5 Notable Albums of 2013 so Far

The Man who Died in his Boat – Grouper

When the distant, heart-rendering melancholia of Liz Harris’ vocals on Vital filtered almost irreverently through my laptop speakers, I remembered why I loved Grouper so. Undeservedly labelled as the female Sun Kil Moon, I’d be inclined to describe her music as downbeat Neutral Milk Hotel; fantastical, surreal imagery juxtaposed by strikingly solemn laments, backed by the simplest of guitar chords and the faintest touches of white noise. While The Man who Died in his Boat lacks the widespread appeal of 2007s’ traditionally folky Dragging a Deer up the Hill, it retains that album’s quietly resonant, inexplicable power. That’s the brilliance of Grouper; she understates yet overdescribes. The effect is startlingly dramatic; hauntingly, mysteriously, beautiful.

FIDLAR – FIDLAR

Skate punk is back, apparently. Not that I, or anyone else for that matter, particularly care. At least, not until I heard FIDLAR. It’s nice to listen to a band who have no pretensions about their music. They’re young, hedonistic and they don’t give a fuck. Most of their songs are short bursts of decadent, punky bliss, averaging at well under 3 minutes. It’s an adrenaline ride which finishes as quickly as it begins, with two of the album’s best tracks respectively, Cheap Beer and Cocaine. Those titles identify pretty extensively the thematic ambition of FIDLAR. They have nothing to say, but that doesn’t matter. They dedicate an entire song to mocking their drummer’s poor balance, Max Can’t Surf. Why? Why not? What matters is this is terrifically fun, unpretentious punk.

MBV – My Bloody Valentine

It’s been 22 years since Loveless, arguably one of the greatest rock albums of all time. Since then, MBV have thrown out a handful of EPs and LPs, but this is only their second studio album. Quite astoundingly, it almost matches Loveless’ euphorically distorted noise. In a way MBV is a more laid back album, not in terms of its sound, but in its similarity to Loveless, an album which took the music industry by storm with its punchy distinctiveness. I’d argue that the lack of mystery behind the expectations of the record is its only  drawback. On offer is a number of terrific Alt-rock songs, from the stunning In Another Way, with its gorgeous synth/guitar chorus, to the anthemic Only Tomorrow. Dudless and near-flawless, MBV is worth the 22 years fans have waited.

Pedestrian Verse - Frightened Rabbit

The Glasgow Folk-rock cult favourites return with their fourth studio album. It isn’t going to expand their appeal to their fervent critics, but fans of Frabbit will fall in love once more. Singer/writer Scott Hutchison quickly eradicates any fears of ‘going mainstream’; in the first line of the first track, Acts of Man, he refers to himself as a dickhead. Self-depreciation is a fundamental component of being Glaswegian, and Hutchison personifies the lower-middle class Glaswegian. His lyrical commentary on romance, society, politics and mortality is scathingly honest, and palpably relevant. Powerfully relatable, yet enjoyable. Holy is a terrific rush of bass guitar and incoherent cynicism, December’s Tradition an entertainingly rocky rendition of an emotionally deep question. State Hospital, possibly the most brutally Scottish pop song I’ve heard.

We are the 21^st Century Ambassadors of Peace and Magic – Foxygen

Ignore the self indulgent album title and just listen to the music. An eclectic homage to Lou Reed, Rolling Stones and... who else? Queen? ELO? The Beatles? It’s difficult to determine, exactly. After their excellent but eccentrically varying LP, Foxygen’s album debut is a genuine masterpiece. No Destruction, a relaxed, trippy and brilliantly structured rock song, features one of my favourite lyrics right now; ‘There’s no need to be an asshole, you’re not in Brooklyn anymore.’ On Blue Mountain is equally strong, as the piano and percussion take centre stage in what I consider to be a 60s, less weird Paranoid Android. Shuggie and Oh Yeah are also excellent, (and not just because of their hilarious names) but the star of the show is San Francisco. It’s just so pwetty: its winking-at-self-referential chorus ‘I left my love, in San Fransicso/that’s okay, I was born in LA.’

