A New Morning (2002) - Suede

At the time of release, A New Morning was exactly that for Suede. The final product of a string of revelations, including a freshly sober frontman and an unforeseen need to replace the very guitarist who'd stepped in to fill Bernard Butler's shoes after Dog Man Star, the album would ultimately turn out to be a shift too far for Suede, and mark the end of their original run (bar a cursorily thrown together greatest hits the following year). In the liner notes of the 2011 expanded reissue, Brett Anderson reflects about the band wanting to "destroy their own myth" in creating the album, and by the 2018 documentary The Insatiable Ones has disowned A New Morning entirely, claiming it shouldn't have been made. There is a tangible bittersweetness between the album's beauty in simplicity and its unmistakable departure from direction. This wasn't what the public expected or, as it turned out, much wanted, from the band they thought they knew. But for me, there's a lot more to it than being a mere 'blot on the landscape', and I think it's important to examine A New Morning with the same fresh perspective with which it was created.

The conscious departure from the sticky, noise-congested sound that had gradually evolved throughout their previous four albums rings out from the very first song. Positivity exemplifies A New Morning's joie de vivre, a quality that Suede had left previously unexplored - the clear, chiming acoustic guitar a bright, eyes-open contrast to the twisted, electric distortion of Head Music. It tells the listener from the start that this will be an entirely new experience, and to the album's credit, the subsequent tracks follow suit, allowing sunlight to filter into the cracks that yesterday's Suede would have preferred clogged with grime. Gone are the city-immersed, jaded lyrics we've come to know, with Anderson now using natural phenomena has his primary muse; be it mentions of birds and fresh air or an ode to the magic of a rain shower, the essence of nature seeps its way into nearly every track and imbues them with life.

In a way, this refreshed perspective makes A New Morning the most 'alive' Suede release to date. No longer swathed in the influence of drugs and gritty urban surroundings, and unmarred by the dark, retrospective shadow of later, reformed Suede, this album is, to quote Untitled (a song that truly epitomises how I regard this album), a "wild flower grown through the concrete". With this vitality comes a focus on clarity, on seeing things plainly for what they are, and tracks like Lost In TV and Beautiful Loser are deadpan, disillusioned meditations on the heroin-chic, celebrity-obsessed lifestyle that Suede had previously represented and, to an extent, glamorised. The combination of these overt themes with uncomplicated lyrics of humble beauty and starkly transparent production gives A New Morning its own, unique strength. Though it may not be immediately apparent next to the rest of Suede's heavy-set electric-guitar-led projects, it has the power to stand alone as an overlooked marvel, achieving the very thing it celebrates in its content.

My rankings are as follows:

1. Lost In TV
2. Positivity
3. Untitled
4. Obsessions
5. Streetlife
6. When The Rain Falls
7. Beautiful Loser
8. ...Morning
9. One Hit To The Body
10. Astrogirl
11. Lonely Girls

Total Points: 33/55
Average Score: 6.0

Though there are no 'blue'-rated tracks, the strongest are the ones I feel most effectively portray A New Morning's ease and clarity, and that really celebrate the charm in the mundane. Lost In TV, Positivity and Untitled are almost inseparable in quality because of how well they each exemplify the album's straightforward radiance. In all three, the vocals are the most direct and delicate, the lyrics pure and raw, and the production clear and emotive. None may have the 'bite' of an outstanding Suede hit, but this album, almost by design, shines better as a whole experience than by splitting apart its individual segments. This is why there are also no 'red'-rated tracks - it is a self-supporting ecosystem, where the stronger elements share their strength with the weaker ones, rather than lassoing the spotlight and allowing their inferiors to wither.

At its weakest, songs like Lonely Girls and One Hit To The Body feel limp and lacklustre - they're the ones I'll sometimes forget how they go until I press play on them, and they perhaps contribute the least to the album's worldbuilding, thematically inconsistent as well as a bit pedestrian in sound. I find the string arrangement in Lonely Girls particularly uninspired - though appropriately spritely at its core, it feels like a pale imitation of the much sweeter, rawer strings featured in Dog Man Star's hidden gem The Power, and the effect is superficial in an album full of honestly. Meanwhile, Astrogirl and When The Rain Falls both suffer a similar problem of being 'almost' there - they have such promising starts, the quirky and articulate introductions and verses possessing a rare magic that gives way to underwhelming choruses. Though both anticlimactic in this sense, When The Rain Falls is somewhat saved by its overall atmospheric resonance - even with a bit of a feeble chord resolution (if it can be called that), it still conveys its message sublimely and leaves a lasting impression. Even the spoken word outro evades the fate of second-hand embarrassment on the listener's part, which in itself is a true accolade!

At this point, it feels like a trademark of mine to ponder over the ifs and maybes of B-Sides and bonus tracks, but given Anderson's inclusion of his own revised tracklists in the booklets of Suede's expanded album remasters, I feel it is especially appropriate to mention how substitutions like Simon and Instant Sunshine could have raised the overall standard of A New Morning. Replacing the few duds with slightly more solid efforts, and perhaps a little shuffling around for pacing (though I generally enjoy the gentle rising and falling, especially waking up to ...Morning after the late-night revelation of Untitled) could have given the record a little more oomph - though I disagree with Anderson's take that Cheap is criminally ignored, coming across as far less of a bold proclamation than it blatantly aims for. 

However, even with these kind of tweaks, I don't think it would have changed A New Morning's fate. It was, and still is, the day to Suede's overwhelmingly prevalent night, and though these kind of alterations could easily have elevated the already fair critical acclaim a notch higher, I doubt they would have done much to sway listeners over to a new sound. I remember being bored to death the first time I listened to it, my expectations built up by their back catalogue, and the album coming across with all the personality of an early 2000's Ikea brochure in comparison. I felt like the band I liked so much for their virility and audacity had been neutered. But with each subsequent listen, I've acclimatised to A New Morning's universe, and I've realised this initial reaction (which, unfortunately, was all the majority of listeners at the time were willing to grant it) was based entirely on contrast. Its quality, emotional deliverance, and even song-writing are largely representative of the Suede I knew; I just had rediscover this in the light of a new day.

Sunshower (1977) - Taeko Onuki

It feels crazy to think it today, but Sunshower by Taeko Onuki was not a commercial success upon its initial release in 1977. Disliked by her record company and underperforming in sales compared to her 1976 debut, Sunshower sounds like it was the black sheep of Onuki's discography until the western world was introduced to City Pop in the late 2010s. The very definition of a sleeper hit, it gradually gained more traction with the genre's exposure to a new audience. Now, several rereleases later, it is considered a landmark City Pop record, a true melding of some of Japan's greatest musical minds and a must-have in any enthusiast's library.

Instantly recognisable to many as 'the one with the girl in front of the washing machine' on the cover (even though it's actually just a round window), Sunshower is one of the most 'alive' records I can think of. There's a real sense of 'everythingness' to it, and despite being a 'crossover' work of both eastern and western influence, this immersion in the thick of life and ability to break it apart and observe its fragments feels like a succinctly Japanese sensibility. To me, it's akin to the work of photographer Rinko Kawauchi, whose beautifully captured snapshots of often unremarkable moments speak of minute details and the rush of life all at once, and purvey both a corporeal matter-of-factness and a kind of ethereal magic within them. That is how listening to Sunshower makes me feel. I've talked previously about the time-travelling capabilities of City Pop, but with no other record can I mentally place myself so palpably within an album's specific universe.

1. Summer Connection
2. Tokai
3. Dare No Tame Ni
4. Karappo No Iso
   
5. Furiko No Yagi
6. Nani Mo Iranai
7. Silent Screamer
8. Law Of Nature
9. Kusuri O Takasan
10. Sargasso Sea

Total Points: 32/50
Average Score: 6.4

The album kicks off with Summer Connection, the opening bars of which are a cockerel's crow to wake the listener up to an idyllic song full of breezy momentum and cheery string flourishes. Onuki's nonchalant and unadorned vocal style is at its most carefree and innocent when accompanied by the track's perky yet chilled out instrumentation. After this tremendous opener, a tonal shift occurs, and we start to see how Sunshower is a tour of emotions and moods that echoes the various facets of not only a hazy summer's day, but of Onuki's curiously diverse range. Delicate moments such as Dare No Tame Ni and Karappo No Isu act as serene, private contemplations in the cool of the shade, the latter of which drifts and drops into the ears with almost accidental-sounding phrasing akin to Fleetwood Mac's Albatross. In another moment, Tokai brings us back into the sunlight and the buzz of a city, of people bustling and numerous intertwining happenings, further exemplified in the busy but untangled layers of instrumentation, from waspy synths to bouncy bass guitar.

