful phrase? Now, the one shame to Keep It Real (Arising Empire) might be that they sing in English rather than their native language of romance, but – as is correct for the form – backs are against the wall, life is being spent in a cage, and other such dystopian visions are present as the complaints are yelled, while the music winds and twists in the wind manfully. Same as it ever was, and probably better than most things from Southern California lately making claims on the genre. 

Meanwhile, in Adelaide: Donnarumma are a three-piece here with added horns to make Love Your Man (Independent) a little bluesy, spiralling nicely to a clapalong breakdown where a blurting sax line give it a feeling something akin to if The Cat Empire found something to be grumpy about. No really, that’s a good thing.