Ten Favourite Albums 2012

Honourable Mentions:

2:54 - 2:54;

Of Monsters and Men - My Head is an Animal; 

Bruce Springsteen - Wrecking Ball; 

A$AP Rocky - Long Live A$AP; 

DIIV - Oshin.

10. Miguel – Kaleidoscope Dream

In my opinion, the best R&B album of the year. There is a consistent quality, and variety, across the record; Adorn is a pretty wee love song, Don’t Look Back, an epic, rousing ballad, the title track a successful fusion of traditional R&B and electronica. It’s a very aesthetically pleasant listen, ably assisted by Miguel’s greatest attribute; his stunning vocals. He has the voice of a particularly horny angel. While neither groundbreaking, nor thematically existent, Kaleidoscope Dream serves its purpose; it’s a hugely enjoyable easy listening album. Perfect for writing an article on the Top Ten Albums of the Year.

9. Cloud Nothings – Attack on Memory

Attack on Memory is a hugely progressive step forward for the underrated Cloud Nothings. Moving away from their indie-pop foundation into angst-punk territory is a bold move, and it pays dividends for the hilariously nerdy looking band. The superb build-up opening track, No Future/No Past, establishes the central tone and theme of the album; the dissatisfaction of modern twentysomethings. Like the best punk singers, Dylan Baldi screams because he has something to say. Stay Useless and Our Plans are present as the excellent ‘radio’ songs, but the star of the show is the 9 minute anarchic masterpiece, Wasted Days.

8. Schoolboy Q – Habits and Contradictions

Habits and Contradictions opens with two hip-hop crackers; the atmospheric Sacrilegious, and the brutally eye-opening There He Go. While never quite matching its beginning, (if it could, it’d be one of the best hip-hop albums ever) it’s easily Schoolboy Q’s best work. Schoolboy Q, like collaborator A$AP ROCKY, never says anything especially poignant, but, amongst the pumping jams and jumping pams, he frequently offers an honest insight into the mind of someone warped by fame and fortune, an intriguing case study of a man given everything, yet not always getting everything. Regardless, it’s still brilliantly produced.

7. First Aid Kit – The Lion’s Roar

Country folk, like guitar music, is declared ‘dead’, then ‘alive’ on a bi-annual basis. The hauntingly beautiful voices of Swedish sisters Johanna and Klara Soderberg renders country folk ‘alive’ once more. Yes, listening to them sing is serenely life-affirming, but it’s important to appreciate their songwriting ability also. Using instruments normally associated with inbred hillbillys singing about how black slavery is still integral to American democracy, they craft heartwarming love stories, heartbreaking lovelorn stories, and occasionally, ferociously feminist statements. A fantastic debut album. Emmylou is the Pitchfork fan’s alternative to Gangnam Style as catchiest song of 2012.

6. The XX – Coexist

Okay, I know I reviewed this in the summer and asserted that it was nigh impossible to beat as album of the year. Truthfully, there are five albums better than it. So, I was quite wrong. The XX’s debut album’s brilliance lay in the simplicity of its sound, something, somehow, even more refined here. It’s a quiet, under-the-radar masterpiece of easy listening. Hauntingly pretty, yet startlingly relevant in an era of isolated romances. Fiction is a dream-pop classic, Swept Away a neo-R&B foot-tapathon, while both Reunion and Unfold are understated, yet powerful, exemplifying that especially XX uniqueness. Nearly flawless, but I’m expecting something more ambitious from Jamie and co next time.

5. Death Grips – The Money Store

Ever since the bonkers Guillotine was released, I’ve slowly fallen more and more in love with Death Grips. The Money Store is just as delightfully insane as I hoped. The likes of Fever and Punk Weight are traditionally Death Grips, in that they’re a wholly untraditional mesh of synthesisers, drum machines, tortured cats and human skulls being used as tambourines. It’s hip-hop like you’ve never heard it before. Lyrically, it’s like someone bugged the house of a torrettes-suffering schizophrenic. It’s a series of paranoid, nonsensical ramblings, but it’s fascinating. The most original album of the year.

