Few are as good as Fiona Apple at making beautiful music that sounds ready to crack. The perfect combination of Extraordinary Machine’s (2005) old-fashioned ballads and the quirkier, more aggressive sound of When the Pawn… (1999), “Every Single Night” is an excellent study in Apple’s preferred brand of edgy neurosis.

She sings here about fighting with her brain and the words and ideas churning within, keeping her from sleep. Imagery like “butterflies in my brain” recalls one of Apple’s best songs, “Fast as You Can,” in which she memorably declared, “Sometimes my mind don’t shake and shift / But most of the time it does.” “Every Single Night” also shares with that song an element of the grotesque, with all its evocative talk about a second skeleton, a chest opening up, and “The rib is the shell / And the heart is the yolk / And I just made a meal / For us both to choke on.” Not many can pull off lines like those with such spooky conviction.

Because of Apple’s reputation as a woman for whom sanity doesn’t come easy, she doesn’t always get the credit she deserves for her emotional, enrapturing vocal performances. On almost every song she’s nothing less than fiery, passionate, possessed; more like a gospel singer in spirit than an indie chanteuse. This is certainly true of “Every Single Night,” which takes short, simple lyrics like “I just wanna feel everything” and draws them out into a kind of whispered howl. The focus here is entirely on Apple’s fragile, scattershot vocals, backed by spare, bell-like keyboards and a gently rolling snare. Her voice wavers but keeps on key, flitting from low and strong to delicate in her upper register.

She’s got a talent for the tactile, like scratching a patch of skin raw, and on “Every Single Night” she once again pulls off the trick that makes her so unique: turning vulnerability into strength, becoming, ultimately, a little scary rather than a little scared.

⊙ Keyword Tags: Fiona Apple

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Prime-time Saturday release, a Super Mario sample, their first real release for the best part of three years; if Animal Collective give a shit about what the internet is thinking, they’re probably bemused as to why the world has gone all silent on them right now. Maura Johnston rightfully noted on Twitter that not so long ago “a new Animal Collective song would cause the internet to shudder in ecstasy.” This week, the new Passion Pit song has been retweeted onto my timeline more frequently. (Don’t read too much into what that might say about me.) If something that receives hundreds of blog posts containing a video and two perfunctory lines necessarily including the words “welcome” and “surprise” can ever be called a non-event, this is almost certainly it: the interest in this seems shallow to the point of being disingenuous.

Maybe that can be a good thing. These are only two songs, remember, the album on the horizon is still a mirage as yet, and discussion of Implications for Contemporary Music is thankfully someone else’s future nightmare. And so from this unburdened standpoint, let me state that I think “Honeycomb” is an excellent romp of a song, “Gotham” less so, but both are vaguely underwhelming, in that they lack the vitality Animal Collective have basically trademarked.

“Gotham” particularly feels a little too laboured, and it’s uncharacteristically legible structure negates the heady feel listeners of Animal Collective love and willingly inhabit. Even that Super Mario sample isn’t particularly clever when you consider what might have been. I mean, I love that “Honeycomb” is a gorgeous surge to oblivion, and think the Chinese box-like structure by which it packs its components within itself, verse into pre-chorus, pre-chorus into chorus, chorus into magnificent climax, is wonderful; all of that is great, but like the smallest box, ultimately hollow, as if it packs itself for the simply the sake of doing so. Maybe that’s all this 7” amounts to: again, these are only two songs, and most likely ones released with designs on sparking new enthusiasm for future, ubiquitous Animal Collective product. While that might not have been totally successful, it’s difficult to imagine that it’s less genuine disinterest, and more that we’re all just waiting for meatier bait before biting.

⊙ Keyword Tags: Animal Collective

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Sic Alps’ new EP Pangea Globe is kind of like a kid brother to another record I wrote about recently, Ty Segall & White Fence’s Hair. The lower-fi and scrappier of the two, Pangea Globe plays like a one-off show in a friend’s basement, total shit-kicking fun in the moment and better than any next-day descriptor could indicate. Though Sic Alps always echo their punk and garage rock heroes, this time they’re taking it all the way, faithfully covering four tracks by little-known London outfit Tronics, who released one record and a handful of seven inches in the early ’80s. Pangea Globe is a labor of love, but don’t get the wrong idea—it doesn’t feel like anyone’s laboring, not for a second.