Above all, Onuki's voice resonates with simplicity above the music, whether it be the babbling crowd of a full orchestral arrangement or a stripped back jazz band set-up. Even with the legendary Ryuchi Sakamoto's input thoroughly detectable throughout the album's DNA, the record comes across as distinctly personal to Onuki, and without a shred of an English lyric present for me to understand. Onuki has an ability to project her sole presence with her voice, in a remarkably isolated way, even while a host of Japan's most renowned and talented musicians relish in their combined virtuosity beside her. Their instruments become the drifting thoughts behind Onuki's vocalised observations, the songs her own private and intimately shared meditations, regardless of the harmonious collaborative effort involved in their making.

In terms of expression and adjustment of mood, the tracks I've not rated so highly manage everything my best scorers do. On a structural level, I find Law of Nature and Kurusi O Takasan less interesting, a bit stagnant with their arrangement. While their flutes and rattling rhythm sections do wonders for conveying a kind of inquisitive scrutiny of, respectively, a societal desire for naturalness or over-prescription of medication, they're simply not as pleasing as Karappo No Isu's moody sunset saxophone or the brilliant burgeoning drums during Furiko No Yagi's climax. Onuki's vocals are no less perceptibly melancholy or resolute in Sargasso Sea than in any other track; it is just a harder listen. Bare in rhythm and experimental in timbre and arrangement, you can't 'kick back' to this one like you can with the rest of the album - it exists to make you feel, but in stark and still way, removed from syncopation, electric piano flares or bold, brass section stabs.

Before concluding, I feel it would be negligent not to mention a couple of songs that would be further highlights if not for their status as bonus content on various rereleases of the album: the light and sanguine Heya, an aestival b-side to the single release of Summer Connection, and Kōryō, a fragile and despairing duet with Masataka Matsutoya created for his 1977 debut album 夜の旅人 = Endless Flight. These songs act as additional isolated moments in our summer daydream, effortlessly complementing the album's overall ambience in a way that makes me lament that they are not integral to its original lineup.

Sunshower feels like City Pop at its most raw, far removed from the flashiness of mid-80's, bang-in-the-middle of the economic bubble City Pop that is often at the forefront of the genre. It is every bit as polished, but clearly part of an earlier generation, much more organic and undiscerning in approach - still very much a meshing of eastern and western elements, but expressed in way that feels so void of thought, simply and purely as if straight from the soul to the ear. Like Kawauchi's photography, it speaks of life in an all-encompassing fashion because it is so direct and unfussy, unglazed with contrived staging or special lighting. I love letting this album wash over me, barely perceiving it in a conscious way, simply absorbing its ebbs and flows and allowing my mind to wander without rein. It has grown on me more and more because with each listen I bathe in its atmosphere and gain more from simply relaxing into it than I do from intentionally picking apart it's nuances. As much as I felt it necessary to review, that's not what Sunshower is for; listen to it with your body and your soul, not your mind, and you'll be able soak up all of its glorious light just as I have done.

Down 4 Whateva... (1993) - Nuttin' Nyce

Nuttin' Nyce's Down 4 Whateva... is a manifesto of unabashed women's sexual freedom, the likes of which had seldom been seen before, and would not become the norm until pretty much the 2020's. When reviewing the work of one of the 1990s' most forgotten contributions to the r&b girl group model, it's difficult not to get bogged down with context. I spent a few hours painstakingly calibrating my comparisons to peers TLC, the rise and fall of New Jack Swing and the history of sexuality in r&b from a female perspective, but it feels so trite to read back, not to mention completely lacking in citational backbone. So I think I'm going to scrap it all in favour of taking Nuttin' Nyce's first and only record at face value.

This short-lived Sacramento trio look like a pretty standard girl-group setup for the time - and if you let the lyrical content of their songs wash over you and simply listen to the music, they sound it too. Caught just as the New Jack Swing trend started to fade in favour of a more silken, sultry sound, Down 4 Whateva... is a snapshot of succinctly 90's r&b. In some ways it sounds a bit dated to listen to now, but the freshness of being on the cusp of a new era is something that never really loses its sparkle. Regardless of where each song sits on the spectrum, you can guarantee it'll be full of spice and personality, a factor that instantly sets Nuttin' Nyce aside from their cookie-cutter archetypical girl group.

It's impossible to not address the elephant in the room - that Nuttin' Nyce are nuttin' but a bunch of nymphomaniacs. Nearly every song on the album is about sex. And not in a subtle, suggestive way; in a straight-up, hormone-driven, bitch-in-heat way, ranging from the recurring mantras of being 'down for whateva' and a pursuit of 'no love, just sex and a good time', all the way to the ad-libbed spoken middle 8 of Vanity 6 cover Nasty Girl, which demands "seven inches or more, better yet, make it eight". Even the tenderest of moments, slow jams like Show Me and Don't Make Me Wanna Do U, revolve around the subject, albeit in a somewhat less brazen way. A minor criticism could be that the almost desperate need to incorporate sex explicitly into every song is a little cringe-inducing. But then I remember WAP and I'm forced to reconsider this assessment.

The proof, as they would misquote from the popular and often misquoted idiom referenced in the album's closing track, is in the puddin'...

1. What Can I Say To You (To Justify My Love) (feat. Hi-Five)
2. Froggy Style
3. U Ain't Gotta Lie To Kick It
4. Down 4 Whateva
5. En Tu Deep (Sticky Situation)
6. Nasty Girl
7. Show Me
8. Don't Make Me Wanna Do U
9. Proof Is In The Puddin'
10. Gotta Get Mine
11. In My Nature
12. Wanderin' Eyes
    (Exempt from total score: Interludes 1-6: Jackin' For Men, Liquor Run, The Bomb Stop, Munchies At Roscoe's, Goin' To The Mustang & Boom Boom's Surprise)

Total Points: 37/60
Average Score: 6.17

Funnily enough, my top-rated track, an old-skool duet with labelmates Hi-Five, is the only one based around more familiar r&b themes of the time of protesting against unfaithfulness and valorising genuine affection over promiscuity. This is merely a coincidence, as my high placement is owed to the lush layering of harmonies, Eboni Foster's streamlined vocal runs and a penchant for that early 90's street sound. To justify this statement, right behind it is one of the most audacious songs on the album, Froggy Style - every bit as old-skool with its heavy sampling and record scratches, but this time an ode to a favourite sexual position. As mentioned earlier, Vanity 6's 1982 hit Nasty Girl is updated for the new decade with fresh instrumentation, reinterpreting the 'off-limits' coquettish sexual gloss set up by Prince's penmanship with a streetwise beat that exudes confidence and attainability without sacrificing any of the song's key content. Other highlights include the chilled-out Soul II Soul-sampling title track, and the kicking synth baseline of U Ain't Gotta Lie To Kick It, a song so effortlessly funky that it's almost as easy and accessible as the girls themselves claim to be.

The album begins to sag a bit towards the end, with Wanderin' Eyes breaching on the generic, containing some especially cliched lyrics, and closer Proof Is In the Puddin' feeling kind of stodgy (no pun intended), being a little too long, a little too slow, and a little too cumbersome in timbre choices. The lead single, In My Nature, is hands down the weakest of the individual releases, the sing-song chorus uncharacteristic of Nuttin' Nyce's slicker image*, despite fitting with its lyrical content. I'd be remiss not to mention the interludes at this point which, even though I fundamentally try to disregard such insubstantial tracks, do add an extra layer of narrative and humour, and tie everything together in a goofy and ridiculous conclusion. I don't think they detract per say, but they're certainly not crucial to enjoying the album and extracting the veritable juices Nuttin' Nyce have to offer. Even at its weakest, Down 4 Whateva... manages to deliver a solid sound that never feels dry or devoid of substance.