4. Chromatics – Kill for Love

Perhaps the closest claim to fame Chromatics had prior to Kill for Love, was having an instrumental used in Drive, a film with a soundtrack so chock-full of fantastic electronic-rock songs, it’s a trendy, ultra-violent music video. Kill for Love, although great, is odd. The first half consists of a series of brilliantly composed pop love songs, with synths in full swing, while the latter half mostlt includes moody instrumentals. As a huge fan of electronic rock, I’m jubilant to finally have a terrific studio album to satiate my synthesiser lust, rather than a bottomless pit of one-hit wonders. The title track and Lady are notable favourites. Like OMD, only with an attractive girl as lead singer.

3. Godspeed you Black Emperor – ‘Allelujah! Don’t Bend! Ascend!

Godspeed you Black Emperor are so superior to every other post-rock band in existence that the genre is still coming to terms with the indisputable magnificence of their first album, 1997’s Infinity. Now, ten years since their last effort, they return with another implicitly affecting attack on everything, and nothing. Entirely lyricless save for the occasional Apocalyptic soundbite, each track, if you can separate them, builds up slowly with its heavy, distorted guitars, screeching string instruments and brutalised percussion, to a euphorically terrifying crescendo. Each Godspeed album is structured like a classical Symphony, a notion never as profound as in Allelujah.

2. Tame Impala – Lonerism

Perhaps the overarching theme of Lonerism isn’t exactly unambiguous, but it’s the most significantly important album of 2012. Social isolationism and discontent is hardly an original concept to confront, yet Tame Impala handle it distinctively. Rather than expressing themselves through pseudo-intellectual rap or angst punk, their sound is probably best described as being slightly aggressive pop rock. They succeed unquestionably, in conveying their obviously pertinent message, and in making excellent rock music. Apocalypse Dreams and Elephant are classic rock anthems, while Why Won’t They Talk to Me? and Feels Like we Only Go Backwards are respectfully two contenders for song of the year.

1.       Crystal Castles – (III)

Crystal Castles are just incredible. What (III) proves is that they’re just getting better. The album opens with the stunning Plague, soon followed by the mind-blowing Wrath of God. It continues in this vain. The soon-to-be house favourite Telepath stands out, as do the astonishingly relevant Violent Youth and Child I Will Hurt You (incidentally, Crystal Castles trademark ‘slow, pretty’ song of the album, despite its subject matter). In (III), Crystal Castles evoke the mysterious (entirely objective) poignancy of Radiohead, the angsty power and iconic image of Sonic Youth and the eccentric dance madness of Chemical Brothers collectively. This is a very special album, by a very special band. What’s the most exciting part? I don’t think we’ve seen the best of them yet.

10 Favourite Songs of the Year:

10. How Long Have you Known - DIIV

9. Violent Youth - Crystal Castles

8. Six Weeks - Of Monsters and Men

7. Why Won't They Talk to Me? - Tame Impala

6. Five Seconds - Twin Shadow

5. Emmylou - First Aid Kit

4. Wrath of God - Crystal Castles

3. Sweater Weather - The Neighbourhood

2. Feels Like we Only Go Backwards - Tame Impala

1. It's a War - Blackbird Blackbird

Mini Reviews 3

The Hobbit

The weight of expectation upon Peter Jackson’s filmic return to Middle Earth was heavier than Michelle McManus with a depression-induced stress-eating disorder. Yet, the inevitable comparisons with LOTR are unfair, The Hobbit being a simpler, more fantastical (and arguably better) novel than its famous younger brother. It’s far lighter and comical, much more traditional childish fantasy. This is made explicit when paralleled alongside LOTR’s ambitiously dramatic narrative. On the screen the differences are even more obvious. For example, one scene in Jackson’s adaptation sees the Goblin King, looking like a cross between a cartoon turkey and Stuart McCall, set up his own death as a gag. It’s hard to imagine Viggo Mortensen making knock knock jokes in the Black Gate finale. I think its dissimilarity with LOTR instigated many of the mixed reviews.