It’s a nice selection of tracks, showcasing different sides of the Tronics: “Baby’s in a Coma” is a macabre take on retro pop, “Spending Time” is organ-aided garage rock, and “Squiddley Diddley” gets psychedelic and grimy. “Shark Fucks” especially stands out, an oddball-silly surf rock track with lines like “Here comes a shark attack / It’s a load of crap,” and “You can’t eat those creeeeeeps.” Sic Alps’ muffled, homemade sound is fully intact here, and one could easily mistake the track, and the rest of Pangea Globe, for an unusually satisfying and melodic Sic Alps original. Though this is ostensibly just a fun little covers record, the band would be wise to work the same exhilarating sense of fun into their new material. As it stands, Pangea Globe is over all too quickly, but it has enough shaggy charm to last through many repeat listens.

⊙ Keyword Tags: Sic Alps

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Chris Poole and Matt Farthing are a pair of Mancs with a very experimental edge. One of the things they’ve experimented on is their bank balance, determined to reignite physical releases by selling their EP Arem on folded 50” (complete with giant QR poster and newspaper sleeving). Earthlings can still pick it up as a twelve, or download MP3s, showing the creators have a crumb of remaining business sense and aren’t just on a Brewster’s Millions mission to insolvency.

But once you get into what Stay+ do, perhaps the 50” is the only way to hear it. The ebbing strings and sighs of “Guardian” are genuinely alien, the sighs provided by Daniel O’Sullivan who flips it over into electro-pop. His soulful lyrics glide around the beats while he coaxes insomniacs through the witching hour, where playing a 50” record is the only alternative to vodka or phoning the Samaritans. “When the day breaks / And the night falls / Don’t be afraid / You are not alone,” he groans, the bass approaching like an underground train, Stay+ swinging the focus in and out. It’s a hybrid that really shouldn’t work but it does, like catching Jamie Woon at a rave. Shame there are no mushrooms in that 50”.

⊙ Keyword Tags: Stay+

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On “Goldie” A$AP Rocky achieves a sustained, high-end delirium; if last year’s superlative LiveLoveA$AP mixtape was a hazy origin story, this is in media res: “I said it must be ‘cause a nigga got dough / Extraordinary swag and a mouth full of gold.” “Niggas in Paris” producer Hit-Boy supplies a quick, flighty loop—some kind of fife and drum arrangement—encouraging a more immediate and complex delivery than anything Rocky’s done before. And what is being delivered? Self-actualization; universal swag; effortlessness. His rhymes are as in-the-pocket as Biggie’s, but without the hard-knock sting; “Tell ‘em quit the riff raff bitching with your bitch ass” just sounds cool. There’s no biographical imperative after the mixtape, but to release a “radio” single would undermine A$AP Rocky’s greatest strength: his otherworldly self-confidence. So “Goldie” is a debut single that sounds timeless, divorced from the context that birthed it.

The lengthy chopped-and-screwed hook is brilliant, a gimmick that amplifies Rocky’s wordplay by obscuring it. All the tiny decisions within the verses—Cristal or Aces? Ferrari or a tank?—communicate the excitement of the new rich world Rocky’s inhabiting through the uncanny familiarity—which perhaps sums up his appeal—of self-taught Bloomberg New York cool, of growing up in the hood in an era where luxury goods are more prominent than urban decay. And in the music video, we see him driving around the Eiffel Tower wearing sunglasses like the ones Prince wears on the cover of “When Doves Cry.” He is one of the “Niggas in Paris” Kanye raps about, who radiates belonging and inhabitance without a shred of self-doubt. This is poise not as a path, but as a way of being.

⊙ Keyword Tags: Asap Rocky

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Unlike other guitar bands fronted by brothers, the Shutes have a secret weapon: Michael and Dave Champion can both sing high, convincing home listeners they’re a couple doing accompaniments. They’ve already fooled fans on the Isle of Wight scene and are now going overseas with the formula, taking their Echo of Love EP to the Eurozone. Hopefully it should make up for the continental tobacco that smugglers on the Isle keep getting confiscated.

