PICK OF THE WEEK
Holy Forest (Club AC30)
Pinkshinyultrablast’s glacial shoegaze was born out of boredom with the stagnant rock scene in their home town St Petersburg. This song oscillates between ambience and heaviness, between the bands Lush and Mew. And considering words such as “cock” and “whore” are banned from use in the arts in Russia, Holy Forest is almost certainly safe to play in front of any bilingual toddlers you might find yourself DJing to. I’d prefer to not end the review like this, but if I’m honest, it’s virtually impossible to find a snappy punchline about Russian shoegaze.
ALSO OUT THIS WEEK
Majestic & Jungle 70
Creeping In The Dark (Armand Van Helden Remix) (Capitol)
If your 2015 resolution was to stop hammering substances of any kind, then Armand Van Helden’s reworking of Majestic’s 2013 garage track should sufficiently corrupt you. Its thuggish rave hook is initially bracing, but by the time the adrenaline subsides you’ll want to be in your bed with a hot water bottle instead of in a suspiciously damp cab driving around the North Circular with a man called Fat Gaz who somehow has your house keys.
Lips Are Moving (Sony)
She may look real but Meghan Trainor is in fact an escaped avatar from Second Life. Or a character from the board game Guess Who? The point I’m making is that there’s something oddly vacant about the pristine cuteness she’s pushing on us. It’s almost as if she’s been created by aliens as the archetypal good gal who’ll distract us from oncoming cosmic malevolence. This new song does nothing but enhance my suspicions: the follow-up to her hit All About That Bass is a chintzy diner ditty perfect for a big milkshake and a walk along the promenade and getting killed by lasers from space.
LA LOVE (La La) (Interscope)
When Trainor nukes the planet in 2032, the only surviving creation will be the Black Eyed Peas’ I Gotta Feeling. I should resent Fergie for her part in creating such parasitic pop, but as a solo artist there’s something tackily transfixing about her. LA LOVE (La La), nine years after her last solo album, fixes her feet firmly in hip-hop pop, with lurching beats by DJ Mustard and lyrics that list world locations languorously. The song is by no means seminal but any artist rocking a barbell eyebrow piercing past 2003 is commendable for sartorial bravery alone.
With their frayed jeans and ramshackle riffs, these Liverpudlians belong on-stage at an NME club night in 2004 supporting We Are Scientists. But following the success of Catfish And The Bottlemen, I have no doubt they will prosper anyway. After all, indie isn’t over until the fat (thin) lady (Steve Lamacq) sings (gets so old he can’t be arsed to go to Camden).