On the surface, the Arctic Monkeys of 2013 seem like a vastly different proposition to the youthful group of lads that picked up the Mercury Music prize with their seminal debut Whatever People Say I Am, That’s What I’m Not in 2006. 7 short years have flown past with the band going through several drastic stylistic changes, musically and aesthetically, as well as releasing 4 more LPs that have never disappointed, to arrive at AM, a surprising album for many that has been critically lauded since its release in September this year. It is a collection of songs that has redefined them as a band again and garnered them a third nomination for the Mercury.
At first glance, it seems a seismic shift has taken place with the band, with singles Do I Wanna Know? and Why’d You Only Call Me When You’re High? heavy on the questions marks, and seemingly more akin to Dr. Dre’s signature G-funk than the Monkey’s early garage rock. However, if you actually listen to what’s going on musically, things really haven’t changed that much since the days of Fake Tales of San Francisco; simple, heavy riffs in guitars and bass, precise, tight work from the rhythm section, and witty, wry lyrics delivered in that unique, unmistakable accent. Alright, the production may be totally different (out go the distortion pedals, in comes the reverb and heavily compressed percussion) and the lyrics are a lot more introverted and self-analytical than the urban poetry of the past, but it’s the same kind of song-writing, merely wrapped in a different sonic sheath.
Forging ahead after the successful artistic shift that came with 2010’s Mercury-nominated Total Life Forever, Oxford five-piece Foals returned back in February with Holy Fire, trading in their Utah cult-esque mantras for the tenets of Orthodox Christianity.
A similar transition to the more fundamentalist occurs in the sound of the record, as the most immediately identifiable development – and perhaps the most interesting for the options it creates – is that they’ve found out the age old guitar music technique of turning their amplifiers to 11… and they know how to use it.
In typical Savages fashion, the news of their Mercury prize nomination prompted lead singer/growler/wailer, Jehnny Beth to devise a Tumblr post, the syllogism of which is largely reducible to: “Do whatever the fuck you want”.
It’s comforting to know that Savages, ever disposed to doing whatever the fuck they want, aren’t fostering any delusions that making the shortlist should be of any substantial consequence. “Being nominated or not doesn’t make you a better band”, Beth reasons, “it doesn’t change anything.”
True, whether Savages emerge as the unlikely victors of tonight’s ceremony or not, they’re still never going to stake a claim for a position on the Radio 1 Playlist or David Cameron’s Best-of-British Mixtape (which, on review, has some amusing overlaps with this year’s shortlist). But that is exactly why a Mercury triumph for Savages would make for the most interesting and colourful outcome to the evening, as well as offer a glimmer of redemption for the Mercury Prize; especially after being chewed up and spat out by Kevin Shields et al.
Without a doubt the strongest debut of 2013, Disclosure’s Settle brings a confident burst of dance-pop synths that regenerate the 90s underground sound. In over 60 minutes, Howard and Guy Lawrence pay homage to classic garage and deep house through a vortex of funky hooks and catchy lyrics.
From the outset, Settle packs a gutsy punch. As the album opens with the hip hop preacher Eric Thomas, we are quickly sucked into the bass-pumping When A Fire Starts To Burn. The enigmatic and quasi-spiritual track sets the overall message of the record: change is inevitable. This idea of imminent metamorphosis sweeps the album, linking the soulful crooning of Sam Smith in the 2012 hit Latch, the dissonant grime beats of Confess to Me, and the euphoric album-closer Help Me Lose My Mind. While some songs are inevitably stronger than others (there is a self-confessed interval period with Second Chance), each track effortlessly syncs into the next. Such harmonious sequencing begs the album to be heard in its entirety and thus deflects from the slightly lethargic mid-section.
But it is important not to conflate harmony with homogeneity here. Settle offers a cross-pollination of dance sub-genres from old-school speed garage in Stimulation to romantic deep house in Defeated No More and January. This inclusive mix of sounds creates a sense of accessibility that is missing from other Mercury Prize-shortlisted candidates. Arguably, Disclosure has produced a record that embraces the growing eclectic tastes of the millennial generation. With this in mind, (unlike Alex Petridis of the Guardian), we should not get trapped in the genre-naming game when discussing the Surrey-born brothers, as their cross-genre approach is a key asset to the album’s success.
To be fair, by borrowing elements from 90s UKG legends such as MJ Cole and DJ Luck, Settle is far from revolutionary. Yet the album’s second-hand sound feels resoundingly fresh in comparison to the over-marketed frat boy “EDM” saturating radio playlists. More importantly, it reiterates the talent of the duo to reconceptualise classic dance motifs to current musical palates.