The EP’s big hook, “Bright Blue Berlin Sky,” shows off the Champions’ voices to full effect, and rightly got them flashing on the NME’s radar. Sighing along to some starry folk, brother Mike pines for his absent Fraulein; a European vision who men would cross time zones for. “When she moves she’s like a rolling sea / She’s got more love than she will ever need,” he warbles, a hint of jealousy in his feminine voice. It vanishes once harmonizing brother Dave steps in, helping him cook up one of the most bittersweet choruses of the year: “And I don’t ever want to see you surrender / And I never want to say goodbye / Because the last thing I remember / Is a tear falling from your eye / As you flew into the Berlin sky / Into the bright blue Berlin sky.” It’s got to be the most immediate inter-continental love songs going, and is just primed for the airport scene in 2013’s big rom-com—or a Zweiohrküken sequel, now that Til Schweiger’s gone international.

⊙ Keyword Tags: Shutes

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Kanye West’s output from 2007 onwards is essentially the Kübler-Ross model of the Five Stages of Grief. Just bear with me. Graduation (2007) is like denial, with cracks starting to show. 808’s and Heartbreak (2008) is bargaining, almost into anger, the bright-eyed innocence of his first albums reaching a breaking point. My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy (2010) is, then, all anger and depression. And for Watch The Throne (2011), acceptance is on the horizon—and it made for the best album, in my opinion, of Kanye or Jay-Z’s career. For Jay, it was a collaboration album that wasn’t with a flighty R&B star or a shitstain rock group, which meant it was a necessary re-contextualization for his career; for Kanye, it was mostly about getting by with a little help from your friends.

The relish Yeezy takes in indulgence now will never be as pure as it was on The College Dropout (2004) or Late Registration (2005), but it’s far more shaded. Kanye sounds anchored on “Way Too Cold” (formerly “Theraflu”) in a way that he never has before, with a firm grip on the direction of his career. “Niggas In Paris” combined the arriviste glee of “The Good Life” with the numbness of “Heartless” and the bite of “Monster,” creeping up on the radio, on people like me who thought Kanye and Jay’s continuing existence was a museum piece (like that of Eminem and Royce). “Way Too Cold” is down the same direction. The pop-Luger synths aren’t as visceral as anything just mentioned, but they let Kanye rant, which typically works for whatever Kanye’s trying to do. Plus, he puts more effort into his hooks here than on any solo song since Graduation, letting the coughing “Get the Theraflu” line float as an extra instead of forcing it to carry the song like the title sentiments of “Monster” and “Power.” It’s a return to the dishy Kanye of old: Wiz is allowed to date his ex, there is some fixation on a Kardashian (foreshadowing!), there’s an admirable attempt at swag-coinage. He even slips into A$AP Rocky’s lilting diction at one point (“Six thousand dollar pair of shoes/We made it to the Paris news!”). Goddamn, how real is this?

DJ Khaled shouts something, but he’s more of a state of mind than an artist, so this is pretty much all Kanye. And that confident independence is striking compared to “Theraflu”‘s companion, the G.O.O.D. Music posse cut “Mercy,” which sounds similar, if not as commanding. It’s a great showcase for Big Sean’s ascension to the throne of Ass Poet Laureate, but 2 Chainz and Pusha T sound lost in the shuffle; I’m not convinced either is the kind of social rapper that is going to thrive in the “Flava in Ya Ear” or “I’m On One” friends genre. A genre I just invented.

Still, on “Mercy,” and especially on “Way Too Cold,” Kanye seems satisfied with his position. In rap. In the universe. He’s finally settled enough to take some time arranging his proteges instead of leaning on his famous friends. Which is what perhaps gives his “bargaining” and “anger” songs such weight: that what didn’t kill him really did make him stronger. Maybe he’s my favorite depressed person—or our favorite—because he makes losing seem like an epic, glorious journey from being Talib Kweli’s wingman to baiting PETA with floor-dragging mink. Or maybe because it’s hard to remember a time when Kanye actually was losing.