It’s an excellently made film, and both an effective expansion and stand-alone to an extremely popular saga. The casting, especially the phenomenal Martin Freeman, is spot on, the special effects and attention to world detail, staggeringly good, the plot, well-paced, the dialogue, solid if unspectacular. Peter Jackson’s direction is exquisite, squeezing out every drop of humour, tension and wonder possible from each scene.

It’s surprisingly difficult to review. It’s thematically vacuous, but so is the novel, so should Jackson be applauded for a faithful adaptation? Or criticised for lack of filmmaker innovation? I’m unsure.

Personal gripes include the excessive use of slow-motion in set-pieces, the glaring unfunnyness of James Nesbitt, when it inexplicably metamorphoses into an instagrammed Disney musical with ugly people, and the fact that orcs are never once referred to as ‘Glasgow Rangers fans.’

It’s still a great piece of filmmaking, and entertainment, one made even more valuable by the tremendous disappointments of nearly every other sequel, prequel, spin off, or bastard, Inuit son.

Diary of the Dead

In one of my previous mini reviews, I critiqued Zak Snyder’s 2004 remake of the cult-classic Dawn of the Dead. In a stunning move, Snyder masterfully by-passed the anti-consumerist satire of Romero’s work, instead making a gore-porn flick where the only serious question raised is whether or not the girl Phil Dunphy is shagging is under-age or not. The uncertainty still haunts me to this day. It has the political relevance of my pyjama drawer.

Thank God, ladies and gentlemen, for the 2^nd coming of George A. Romero. The low budget Diary of the Dead takes aim simultaneously at the frightening influence of new media on everyday life, and man’s inherent curiosity with suffering and horror. The extent of the limited funds is sadly exposed; the extremely small scale both the plot and set locations operate on could potentially serve to emphasise the severe effect a zombie apocalypse has on an individual or group, but the unintentionally farcical performances, and God-awful dialogue, contradict that theory.

While it abandons Dawn of the Dead’s inert socio-political subtext for the chaining-you-to-a-chair-while-a-brooding-voiceover-rams-it-down-your-throat-until-you-pass-out-from-heavy-handed-mind-thuggery school of expression, it remains a profoundly intense 90 minutes. The protagonist’s character development is startlingly good, as he progressively becomes obsessed with recording the end of days... just because it's interesting, it somehow grows on you how relevant and relatable these characters, despite their eccentricities, actually are. It is genuinely thought-provoking stuff, and the ending is fantastically depressing, if a tad contrived.

DotD also adopts a Shakespearean ‘film within a film’ narrative concept. It's original and effective, even so much that when one of the characters continues to film while one of his 2D pals is the replacement of a 4am kebab for a notably hungry zombie it actually seems believable. I would make a joke about it being ‘filmingception’ or something, but sadly I don’t have the wit of a self conscious fourteen year old who watches Pokemon ironically. While the lecturous thematic exposition is off-putting, Diary of the Dead is a poignant, moving, underrated, shitely made dollop of cinema.

However, my favourite Diary of the Dead remains the fans’ forums on Rangers’ Media.

'On the Road' Review

‘The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones that never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn...’

That quote will soon be framed on the walls of Indie kids, alongside their signed copies of Mumford and Sons lyrics, and their first pair of non-prescription glasses. In this cage, the meaning of Kerouac’s ferociously energetic attack on the repressiveness of post-war America, and his 250 page thesis on self-discovery through hedonistic acts, will be forever lost among the limitless horizons of indoor-scarves and all-things denim.

This is because Walter Salles’ film adaptation of Kerouac’s classic, possibly my favourite (half) novel, amplifies the book’s, supposed, failings. As well as exposing its plotlessness, and the sheer one-dimensional misogyny plastered onto his female characters, Kerouac’s outrageous self-indulgence on the importance of the Beats is adapted perhaps a little too faithfully. The film is hopelessly pretentious, alienating anyone who hasn’t read the book, and therefore anyone who understands that its self-importance is part of its majesty. The awkward ‘intellectual Jazz’ score doesn’t help things. It’s this factor, rather than its potential to be something genuinely inspirational, which will appeal to the ‘individualistic’ masses. This, perhaps, only furtherly emphasises what we fans already knew; that it is unadaptable.