However, what really raises Disclosure’s odds of walking away with the Mercury prize on Wednesday, are the brothers’ impeccable choice in lead vocals for the album. Whether it is a tried and tested collaboration with Jessie Ware or with lesser-known artists such as Sasha Keeble, Settle’s choice in guest vocals are confidently executed. This is epitomized by the album’s star track You and Me. On paper, Eliza Doolittle and Disclosure sound very incongruous but Guy was able to spot how well Eliza’s smooth, light-hearted voice could be sped up to match that classic UKG sound. Seminal garage producer Wookie’s subsequent employ of Eliza’s vocals for his summer comeback The Hype was perhaps the greatest endorsement of their ear and intuition, and further emphasises the success of the risk taken in salvaging the reputation of the distinctly unfashionable Doolittle.
Given that the Mercury Prize night has thrown us a few curveballs over the years, it would be foolish to call Disclosure the outright winner. But, win or lose, Disclosure can leave the awards ceremony knowing that they have produced the kind of self-assured, playful dance albums we’ve not seen since Basement Jaxx’s debut back in 1999.
Underneath the crystal clear folk warbling of King Creosote was where I first encountered the handiwork of Jon Hopkins. Then there was the soundtrack to Monsters, 2010’s tense, low-budget sci-fi romance, where the veteran producer’s noises snapped quietly at the heels of the central lovers as they trekked through the alien-infested belt of northern Mexico.
The looming silhouette of Hopkins was definitely a collaborative one. It wasn’t until Immunity then, that Hopkins’ music first confronted me as isolated from any collaborative dimension (or should I say in the lead up to Immunity’s release, when Open Eye Signal’s angular, antagonistic synth line forced its way between my ears and summarily refused to vacate that space). The delay made it all the more astounding.
I began working backwards, increasingly staggered by his intense versatility and skill as a jack-of-all-trades from just a fleeting glance at his heaving CV. A writing credit for Life in Technicolor (the choice cut from the apex of Coldplay’s popularity sampling Light Through The Veins), a brief stint as Imogen Heap’s keyboard player, an association with – and therefore the acquisition of talent via osmosis from – Brian Eno and Leo Abrahams. Then there’s the mass of proto-Immunity noise called Insides:criminally overlooked by the majority of everyone everywhere in the world (ever).
Now when I took a step back to admire the landscape of Open Eye Signal – the unrelenting reconsideration of that synth line, squashing and squelching and pushing forward – I could see it all, the outcome of all those steadily snowballing encounters, experiences and experimentations: the sheer brilliance of it (and the sheer brilliance of him!).
Immunity deserves to win the Mercury Prize because it plays so fast and loose with the boundaries between electronic and non-electronic music, and still manages to make an effortlessly cohesive job of it. The sparse, wonky loops and lopsided beats that make up the most propulsive sections of the album (the likes of Collide’, Open Eye Signal, and the back end of Breathe This Air), are brought to life with sheer attention to detail, Hopkins wringing the tautology out of even the most repetitious tracks, whilst the conversely spacious second half seems to wallow more contently in its own ambient noise.
Much has been made of the supposed concept of the album – these eight songs plotting the arc of your average night out – but Hopkins’ real skill lies in the way he can make electronic music sound like it’s been hand-crafted. Whether it’s weaving the vocals of King Creosote into the gaps of the title track, drifting through Abandon Window’s abstract sound, or even cracking out the opening trial-by-fire that is the asymmetric beat of We Disappear, you feel as though these tracks really were created – like his Boiler Room might lead you to believe – improvised in a quiet room, with the company of three or so Kaoss Pads, rather than on a laptop.
As it is they’ve actually been deconstructed and subsequently rebuilt to maximise the spontaneity and ‘live’-ness of his performances. What this means is that not only has the man made one of the best electronic albums of the year, but that he’s made an album that ain’t just for denizens of Resident Advisor and Beatport. This is electronic music at its least alienating. No, you probably won’t love it on first listen, but Immunity can as easily weave its slow-burning magic on us self-professed indie boys as it can on EDM fanatics. It’s a crossover that’s far more ambitious than Settle’s ever could be because it doesn’t compromise on genre. It works in subtleties.
Immunity doesn’t sound like an album that was made in a year. And when you consider all the sorts of conceptual contributors that Hopkins cites – from hypnosis, to nature, to the affect music has on listeners – it seems ever more unlikely that an album coming from such a variety of fragmented directions could ever have been birthed in such a straightforward period of composition. But this is why Immunity is special – because it benefits from all the collaborative experience that Hopkins picked up as he wound his way towards it. The likes of Diamond Mine and the soundtrack to Monsters are shadowy presences. If you were to listen carefully enough, you could probably hear Viva La Vida too.
ARBITER OF TASTE 