⊙ Keyword Tags: Dj Khaled, Kanye West

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Having only released photos of himself but no name, Three Fields is ambient’s resident Batman—nothing is known about his identity except he’s a Birmingham-based electrician who’s been tinkering with signal processors for years. If you live in the West Bromwich area and are having new sockets put in, check to see if the bloke who fits them in is blasting Enya as he pulls up in his van. You can wait till he’s finished, then unmask him.

Gaelic chillout is a far cry from the Three Fields sound, however, which focuses on harsh static balanced out by gentle instruments. “Isolator,” released ahead of debut Cambridge Blue, is his style at its most digestible: fuzzy Casios peppered with guitar, glass bells playing a melody. The exotic, misty feel screams enjoy while bathing, and implies Three Fields is meant to be savoured with candles, beads and sea minerals. But the composer keeps an air of menace in the mix and proves that ambient should be enveloping first, relaxing second. He’s probably basing the approach on real life experience—if you’ve ever cross-wired your phase and CPC feeds, you’d find it hard to assume the lotus pose too.

⊙ Keyword Tags: Three Fields

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“Limit to Your Love” has, through no fault of its own, become a curious artifact. I doubt Leslie Feist ever imagined it would be taken on and reinterpreted on two youthful, enterprising records in two years, particularly given the imbued personality and feeling in the original. This BADBADNOTGOOD iteration, however, is even more interesting for the way that rather than tackling Feist’s version, it takes on James Blake’s cover of last year, and becomes a filter of the filter. Which is an odd concept, as covers usually symbolize a maintaining of the concept and a departure of the aesthetic, so a cover of a cover would have to mean…what, exactly? Especially when, in this instance, James Blake already substantially altered the tone; his striking silences, wobbling tension, and disregard for the song’s chorus and moment of empowered release—the bridge—transfigured the mood from one of acceptance to that of hurt. Perhaps that justifies BBNG’s attempt: Blake’s aesthetic choices had made his “Limit to Your Love” a new creature to the extent that the song’s emphasis had changed, in turn validating reasoning that the cover itself could be related differently.

It is a wholly new rendition when BBNG do it, too, their jazz style bound by the genre to associations of performance and illimitability. Their Bandcamp willingly proclaims BBNG2 was recorded in one ten-hour session, by musicians not yet fully adults. Experimentation of the bounds of their instruments feels innate to these performers, and comes with assurance. There appears to be no qualms or hesitation about the way BBNG make this song sound threatening. Gone are Blake’s dubstep reverberations, replaced instead by suffocating rolling drums, a palpable tribal menace. As it gathers momentum, it rumbles and erupts; drum rolls become cymbal crashes and fills; thunderclaps round out the mix. It’s difficult to imagine this latent power lying dormant in Feist’s wistful, resigned effort, but maybe that’s what James Blake brought to the mix, and left unknowingly awaiting this treatment.

⊙ Keyword Tags: Badbadnotgood

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The current ‘80s revival—which has now gone on longer than the actual decade—goes a little further with “Gold,” Alpines’ entry into Metallic Named Classics That Aren’t a Cover of Spandau Ballet. Focusing on the moody night music of early Lethal Weapon films, Bob Matthews and Catherine Pockson are a tour de force, possibly throwing their hat in the ring as contenders for the new Bond theme. It was already a very impressive hat to begin with: the south London duo have been backroom movers for years, collaborative favorites of Craze & Hoax (better known as producers of Emeli Sandé). Both Craze and Hoax are back on board for this one, keen to repeat their award-winning sound of stuffing Seal in a wind tunnel.

And they repeat it well. While not as arresting a singer as Sandé, Catherine Pockson dominates “Gold” with her voice, summoning images of black and white power ballads. “I’ve been down this road before / So I don’t know why I’m turning back,” she growls, her nuts as high as Jamie Woon while Bob Matthews stacks synths in the background. Like Florence and the Machine with the machines pushed forwards, Pockson blasts out heartache after heartache and rides into the drums, singing of how she wants her man to see her as valuable as precious metal. It’d be hard to resist her on range basis alone, even if said man already owns enough ingots to cast Sean Combs a new toilet.

⊙ Keyword Tags: Alpines

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