But the film is respectably faithful to the book, and is well-made in its own right. It’s well shot, although with a tad overuse of shaky-cam, though in a post-Greengrass era this is forgiveable, the colour scheme cleverly changing according to mood; bright yellows, greens and blues when the parties are in full swing, greys and browns for the crashing-back-to-reality hangovers. The soul of each American city is captured well enough, and the scenes ‘On the Road’ identify the isolated, almost secret, beauty and barrenness of rural America. Sam Riley is excellent as Sal, as is Kristen Stewart as Marylou, giving credibility to my assertion, mocked ever since she emerged as the Vampire’s pouting sex-object, that she is a good actress. The supporting cast perform amicably, especially strong is Tom Sturridge as Carlo Marx. The man personifies Ginsberg’s writing, as Carlo is Kerouac’s pseudonym for Allen Ginsberg, arguably the most fundamental poet of the Beat era, to perfection, and in many ways steals the film. The star of the show is Garret Hedlund as Dean. Dean as a role is, in my opinion, the equivalent of playing Hamlet or Anna Karenina; one of the most challenging, complex and fascinating in fictional history. Hedlund is fantastic, flawlessly embodying the wonderfully flawed icon’s infectious charisma and endless series of contradictions.

As someone near obsessed with the adventures of Dean and Sal, it was more minor interpretative things which frustrated; the explicitness of the homoeroticism, the use of Sal as a narrator (I hate narration, I’ve always considered it lazy writing in cinema and TV. Same goes for flashbacks) the glazing over of an important scene or character, and most annoyingly, the lack of expose on the sexual contrast between Sal and Dean; Sal’s necessity to infuse sex with love and meaning, and Dean’s necessity to shag everything with at least half a sex organ.

These don’t detract from the film itself though, especially if you’re just a casual fan of the book. The biggest compliment I can pay it, is that it, even in just a small way, evokes Kerouac’s energy. That excitement for the unexpected, that desire to explore new physical, emotional and psychological realms, seeps through the screen. Minutely, but it is present. I can thereby confirm that, if do like, or love, the novel, it is worth viewing.

It’s a pretty good film, with an extremely ponderous second act, but with an effective opening, and a great ending (If you appreciate the story behind Kerouac’s actual writing of the book back in New York, you’ll get as childishly excited as I was). It never descends into boredom, nor rises to greatness. I’d qualify it as being about as good an adaptation of the novel as can be made. And, in this small way, it can be classed as a minor success. I would still love to see Sofia Coppola have a go though.

It’s now time to sit in dread anticipation for the seemingly awful adaptations of The Great Gatsby and Great Expectations...

Kieran's 50 Favourite Films; No. 45

45. Y Tu Mama Tambien

Alfonso Cuaron, best known as the director of Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban and the underappreciated Children of Men, at the turn of the millenium, made the finest film about adolescence since Los Olvidados, which, interestingly enough, is also Mexican. Must be their water. While Y Tu Mama Tambien examines the psychology and physicality of that most troublesome of life’s segments with a powerfully honest eye, this not simply a John Hughes film with less Simple Minds, more complex orgies, it’s an astonishingly moving tale of discovery; self, sexual and otherwise. Recalling the decadent adventures of Kerouac, Burroughs and Ginsberg, best friends Gael Garcia Bunel and Diego Luna embark upon their road trip with Maribel Verdu’s sexy, (slightly) older women with the sole intention of getting things, namely high, and their hole. It doesn’t take a tweed-jacket wearing cinephile to grasp the concept that they ‘get more than they bargained for.’ To assume predictability at this point is understandable; so far, so American Graffiti/Motorcycle Diaries/On the Road. However, the way the relationships develop, grow and crumble between the three leads is mesmerisingly, to use a word I despise using in this context, raw. 