*I can't find written evidence anywhere, but I'm pretty certain this song was recorded with the original line-up, before Liz Burnett was replaced by Eboni Foster.  Unfortunately, all vocal credits on the album and the single release for this song are simply attributed to Nuttin' Nyce as a whole, with Teese Wallace being the only member acknowledged in the writing. With Onnie Ponder taking the lead for the song, the music video, which exists online only in poor quality anyway, barely focuses on the other two singers, so it's hard to get a decent look at them - but I'm pretty sure that Eboni Foster is not one of them. And the single cover art sure doesn't look like her either. Not that any of this really matters, but it might explain why In My Nature seems a little different to the rest, if it literally had a different lineup singing it. Like what happened with Atomic Kitten. Oh well!

It's hard to say how truly 'influential' this album really was on the r&b scene of today - of course, black female sexuality in the vein they were expressing it is a lot more prevalent, but Nuttin' Nyce seem to have slipped entirely through the cracks. There is so little evidence of their presence on the internet that I can't help but wonder if it's all just a big coincidence. Their ballads may well be among the earliest blueprints for the kind Destiny's Child started making as a 4-piece, and their pride and ownership of their sexuality may well feel trailblazing in a male-dominated, woman-objectifying era of music, but ultimately, I think Down 4 Whateva... must just be drop in the ocean. But one that, in my opinion, truly deserved and still deserves more of a spotlight than it's ever really had.

1977 (1996) - Ash

This is probably a bad habit, but I can't help but listen out for telltale signs of debuts being debuts. I'll press play and compare what I'm hearing to what I know, or what I'm aware the artist makes in the future; the path that lays ahead for them. In the case of Ash, one of the few acts I've seen live (I'm fully ready for the backlash when I say that I'm just not into live music), their first effort is largely a far cry from the kind of music that managed to drive me to actually buying tickets to their show many years later. In other words, in the years to come since making 1977, they would create incredible music. And this just isn't it. Let's get into why.

1977 has that kind of fuzzy, grey quality to it that brings to mind the Weezer classic Pinkerton - intentionally rough around the edges, unpolished and haphazardly human. All mistakes on purpose, it's simply a case of letting the feedback feedback and the noise noise. It's an aesthetic as much as it is a point being made, and it runs throughout. Finesse was not on the agenda, and I'm ok with this. My standout track, Goldfinger, shows how a masterfully constructed song can survive, or even thrive, with such muddy manifestation. It has just enough texture, with it's suspenseful sus 4s and time signature changes (come on music theory!) that it can carry itself regardless of potentially detrimental production choices. But honestly, the distinct way the instruments accompany the verses, the ritardando (I swear I never payed attention in music theory lessons!), and the idea of 'listening to the rain down in the basement' all just work for their sound during this era. Unfortunately, 1977 is not an album full of Goldfinger-quality writing and construction.

1. Goldfinger
2. Lost In You
3. Kung Fu
4. Angel Interceptor
5. Girl From Mars
6. Darkside Lightside
7. I'd Give You Anything
8. Oh Yeah
9. Lose Control
10. Gone The Dream
11. Let It Flow
12. Innocent Smile

Total Points: 29/60
Average Score: 4.83

Let's contrast Goldfinger with my lowest scorer, Innocent Smile. We're wading through the thickest of bogs with the audio here, distortion drowning everything including the vocals. Where Goldfinger has highs and lows, cliffhanging connections, stops and starts and effervescent drum fills to punctuate and open the song out from the fog, Innocent Smile... doesn't. What it does have is a gaussian blur of an ending that I honestly don't know how Ash was able to remember it well enough to rehearse and record it. As heard in one of the album's brighter moments, Kung Fu, band lead Tim Wheeler's signature verse style of syncopated monotone delivery in the chord's root note is also implemented, but without the quirkiness and the substance of the former. Bluntly put, this song is boring, and I feel that half the album (the oranges and reds, naturally) can best be described with that same blunt word.

Goldfinger acts as a glimmer of greatness and absolute mastery from a band that just hasn't quite got it yet. They're showing themselves capable, but can't do it on cue. Let's look at the augmented(? Music theory competence fading rapidly from view now) chord in Let It Flow's hook. We're at the second "It's calling out to me" and it feels like it's going to go somewhere interesting and resolve beautifully, in a salacious swerve reminiscent of Suede's early work. Instead, it cops out into the blandest following chord imaginable. It makes the music feel made sans dexterity and sans true effort, like they didn't know what they were doing and didn't strive to learn. And given that they were a young band, I think this may have been somewhat true. The resulting music is unmemorable and uninviting to replay. And, to bring things back to my initial observation, when combined with the muddiest of muddy production, it comes across as amateurish; sloppy and uninspired.

The string arrangements in Gone The Dream and Oh Yeah do serve as a demonstration of craftsmanship and ambition being invested into the songs. I don't personally think the effort was worth the payoff though, the songs themselves among the less interesting, and the addition of orchestral elements feeling an odd choice in such a noise-festooned album. One final criticism regarding Ash's junior status is how Wheeler implements his vocals. The soaring momentum in closing track Darkside Lightside suffers from a lack of dynamism is his voice. Once again, he shows himself capable of amping it up where needed and matching his delivery to the attitude of the music elsewhere on the album, but the penny doesn't seem to always drop, and his aloof 'run-through' of the words in this song flattens the impact it almost had.

Ash's talents shine best when they're really concentrating on resolving those chords satisfyingly and fighting the wash of genericness that threatens the entire album. Kung Fu's fantastical nostalgia-filled lyrics compliment the jungly central drum break and the neatness of the overall composition, making for a much-needed injection of personality into the proceedings. Lost In You, while the tiniest bit plodding, manages to follow through the tricks set up by the chords in the same vein as Goldfinger. Confidently performed and coherently rendered, this track has the competence and the understated elegance of a more established and self-actualised Ash that would present itself in future ballads in years to come.

This review may be less than favourable, but I don't really mean it as some kind of scathing attack on a first album - I'm not that much of a dickhead! Partially, I listened to the album and just had plenty to say - it stirred a lot of thoughts and opinions within me, and came as a neatly packaged solution to the writer's block I tend to suffer from. Otherwise, I think this review provides a good set-up for when I come back to Ash and review another one of their albums. I'll be able to recall what I wrote here and note the similarities and the differences, and I'm hoping it'll only serve to make the review that much stronger. It may have a low score from me, but Ash had to start somewhere. Though few and far between, 1977 has moments of greatness that signify even brighter sparks in the future, and I'm really looking forward to eventually getting round to them.

Aquarium (1997) - Aqua

A few reviews ago, I wrote that while I may come across like an insufferable hipster, my wider taste in music would debunk such a title, and that future reviews would aim to prove this point. Well, that time has come. I'm fully prepared to be stripped of any perceived trendiness, my taste to be questioned and my reputation tarnished, and you should be too. Because I, without the slightest hint of irony or guilt, actually rather like the music of Aqua, and I'm about to tell you why.

In 1997, Barbie Girl hit the airwaves and filtered through to the limited outlets accessible to 6-year-old me, which just goes to show how much of a mega-hit it was. Outside of the local bands, orchestral music and occasional 70's stuff that my parents listened to, I'd heard of Barbie Girl, two or three Spice Girls singles and was aware there was a band called Boyzone - until I started pursuing music on my own, this was really all I knew. And when you're a fledgling music enthusiast, knowing that you want to fly free of the acoustic nest your parents curated but not really knowing what the world has to offer, you gravitate to what little you recognise. I vividly remember being in a charity shop (Scope, if you wanted to know) in maybe 2001 and seeing the cassette tape of Aquarium up on a rack of pre-owned tapes for, I want to say, £1.50. I asked the volunteer to reach it down for me, even though I was taller than her (I knew she had a kick stool but she didn't use it). I was drawn to the bright colours, the band's eerie glow, and Lene's tall hair and bushy eyelashes, and the cartoony logo with the eye motif was very my kind of thing. I checked the back, recognised Barbie Girl and suppose I must have thought to myself, "I understand what this is". And that is the story of how I came to purchase my first album.

