It looks like Hozier is going to survive and prosper after having the big hit of the year in 2014. Not everyone who bursts from obscurity to instant fame with a huge hit single gets to live it down. One obvious downside is that many beginning artists who luck out on one song simply don’t have any more material to follow up with. So they end up with a record of hastily written filler, which gets them dismissed by the fickle public. Hozier didn’t have that problem, though. He had a full record – and then some – of outstanding material. It was a joyous surprise when I played his first album that I enjoyed every song, even on the extended edition. He has a God-given voice, of course, and his songwriting is moody and poetic in just such a way that appeals to my Romantic sensibilities. Since then, Hozier has released an EP and a second LP, and though neither spawned a song-of-the-year hit, they were good enough to not need to.
Banks just released her third album, and I thought it was kind of… the same? Three records of all the same, even when it’s a very good same, gets boring. But I’ll always remember her debut as one of the best things to happen in 2014. Banks offered a heady brew of electronic atmosphere, sadgirl goth aesthetics, sexy R’n’B vocals and confessional songwriting. It was a combination of disparate elements that somehow felt like a sustained mood. Probably because it felt honest in its influences, as opposed to just painfully hip. It wasn’t just moody, it was really raw. Underneath some on-trend production lived a songwriter with a lot of soul. I find it interesting – and relevant – that Jillian Banks was writing music privately for years while earning a bachelor’s in psychology at USC. It explains something about the emotional astuteness of her music.
The appeal of Robert Plant’s Lullaby and the Ceaseless Roar is that it sounds far older than it is. It sounds like something Plant himself might have done in the 60’s if his approach to making music had been less bombastic. It may have taken him decades to realize that everything doesn’t have to be screamed, but his roots haven’t changed. He still likes blues and folk music. And that’s just fine. No one wants to see Robert Plant get modern. I mean, no one wants to see old geezers trying to be edgy in general, which leaves old geezers with very few options. They could try to be edgy and embarrass themselves, or continue producing new material that sounds exactly like their old material, or stop producing new material altogether and just play the hits. Robert Plant is of the few who refuses to play the goddamn hits, and he’s also one of the few who still writes material that is both reminiscent of the old stuff and different enough from it to be interesting.
This is the first of a string of songs named Sober, which invites a series of conversations about sobriety. An important topic, to be sure. However, this song by Broods is not actually about sobriety. It’s a plaintive love song, which invites a conversation about certain songwriting tropes. Poets and songsmiths have been leaning heavy on the metaphor of love as an addicting intoxicant for as long as all of culture, so it’s safe to say that it’s been done from every angle. You could argue that it’s not even a metaphor, more an exact description of what love hormones do to the human brain. Either way, we never seem to get tired of it, and as Paul McCartney once wrote “What’s wrong with that, I’d like to know.” So enjoy a plaintive love song that’s not designed to invite anything deeper than your own plaintive feelings.
This might feel fragmentary, but maybe you should listen to the entire album. Bombay Bicycle Club are more of a sustained atmosphere band than a stand-alone singles band. That makes them a little old-fashioned, now that playlists have trumped albums as units of musical consumption. Nowadays, every song has to be a potential stand-alone single, in hopes of being picked for someone’s #MOOD playlist. I’m as guilty as anyone with this mentality; I’ve been trying break songs out of their original context since before platforms like Spotify made it so easy. I’m from the mixtape generation, I understand the urge to curate your own experience. However, there are still some artists who aren’t trying to be playlist friendly. Artists whose songs are best appreciated when you play 10 or 12 of them all in a row. What, ten songs in a row by the same artist? Now that’s a curated listening experience.
Well, here I am asking myself if it’s wrong that I still enjoy Morrissey’s newer records. Morrissey once said that being his fan must be very hard, and ever since, he’s thrown down the gauntlet to make it even harder. Why does he keep saying all these nasty racist things? Is it because he’s a racist old white guy? The best I can say for him is that he has the very immature mentality that he should be allowed to say whatever he likes and not expect any pushback, and when he says dumb shit and earns negative pushback, he acts shocked and wounded. More to the point, I would say that he is an elderly man who has calcified, as people tend to do with age, into someone more ignorant, more conservative and more deeply out of touch than his younger self used to be. (Although his younger self was kind of a jerk too.) Can we just accept that most of our icons are scum? Most people are scum when you look at them closely enough, but especially if they’re white guys of a certain age and too much money in their pockets. That’s just demographically factual. Even the so-called good ones. They were all raised to believe that their shitty behavior is somehow ‘charming’ or symptomatic of inner depth or is negated by their talent, or whatever. And then we all collectively threw money at them and hung their picture up in a frame. Every day there’s another breathless news story about some old dude saying or doing or being accused of saying or doing some shitty stupid shit like they don’t understand that the entire culture has changed and people are no longer going to shrug and say “oh, you!” like a put-upon sitcom housewife. And lest you ask, female elder statesmen are in no way exempt from this; Brigitte Bardot, for example, is absolutely abhorrent in her politics, while the likes of Diana Ross and Barbra Streisand have decided that defending Michael Jackson (a man who did sex to little boys, on the scale of shitty things to have done) is the hill their reputations would die on. Does that mean that Morrissey is canceled, as the kids say? Well, no. If every shitty person’s art was canceled, there would be no art left, because we’re all shitty people and we all have done things we’d like to not have dredged up on Twitter. Even Michael Jackson is not canceled.
I discovered Hurray for the Riff Raff by stumbling into a SXSW performance, back when SXSW still meant something. I was a little blown away. Alynda Segarra is both very tiny and cute and an incredibly powerful performer, someone seemingly grew out of centuries of troubadour tradition like a pithy fruit. We don’t really talk about protest music anymore, because it’s been decades since anyone has used music as a political tool in any organized way. We forget the impact of effective political songwriting, and it’s too bad. Good music is just what the revolution needs.