Similarly to how I feel regarding OPM's Menace To Sobriety, I don't believe my appraisal of the music is softened by nostalgia. If anything, I have a better appreciation now for the musicality of the more blatant schtick songs, which I definitely shunned quite early into my development, well aware that there was nothing 'cool' about listening to Barbie Girl in the 21st century. Ultimately, it's the quality that keeps me coming back, and you're about to see just how highly I regard it.

1. Good Morning Sunshine
2. Be A Man
3. Calling You
4. Doctor Jones
5. Roses Are Red
6. Lollipop (Candyman)
7. Happy Boys & Girls
8. Turn Back Time
9. Barbie Girl
10. My Oh My
11. Heat Of The Night

Total Points: 37/55
Average Score: 6.73

You might have noticed that this album has received my highest score yet. Given how my system works, it's very high indeed (I'd say anything above 6 is high, I certainly don't see anything breaking the 8 mark), and there's a part of me that feels a bit incredulous about this, even though I scored it myself and stand by my verdict, just because of the general consensus that Aqua are something of a gimmick band. Which isn't an unfounded myth - songs with subjects including a plastic doll, a fictional archeologist, and a medieval kingdom don't exactly make for a cultured listening experience. Combine with these singles goofy, slapstick music videos that exaggerate the band's wackiness and sense of humour, and it's easy to brush them off as a juvenile act that caters to only the most low-brow of audiences, probably containing more children than adults. But there's a lot more to the band, and this overarching tawdriness is, in fact, just the most pronounced of many concurrent facets they possess.

Before we look any closer, let's reinterpret their zaniness by declaring them self-aware, tongue-in-cheek entertainers who want to create positive music designed to be danced to and to put a smile on listener's faces. I don't think this is far fetched at all, and if this is the goal of their music (and its corresponding promotional videos), mission accomplished. Now, let's focus on some of the brilliant qualities Aqua have that often go overlooked. Firstly, Aquarium is one of the most flawlessly produced albums I've ever heard - not one note, whether sung, played or programmed, is misplaced or nonchalantly fumbled, and even though it's fair to call this an album of electronic music, it never feels overly mechanical or computerised. The record has a consistent, distinct flavour, remaining bright and slick but still incorporating a variety of timbres and moods - ranging from the familiar eurodance tropes of Roses Are Red to contemplative, wistful ballads like Turn Back Time, and even one (admittedly ill-judged) latin-influenced song. While future endeavours feel a little more detached from song to song, this record remains fluid (excuse the pun) and succinctly part of it's own bubble (excuse that pun too please). No track is laboured or excessively long; they are expertly judged by in-band production duo Søren Rasted and Claus Norreen to maintain the fit and feel of their vivid, caricature image during this era.

Aqua's greatest asset is, or should I say are, their lead vocalists, and the sheer contrast between them. Barbie Girl epitomises the extremes of this schism, with Lene's high-pitched, somersaulting voice feminised further still under the guise of Barbie, while René's gruff, baritone Ken provides a macho counterpoint full of swagger and attack that serves as the perfect yin to her yang. This polarity makes their vocals perfect for character acting, and we see it time and time again in the likes of My Oh My, Doctor Jones and Lollipop (Candyman), to name a few examples. René's contributions often err on the edge of rap, and fully take this form in the Middle 8 of my personal favourite track, Good Morning Sunshine. Strangely enough, it's the least cheesy he sounds on the entire album, helped in no small part by the ballad's lush, accessible but poetic imagery and velvet-rich yet relaxed tone - something I'm sure a lot of people would never have expected to be said about an Aqua song! For Lene, Aquarium acts as something of a showcase, giving her chance to really exercise her vocal elasticity. In addition to her trademark brazen soprano, she takes on a softer, more delicate approach in Be A Man, plays up her sugary intonation in Lollipop (Candyman), and shows she can be an absolute powerhouse when she belts out an almighty sustained note during the climax of Calling You.

Along with Good Morning Sunshine, Be A Man is a beautifully performed and vulnerable model of a 90's pop ballad, with the addition of glistening electric piano and expertly dispersed backing harmonies to add a cosy yet sparkling aura to the sound. One notable omission from the original album is Didn't I, a bonus track featured on many re-releases of Aquarium, and bumped up to part of the core tracklist on the 25th anniversary edition vinyl. Had this qualified, it would have been a third 5-pointer for me, notching the album up to an even higher overall score (an astounding 7.0). This song, an up-tempo dance track in their familiar euro flavour, is actually closer in subject matter to Aqua's more serious, slower songs, and takes full advantage of Lene's sweeping vocal ability. Their kitsch phenomenon Barbie Girl, corny and overplayed though it is, still deserves credit for how well assembled it is, as well as it's playful lyrics and sheer audacity. The only real flop is Heat Of The Night; it doesn't matter how big a pinch of salt you take the band with, this will always be cringe-inducing - as packed as it is with every imaginable Spanish stereotype, it feels more exploitative than inspired, and would definitely be inconceivable today.

I haven't set out to convince anyone to fall in love with this album - whereas with City Pop, I'm something of an advocate, when it comes to music like this, I just kind of accept that it's not for everyone, especially in 2022. You don't personally care for europop from the 1990's? That's fine. It's an acquired taste, I'll live. I suppose what I've really done here is written a defence for a band that has always been brushed off as a stunt, a group play-acting at being musicians, and have tried to quash this popular opinion as I feel it is unreflective of their true nature. To me, they're experts in their field, virtuosos of their art and dynamos of their time, and I know that tracks from this particular album will always snake their way onto my playlists, then, now and in years to come.

Sexy Robot (1983) - Hitomi 'Penny' Tohyama

Considering that one of my main goals with this blog was to find a way of integrating City Pop with my favourite western music, I think it's high time I looked at another record from that particular region and era. Sexy Robot by Hitomi 'Penny' Tohyama (who from now on, as her debut album implores, I'll just call 'Penny') is quite a different take on the broad and blurry-bordered umbrella term of City Pop when compared with the previously reviewed For You by Tatsuro Yamashita, but it is no less quintessential to the genre. It simply showcases another side of it - the roots and influences come from similar places, and ultimately both albums boil down to being outstanding products of the 1980's Japanese economic bubble. While busy exporting brands to the western world that we now consider household names, something of a cultural exchange was occurring without us ignorant westerners even noticing, with Japanese musicians borrowing from soul, disco, funk and pop, and infusing with it their own sensibilities and the latest technologies. The results were, as you may expect, both extremely varied and oftentimes very transparently referential. 

When you listen to certain (excuse the colloquialism, but I need to be frank) bangers from Sexy Robot, it's hard not to let a part of your mind guiltily think of the music as derivative. If you've ever lurked such dark and hostile corners of the internet as City Pop themed reddit pages, you'll have seen posts about how artists like Toshiki Kadomatsu have 'ripped off' forgotten 12" bass riffs from the 70's. You'll click on the link and listen, and think to yourself with immense reluctance, having thought your Japanese discovery was a work of original genius, "yeah, ok, that is almost identical actually". The most glaring parallel when it comes to Penny's music is Wanna Kiss, whose thudding bassline is the fraternal twin of Queen's Another One Bites The Dust. I didn't notice until I saw one of these obsequious posts pointing it out, the commenter almost salacious in trying to discredit Penny's song, and now the comparison has forever (admittedly, mildly) tainted Wanna Kiss in my mind as a known imitation, no matter how much I adore it and how much effort I can see has been put into making it unique and wonderful in its own right.

But here's the thing: who fucking cares? In addition to such melodramatic exposé-type posts on these often insufferable forums, largely kept aground by Gen Z-ers hiding behind excessive emojis and memes, you'll also find posts of 'new' music, praising acts like The Weekend for 'sampling' Tomoko Aran's Midnight Pretenders (sampling is an understatement, it's basically taking the track unaltered and singing over it) and 'bringing it to a new audience', as if the majority unfamiliar with Tomoko Aran's original track would even consider that he didn't come up with it himself. And you can guarantee they'll be the same people who prefer the 'slow and reverb' version of an Anri song, or gush about bootleggers like Macross 82-99's bare-minimum remixes of 80's tracks being passed off as their own work, without due credit to their original sources. In my opinion, these are far worse crimes than a bit of light musical imitation - these are bonafide regurgitations! I'd much rather listen to something independently generated from Japan that sounds a lot like (for example) Kiss by Prince than something that literally steals and recycles and bastardises a heartfelt article of musicianship and turns it into a mangled effigy of something that was once pure. I have no problem with sampling, but when the line is crossed and these lazy 'mixes' are passed off as new creations by new artists, it boils my blood. Especially when the whole movement is carried by zoomer trolls with moral compasses so warped by modern concepts like accountability and cancel-culture that they can't see any kind of evil or injustice that isn't bathed in a light of woke-ness.

Ok, rant over. Let's rank this shit!

1. Wanna Kiss
2. Let's Talk In Bed
3. We Are In The Dark
4. Tuxedo Connection
5. Be Mine
6. Sexy Robot
7. Cathy
8. Behind You
9. Try To Say
10. Slow Love

Total Points: 29/50
Average Score: 5.8

Before the advent of the compact disc, it wasn't uncommon for albums to be divided in theme by their sides of play. Overt examples are Kate Bush's Hounds Of Love or, to stay on theme, Mariya Takeuchi's Miss M. While not explicitly annotated as such, what would be 'side A' of Sexy Robot on vinyl or cassette is definitely the more upbeat, danceable half of a clear division, while the second half of the album is slower in pace and much more soulful. While both halves are smoothly but boldly rendered and certainly not disparate, the division itself between the two moods feels a little jarring. Also, the first part is just so much catchier and alive! Of course the slower, moodier side is going to waver somewhat after listening to the strutting, fun, outspoken flamboyance displayed across the first five tracks - there's no escaping this. And it's not a criticism as such, more just an observation, and something of a justification for why my ranking echoes the two halves of the record so closely, with just the middle-most two tracks saving the order from dividing the songs down the middle in the same two parts as the actual tracklist.

Putting any derivation aside, Wanna Kiss is still my top-rated track, and it's a blunt, booming spectacle of sophisticated, refined disco, brought up-to-date for the 80s, with a synth bass laying down the foundations for more experimental ancillary electronic fills. These sounds, by today's standards, are almost retro-futuristic, the wonky, artificial timbres verging on cute or humorous. But just before they reach the level of comical, they evoke the bygone era - that familiar safetynet of nostalgia for something you were never part of that City Pop manages to oh-so-often conjure - and you're transported to a time and a place where these quirks aren't quirks at all, but part of the biome of the music. Along with Wanna Kiss, the confident yet coquettish, partially rapped Let's Talk In Bed carries a kind of restrained sparseness in its musical arrangement, foreshadowing the conventions of modern-day r&b. Reinforcing their western inspiration, songs such as this one and Tuxedo Connection use English lyrics to punctuate the cosmopolitan soundscape with references to alcohol and sexual attraction, selling the record as a soundtrack to a hedonistic and aspirational lifestyle, exemplary of the aforementioned economic bubble long before it was due to burst.

Penny's voice matches the music well - there's something a little ham-fisted about the way she sings, exuberant and verging on brassy, but a gentler or more restrained singer would risk being overshadowed by all of the cutting-edge synths and such. By competing with the instrumentation a little, her voice's boldness wins out and actually reinforces the prevalent themes of confidence and frivolity, and her decisive, expressive phrasing makes sure the spotlight remains on her vocals. That said, she's never uncompromising to the point of being detrimental; when a mellower vocal is needed, such as for the silken and understated We Are In The Dark or one of the more heartfelt tracks in the second half, she is able to rein it in and channel her power into emotion. Penny's voice, to me, feels more typical of a musical theatre or cabaret singer than someone making pop records. But her personality and its placement within the bubble-era zeitgeist is what makes it work, and the result is an unorthodox but striking sound that really distinguishes her from her 1980's peers.

With all the fandango around electronics and drum machine, the music can, at stages, feel a little clumpy and overly automated. The title track suffers from this in particular; despite its distinctive hook and zealous vocal performance, the four bars of solo drum machine at the 2:13 mark do it zero favours, tipping the balance from state-of-the-art sophistication to sounding like it was homemade on a primitive home computer and saved onto a floppy disc. Luckily, the virtuoso guitar and key contributions throughout, from the likes of multiple other City Pop dignitaries such as Makoto Matsushita and Hiroyuki Nanba, bring the music back down to earth and, alongside Penny's singing, insert some much-needed corporeality into what could easily have been quite a robotic affair. Of all the album's offerings, I found Slow Love to be the weakest - assumedly some kind of relaxed, modern take on Motown, but bumbling and quite diluted, and not suited to Penny's ability to bring the levels of drama achieved in the comparably epic closer Be Mine, or any of the funky jams from the first half.

 

It can sometimes be difficult to know where to start with certain artists, especially when it comes to City Pop, with Penny herself having made too many albums to count on both hands, and a lot of her repertoire similar in flavour. Sexy Robot feels perhaps the most exemplary of her vivacious, flirty, courageous side, and is definitely the harder hitting sibling of her other 1983 release Next Door, which touches on these strengths but pulls several of its punches and feels a little 'naff' at times. This overarching cheapness is something that does unfortunately find its way into other examples of Penny's work, but is largely avoided when she opts for a more acoustic accompaniment (see Just Call Me Penny and Five Pennys). However, with these albums, her unique brand of charismatic, girly confidence is lacking, and the themes of luxury and pleasure-seeking take a backseat. Only with Sexy Robot are all of Penny's biggest strengths able to be experienced without compromise, making it the perfect entry level album to help decide what in her discography to explore next.

I know I spent a little longer on this review than others (not least because I got sidetracked by my resentment of modern appropriation of my favourite musical genre) but hopefully it has been informative and beguiling and not just fanatic rambling. I think it's pretty obvious from the length and depth I went into, as well as the sheer quantity of hyperlinks to discogs pages, that this is something of an area of passion for me. If it inspires anyone to listen to some City Pop, for the first time or the umpteenth, or even just piques your interest or sets off a spark somewhere in your brain, then I am happy.

Cake (1990) - Trashcan Sinatras

Obscurity Knocks by Trashcan Sinatras (or The Trash Can Sinatras, as they were called when the song released back in 1990) is a rare kind of song that seems to do so many things at once. It's a coming-of-age story full of retrospective and uncertainty, with cleverly composed lyrics that somehow bridge the gap between wisdom and naivety, and a springy guitar-jangle momentum that perfectly counterbalances the drifting, mildly wistful vocals. It has a timelessness that is at once the very snapshot of turning 21, the wonder of the journey there and the worldliness of experiencing the years since. It is a song that took me by surprise, that I knew would stay with me, and that I knew, deep down, was probably a one-off.

1. Obscurity Knocks
2. Maybe I Should Drive
3. Even The Odd
4. Thrupenny Tears
5. The Best Man's Fall
6. Circling The Circumference
7. You Made Me Feel
8. Only Tongue Can Tell
9. Funny
10. January's Little Joke

Total Points: 27/50
Average Score: 5.4

Trashcans' debut album, Cake, is an inoffensive venture, with an absolute standout gem in the aforementioned lead single, and not a lot else of note. The 9 other tracks struggle to keep up with the pace the opener sets - no matter how witty the wording or lovingly crafted, they're just comparably lacklustre. You'll notice how close my rankings are to the actual play order - this is because the album gradually looses steam the further it progresses. By the time you get to the meandering yawn of a closer, January's Little Joke (the overall sound quality of which can only really be described as an approximation of recording at best), you feel like you've taken an uphill struggle and have just petered out before edging over the top of the hill. Don't get me wrong, even the mildest tracks, Thrupenny Tears and Funny, are beautifully arranged and enriched with the album's signature lyrical wordplay, and would make poignant reprieves from the rest of the record if it were as amped-up and alive as Obscurity Knocks. However, nothing comes close to touching the opening anthem, and instead we're presented with an album full of, to put it bluntly, boring tracks being intermitted with even less lively ones.

The more I think about it, the more I conclude that Obscurity Knocks simply isn't representative of the band Trashcan Sinatras were wanting to be. On one hand, this makes it a strange choice for a lead single, but on the other, it is easily the most sparkling and attention-grabbing track they had in their arsenal, and it would have been silly to hide away a full technicolour masterpiece in favour of their other greyscale works. The album is rife with never-fully-resolved potential; for example, the almost yodelled chorus of Even The Odd rings out fantastically over a happy acoustic jangle, but the song simply lacks the oomph that Trashcans have shown to us right at the start of the record they are capable of. Perhaps if this track and the other more upbeat songs like Maybe I Should Drive and Only Tongue Can Tell had been granted a similar treatment to Obscurity Knocks, they may have bolstered up the overall atmosphere of the record from retirement home to office party. But then again, isolated and without the context of the other songs and their vastly different degrees of amplitude, they're not so bad. They just don't quite compare. The band's craftsmanship is meticulous when it comes to their songs, but I think the bigger picture is their downfall.

This album is one I want to like more than I do. I want to appreciate the nuances and the fingerpicking. I want to get under it's skin and feel at one with it like I do with the song that led me here. But honestly, it just doesn't hit the spot. I have every respect for what they're going for, but it simply doesn't resonate. When it comes to my overall verdict on Cake, I think the Trashcans themselves say it best, with one of the most memorable lyrics from their standout single:

"Oh I like your poetry, but I hate your poems."

Ok, it doesn't quite summarise my feelings, but it gives the jist. That's what this album does, it gives the jist of a good listen, but can't quite form a fully developed article.

Blue Moves (1976) - Elton John

In the first entry I wrote on this blog, I noted that this whole musical venture was something to tide over a period of unemployment. Suffice to say, as my several-month-long absence probably illustrated, said period did not last very long. Luckily I'm much happier in my current job than in my last, and I'm finally settled enough to try and get back into these reviews. I'll try and sustain some momentum, but you'll be pleased to know that I plan on being slightly less verbose. So feel free to call me out if I start to waffle unduly. I'm rekindling the blog's flame with my first double album review, from an artist I've only really become properly acquainted with very recently.

While many consider 1973's Goodbye Yellow Brick Road to be Elton John's magnum opus, I would like to submit a different candidate from his extensive catalogue of 30+ albums for this esteemed title. Comparable not only in length but also sheer breadth of styles, 1976's Blue Moves is the heavier, darker and more mature selection of the two double LPs. Whereas Goodbye Yellow Brick Road boasts a fistful of commercial hits and had the good fortune to release at the apex of Elton's first wave of international popularity in the early 70's, Blue Moves suffered from poor timing, the initial Rocket Man zeitgeist waning, and from being a little too niche overall to spawn any real radio-ready ear-worms. That said, something I have learned from a recent Rocketman-fuelled dive into his back catalogue is that Elton's hit singles are not necessarily the best work on their respective albums.

1. Tonight
2. One Horse Town
3. Chameleon
4. Crazy Water
5. Sorry Seems To Be The Hardest Word
6. Where's The Shoorah?
7. Bite Your Lip (Get Up And Dance!)
8. Shoulder Holster
9. Someone's Final Song
10. Idol
11. The Wide-Eyed And The Laughing
12. Out Of The Blue
13. Cage The Songbird
14. If There's A God In Heaven (What's He Waiting For?)
15. Between Seventeen And Twenty
16. Boogie Pilgrim
    (Exempt from total score: Your Starter For... & Theme For A Non-Existent TV Series)

Total Points: 50/80
Average Score: 6.25

In fact, I would argue that Elton excels when he's not restrained by any kind of commercial considerations. The monumental, prog-rock intro of Tonight does (with greater panache) what Funeral For A Friend did on Goodbye Yellow Brick Road, with a really dynamite song attached to the instrumental part as a payoff. Stripped back, piano-led ballads like Chameleon and Where's The Shoorah? give Elton the reins to do what he does best; bring lashings of amplitude and flair to raw material that is already imbued with emotion and thoughtful lyrics by longtime collaborator Bernie Taupin.

There are no bad tracks per-say - even my lowest rated, Boogie Pilgrim, has some merit as a kind of p-funk venture that highlights Elton's prevalent infatuation with all facets of Americana. Generally speaking, the worst tracks are the more 'colour by number' songs - the ones where it feels like he's literally just taken the lyrics and plopped them into a set sequence of music, rather than feeling the words and really measuring them against the scoring. The former category of song (If There's A God In Heaven is the most glaring example) feels overly neat and systematic, the lines too squarely and rudimentarily spaced within the music to feel like anything more than a perfunctory effort. Compare these, frankly, filler tracks to the moodier cuts, less regimented and restrained, like the jazz bar-friendly Idol, or the frenetic energy and no-holds-barred typhoon of riffing present in Bite Your Lip, and you can tell that Elton was really having fun with the material in the latter mentions.

For a double album, it doesn't feel bloated; instead it feels sweepingly eclectic, utilising a diverse spectrum of styles that feels like a true representation of every hue in Elton's musical paintbox. The real throwaways are thankfully exempt from score - meticulously made yet cheap-sounding minute and a half instrumentals that date the album horrifically and disrupt the soul felt throughout. These would undoubtedly knock the score down a few notches if they were substantial enough to be considered bonafide songs.

Blue Moves maintains a level of respect on the various published ranked lists of Elton's albums, but it seldom makes the top 10. I knew upon first listen that I preferred it to Goodbye Yellow Brick Road, the usual number one finisher, but why exactly was I favouring the more obscure and elusive of the two works? Perhaps the more introspective, esoteric manifestations of the world are just what speak to me over the measured successes (which I realise, upon reading that sentence, is just an insufferably hipster way of saying that I'm an insufferable hipster). However, I don't think such a statement is a universal truth about me - I'm sure this will become apparent in future reviews! No, more likely I was just fortunate enough to discover this album at exactly the right time for me to understand and appreciate what it offers. I doubt I would have had the insight and maturity necessary to appreciate it so much in my teens or 20s. In this phase of my life, I'm able to perceive Blue Moves as a dazzling chocolate box of songs, ranging from the thoroughly glamorous to the openly vulnerable, something about it just feeling that little bit more special to me than the rest of Elton's discography. It may not have had the best timing in the context of his career, but in terms of my discovery of it, the timing couldn't have been any better.

Bloodsports (2013) - Suede

When it comes to Suede, a band who I'd count myself as an actual fan of, choosing the first of their works to appraise is a tough call. Unlike most of the bands who have a selection of records I intend to cover, one of their albums is a single obvious standout for me, and I don't want to sing its praises only for the remainder of my Suede reviews to pale in comparison. Additionally, I don't want the restriction of going through them chronologically. So I've decided to start with an album I do like, that has undeniable virtue, but also marks a turning point for the band that tends to get overlooked. Writing this review is difficult, not because I don't have plenty to say on the matter, but because (again, unlike many musical outfits whose discographies I consider myself to be well-versed in) Suede's catalogue is, in my mind, directly comparable. Rating their albums together in one humongous essay would provide an easier structure for me to follow and probably be helpful in conveying the reasons for their rankings. But I'm not about to put anyone through that kind of slog.

After parting ways in 2003, 2013's Bloodsports is Suede's first release since reforming, and sees a return to their initial 'rock band' sound, having become a little less rock and a little more electronic with each of their first 5 studio albums. If this whole album was performed live, it would sound very similar to the recorded version, with no need for any instrument substitutions or special allowances. This return to roots is surely a conscious decision - probably an intentional ricochet off their 2002 flop A New Morning, which was full of sunny, squeaky-clean production - a perfectly valid direction, but nothing like how they began, and provenly unpopular with the listening public. Bloodsports first and foremost fills out the plastic shell Suede previously left behind with meat, in the form of thumping, resonant drums and assertive guitars. I'll get straight to the rankings so we can go into more detail:

1. Hit Me
2. It Starts And Ends With You
3. Snowblind
4. Sometimes I Feel I'll Float Away
5. Barriers
6. What Are You Not Telling Me?
7. For The Strangers
8. Faultlines
9. Sabotage
10. Always

Total Points: 29/50
Average Score: 5.8

My three highest-rated tracks are the epitome of this booming, confrontational sound. The opening bars of Hit Me are banged out at full force, the drums almost primitive in their boldness, and the chorus is equally thundering - a proclamation of the band's mettle, and a literal bait to the person at whom the lyrics are directed. Songs with this loud and proud approach are a wonderful counterpoint to the poetic, eclectic prose woven throughout the record. Whereas previous albums keep their thematic subjects broad and are talked about in a generalised, observational fashion, Bloodsports is very intimately written, with songs sung 'to' someone, not simply 'about' them. This allows for some beautiful turns of phrase, raw and delicate, and articulated in a way that frontman Brett Anderson simply could never achieve without this much more vulnerable and personalised approach. These elegant verses carry through to the quieter, more ethereal moments too, which help break up what could otherwise be a rather dense procession. The most notable instance of this is the softly haunting Sometimes I Feel I'll Float Away, which speaks of the addressee's 'impossible eyes' and 'hairpin bends', elegantly characterising the kind of tension often present in the most complex emotional relationships.

One thing I do find fault with is that Bloodsports marks the first time the band takes a real turn for the dour. It's been an ongoing issue since their reunion - thankfully Bloodsports manages to retain some of their former spunk, but all the seeds of their current aura of gloom are planted within. There's such a tangible inclination now growing towards thick smogs of guitar and drawling, ominous vocals. Percussion begins to favour atmospheric punctuation rather than actual rhythm, and the vivid, sweet-and-sour swagger of 90s Suede is starting to give way to a funereal, grey rigidity. The biggest contributor to this is the change in how chords are utilised - before, there was such an interesting push and pull of major and minor, with chord progressions twisting like smirks and leaving you tantalised for the unexpected. Now, Suede errs increasingly towards the minor, and the chord sequences play like dirges, without sufficient yang to counter the yin. Luckily only a handful of tracks from Bloodsports suffer this fate but, come the next album, a whole host of songs are largely minor affairs, unseasoned with tangy inflections or the odd surprise. I'm no musical theorist, but this just means I can't accurately name what I'm identifying - you don't need to be a scholar to recognise when music loses its colour.

This blaring dichotomy between before and after hiatus is so strange to me. They're still Suede - they still sound like the same band - but it's like they've grown up. Physically, they have, of course, but Suede were never exactly immature to begin with. They always represented a knowing, outsider voice among the everyman's Britpop. If Britpop is a family, with Blur and Oasis as boisterous, competitive brothers, I like to think of Suede as the black sheep, that distant, estranged second cousin. They're more alternative, more in tune with the underground, and more worldly. No, this gloom isn't simply Suede growing older, they're also growing colder. The unrelentingly dreary Sabotage is the worst culprit, while Always makes an attempt at harking back to the edgier contours present in Dog Man Star, but unsuccessfully so, instead coming across unbearably listless. After Bloodsports, my interest in their studio output unfortunately wanes, as both of its successors continue to perpetuate their trajectory into bleakness.

I realise I'm now making Bloodsports out to be some kind of leaden requiem, but this is not the case. As I noted, the seeds of apparent sullenness are planted, but the forest is yet to grow. There's still plenty of life present, and the album does a lot to marry the best of Suede's various eras together. It may not have the hedonistic, youthful charisma of prior works, but it has such a bold and determined presence, and demonstrates incredible sensitivity and capability. It has a kind of competence that comes only to veteran artists, and they manage to tap, with expert dexterity, into so many of the impalpable characteristics that made them such a left-field powerhouse in the Britpop heyday. This alone shows that they never lost anything, they've just evolved, and continue to do so. I like to think of each Suede record as a stamp on an ever-growing timeline, and Bloodsports, though the beginning of a shift I don't necessarily respond to, represents a fulcrum in the band's sound that would be impossible anywhere else in time. Essentially, the best way to enjoy Bloodsports is to ignore the past and refrain from peering forward. Only when you blinker yourself this way can you become absorbed enough to appreciate it for what it is, without the contextual distractions that are, ultimately, the album's only real detractor.

Menace To Sobriety (2000) - OPM

It's time for another review, but before I can proceed, there is first some important backstory that needs addressing. Think of it of an origin story for how I got to the point where I'm reviewing albums, for primarily personal benefit, in 2021, on a blog called The Sound System.

Let me set the scene: It's the year 2002 and you're a late-to-the-party boy of 11 who has just been gifted a personal CD player for his birthday. As someone who has yet to develop any kind of individual taste in music, you requested with it the things that everyone at school was listening to - S Club 7's Sunshine and the latest instalment in the 'Now' series, Now That's What I Call Music! 50. Still getting used to the audio format, more fascinated with the novelty of not needing to rewind anything than actually listening, you witlessly play Don't Stop Movin' on repeat, and the few singles from the compilation album whose titles you recognise. Naturally, Now 50 is a trendy conversation subject at school, and your friend Alistair, who you respect because he's popular but not cool (at least not too cool to talk to you), passingly mentions that track 12 is decent. Because your personality is underdeveloped and you apparently hang off the every word of anyone nice enough to humour you with their opinions, you run home after school and skip to OPM's Heaven Is A Halfpipe. And then, for perhaps for the first time in your life, you actually properly listen to a song, absorbing the sound of a skateboard panning from left to right in time with a tack piano sample and super-chilled guitar lick alternating between two simple chords. You listen to the layers pile on and peel off and, before you know it, you've autonomously decided, with no outside input, that this music is fucking cool. And this marks the first step of your musical journey, and developing a musical mind of your own.

As someone whose prior exposure to music is so negligible, you really know very little about how things are done in the music industry. But you sure are a tactile kid who loves to pull out the sleeves of your only two albums and pore over the pictures and liner notes! So it doesn't take long to notice the recurring phrase "taken from the album '______'" and see that, sure enough, a whole album of OPM songs exists, and it's called Menace To Sobriety. You're 11, you don't understand the punny title or know what sobriety is. You ask your dad to look for it next time he goes to the shops on his lunch hour, as he works in a nearby city with an HMV (you've already scoured Woolworths to no avail). Maybe the red flag was in the title. Maybe it was in the cover art. Or maybe it was in that little black and white sticker that your poor protective father decided to take so seriously. He's a very honest kind of guy, so where other fathers might tell their child that the record store simply doesn't have it stocked, or that it's too expensive, he does this: he buys the CD, listens to it through (he even checks out the bonus CD-Rom, removable only by lifting the jewel case insert to reveal a close crop of someone's rather ample cleavage) and tells you that, in his responsibility as a parent, he cannot let you have this album.

Never had it occurred to me that the scratches in the chorus of Heaven Is A Halfpipe were any more than a series of stylistic embellishments, or that a quarter of the middle 8 had been cut out of the compilation's version because it referenced drugs. I don't remember what happened next. All I know is that, for whatever reason, it didn't long for him to concede, and I don't believe I underwent any dirty tactics to get him to hand it over. Apparently my acceptance of his initial decision demonstrated enough maturity to change his mind. Straining to remember, I'm pretty sure I was forbidden from using the CD-Rom (which was of zero interest to me anyway, particularly when he told me that the music videos were full of people throwing up in toilets), and I swear he told me that I just 'wasn't allowed to listen to it much' - which is a weak bargain that can't possibly be enforced, but one that I took seriously given the trust he was placing in me.

As it goes, only the most blatant profanities showed up on my radar - the majority of the 'explicit content' went right over my head. For example, for several years, I genuinely thought Dealerman was about counterfeiting clothes, because I took the opening lines literally and didn't pay attention to the rest. Lyrical content doesn't tend to grab me in the way all the other musical elements do (this will come to be a recurring factor in my reviews), so unless there's a really succinct thematic connection with the music itself, I zone out of what is being said, and instead focus on how it's being delivered. And it just so happens that the most debauch songs that my father was hoping to shield me from were the ones that appealed less to me musically. Whether one factor informed the other on a subliminal level is impossible to say, but here I am, 20 years on, with no gang or drug habit, and a song ranking that very closely resembles the order I'd have picked as a kid:

1. Heaven Is A Halfpipe
2. Fish Out Of Water
3. Brighter Side
4. Sound System
5. Unda
6. El Capitan
7. Reality Check
8. Better Daze
   
9. Undercover Freak
10. Stash Up
11. Dealerman
12. Trucha
    (Exempt from total score: Interludes Punanny, Rage Against The Coke Machine & 15 Minutes, hidden track The War On Drugs)

Total Points: 38/60
Average Score: 6.33

Menace To Sobriety is full of simple chord sequences that teeter back and forth, thumping breakbeats and turn-of-the-Millennium record scratches. There's great variety in guitars; everything from rich, steely strumming, to ska-style, upbeat stabs, to fills of fuzzy, skate-punk-esque noise. This palette of textures is used to great effect, upping the ante step-by-step as Better Daze reaches its climax, or adding fantastic conviction to the bridge of Fish Out Of Water, the album's other main standout after Heaven Is A Halfpipe. Crisp, sincere harmonies of 'ahhs' compliment the franker tone of Brighter Side's chorus, while the optimism expressed in underdog anthem Unda is matched with upbeat guitar accents and a spirited saxophone (of all instruments!) solo. As I've mentioned before, I love when music does exactly what it says, when the lyrics match the sound, and nothing exemplifies this synergy more than Sound System (which has been popping into my head ever since I named this blog). This reggae-infused track really is the party atmosphere its lyrics are describing, that is begging to be blasted on a 'sound system in my backyard' with the intention to 'wake up the town'.

The album's greatest asset is that its music is never compromised, even when the themes aren't there to be taken seriously. Even something as tongue-in-cheek as an ode to Captain Morgan's Rum is set to a kicking backing track, making sure that less solemn topics are never pushed into straight up joke territory. The weakest points come in the form of interludes (sidenote: thanks to OPM I've added the word 'coke' to the band Rage Against The Machine in conversation more times than I've said it correctly) and the acoustic hidden track, which (on my copy at least) is inexplicably censored after an album full of impropriety. Thankfully, these don't impact the score, but the somewhat droning chorus of Trucha isn't to my taste, and comes across kind of damp compared to the rest of the record.

Menace To Sobriety does not have critical acclaim or, from what I can tell, much of a retrospective cult following. Perceived as a something of a one-hit wonder, OPM never went on to hold the attention of the worldwide musical spotlight their debut single granted them. Why this is, I cannot say - I'm not savvy to the contextual factors, such as marketing, band history or record labels. But as far as the content of this album goes, there is sufficient substance and well-engineered balance to show that they had their collective finger on the pulse. Its full of self-awareness, wit, charisma and an outlook that dryly bridges the gap between darkness and joy. It's such a straightforward effort that it barely warrants an analytical review like this - it defeats the point. It's not music made for evaluating, it is music made for enjoying and extracting the essence out of life's ups and downs. I wanted to write about it because it's clear today that it had quite an impact on my formative years, but the high regard in which I hold it isn't just born out of nostalgia, but out of genuine appreciation for its quality. If nothing else, I've done my bit on shining a light on an album you might never have considered may exist.

For You (1982) - Tatsuro Yamashita

I could sit here for hours and reel off essays attempting to describe the type of music that westerners refer to as 'City Pop' and would still not be able to settle on a definition that satisfies everyone. Such a definition doesn't exist. City Pop is such an abstract concept, that pulls from so many different tropes and traits of bonafide genres (not to mention real-world social, political and historical context) that it is impossible to transpose into words. It is a blanket term, that spans so much yet seems to apply to so little, and I don't want to spend half a review trying to pinpoint its essence. Tatsuro Yamashita is often cited online as the 'King of City Pop' -  and just to point out how infuriatingly nebulous this label is, Tatsuro himself only became aware of its coinage in the late 2010s, several decades after his heyday as a recording artist. For now, all I want to do is establish that his 1982 album For You is a quintessential example of City Pop, whatever the hell that is.

As much as I find it impossible to define the genre, it isn't so difficult to point out the factors that contribute to this album's status as a City Pop classic. We'll start with the bold, stylised cover art, depicting Tatsuro standing next to a commercial white building in what is clearly a sunny part of America (idyllic Californian scenes and The Beach Boys being notable influences on his work), overlaid with Memphis-esque confetti squiggles, a design quirk firmly embedded in the 80s. The music is everything you'd expect it to be looking at this artwork - carefree and understated, yet precisely arranged with immaculate production; not a single note has been neglected or merely 'settled for'. For an early 80s record, the sound comes across as remarkably fresh by today's standards, which is a testament to the crystal-clear precision and polish that was somehow achieved without an over-reliance on synths or drum machines. No outdated or gimmicky electronics antiquate the sound, Korg keyboards are used only sparingly, and are so subtle you barely notice them.

His signature blend of sumptuously layered vocal harmonies, funky rhythm guitar passages and pithy slap bass is at its most finessed, this record showcasing just how breathable and digestible such complex structures can be. With his trademark sound applied to thematically simple songs about everyday life and love, the result is an undeniable slice of Tatsuro-flavoured City Pop, that makes for breezy, uncomplicated listening with a feel-good energy.

Let's see how I've rated each track:

1. Love Talkin' (Honey It's You)
2. Sparkle
3. Music Book
4. Loveland, Island
5. Your Eyes
6. Morning Glory
7. Futari
8. Hey Reporter!
   (Exempt from total score: Interludes A&B, Parts I&II)

Total Points: 26/40

Average Score: 6.5

For You kicks off with the textural delight that is Sparkle, full of bright and gorgeously balanced instrumentation. Like many of the tracks, there is nothing cloudy or contorted about the layers - every individual part can be picked out easily and appreciated on its own merit. Music Book follows, with a light, ambling tempo and a sunny and fancy-free vibe evocative of a summer drive in an open-top car; this kind of leisurely vision is something I can't help but picture when listening to the record, especially if I'm on the road. The apogee of the album is undoubtedly Love Talkin' (Honey It's You), which is so transparently straightforward and unabashedly sweet that its six minutes drift by like a funk-fuelled daydream. Thrice in the song does Tatsuro croon the somewhat sappy lyric 'honey, I love you' over the constant, strolling beat, and with each occurrence the length of time he holds the word 'love' is doubled; small touches like this demonstrate just how carefully built his music is.

At worst, the songs could come off as saccharine - the closing track Your Eyes being particularly at risk with its sugary English lyrics and chords sustained with gradients of melodrama - but luckily the album's overall sophistication manages to diminish this outlook. Lowlights would have to include Futari, which is harmless enough but a little dragging in its repetition near the end, and Hey Reporter!, which essentially feels like an imposter. Clunkier in tone, with jaunty, nonchalant vocals and far more abrasive timbres, there's nothing wrong with it as such - it just doesn't fit. A far better substitute would be the elegant and heady single release あまく危険な香り(usually translated as Dangerous Scent), which is thankfully available on modern remasters as a bonus track.

Calling For You innocuous could be seen as a rather backhanded take, but this comes from a belief that the album could slide quite affably into the soundtrack of anyone's midsummer drive or social barbecue without causing a stir. If heard on the radio, I doubt the songs would prompt anyone to change channel - one might even end up whistling along or listening out for the name of the artist. It's innocuous, but not to its own detriment - anyone who is drawn to take a closer look into those beautifully crafted layers will be able to discover the brilliance hidden in plain sight. Next time you've got a commute in hot weather, wind down your window, pop this on your stereo and let the music brighten up your day just that little bit more.