Their deeply human anxieties; their sexual insecurities, their pseudo-Freudian maternal and paternal issues, their relatably palpable fear of mortality, all expose the immature, misunderstanding psychosis of young adults trying to establish themselves into regular life. These are two boys, initially, eminently dislikeable, who use cocksure arrogance to mask their confusion and uncertainty about, well, everything. It’s horribly clichéd to claim, but Cuaron’s masterpiece ponders adolescence and maturity, sex and love, the relationship between archaic Mexican politics and a post-modern internet society, (The story takes place in the backdrop of a mini political revolution) and yes, you guessed it, life and death. It’s visually stunning, with a colourful vibrancy accentuating the impact every fight, every joint, every... scene of intimacy, has on the viewer. It’s exciting to watch, to be part of, but also frightening. It feels real. The performances are flawless, the soundtrack perfectly implemented and the final twenty minutes are really, really quite incredible. You will feel something by the end. What you feel is hard to determine. Only 45^th on my list just now, it’ll inevitably climb its way further up. One of the most significantly affecting cinematic experiences I’ve ever had the pleasure to enjoy.

One of my favourite one-take shots.

Kieran's 50 Favourite Films; No. 46

46. The Good, The Bad and the Ugly

That theme. You know the one I mean. Ennio Morricone’s unforgettable composition. That’s right; WOYOWOYOWAHHHH...WAH... WAH... WAUGHHHH. That one. Sergio Leone’s majestic epic, his first of three films on this list, more than stands the test of time, but not, I’m afraid, the test of tiresome, overused clichés in describing it. The Good, the Bad and the Ugly may not be the best Western of all-time, but it’s certainly the most iconic; Clint Eastwood’s Good, a calmly smouldering beacon of all things cool and macho, is the definitive Western protagonist; Lee Van Cleef’s Bad, the dastardly heartless villain of the piece, straining every ounce of contempt out of the audience with his deliciously evil sadism with a smile; Eli Wallach’s Ugly, hilariously bumbling while also sneakily cunning, and also the movie’s show-stealer, is a pitiful, back-stabbing rogue with no redeemable qualities, but he’s a laughing stock, and is therefore redeemable in our eyes. Morricone deserves yet another mention. His score corroborates Leone’s harsh, jagged imagery of delicately framed desolate landscapes and even more desolate close-ups of its inhabitants. ‘Ecstasy of Gold’, the piano-centric piece played during the film’s pants-wettingly exciting climax, is an example of the very best in film music. While the first two in the ‘Dollars’ trilogy were entertaining and gripping, they lacked the vastness in scope and ambition of TGTBATU. Leone’s final chapter is not only thrilling, funny and sad, it’s also surprisingly profound, offering a never-before-seen insight into The Good’s desperately lonely existence, and in one section, even delivers a powerful anti-war message. I do not know a single male who hasn’t adored this film. But then again, I don’t know a single female that has. I don’t know how that’s possible. There can only be one type of person who dislikes this; a son of a... WOYOWOYOWAHHHH...

The XX - 'Coexist' Review

Someone once asked me why I loved The XX so passionately, after all, it’s just a guy and girl singing over some basic distorted guitar chords and simple synth effects. I replied that that was why I loved them. This sounded far more poignant, and far less pretentious, in my head. My point still stands however. The XX pride themselves on making beautifully simple, beautifully haunting, beautifully beautiful music. They make music for your ears. Their music makes your ears happy, which in turn, makes you happy. It’s all in the maths. Their critically acclaimed 2009 debut shook the foundations of modern pop; a pleasingly ascetic 40 minute odyssey on sex, love and heartbreak. The likes of Crystallised, Islands and Shelter are now embedded in the public conscience. While the album wavered slightly towards the end, it finished spectacularly with the quiet masterpiece Stars, more than excusing the album’s minute flaws.

Coexist, one of my most anticipated albums of the year, is different. There are no stand-outs like Crystallised or Stars. It’s one of the most consistent albums I’ve heard in a while; I dare you to try and pick out a ‘filler’ track from any of its eleven. More notably, it’s one of the most consistently excellent albums I’ve ever heard; I dare you to try and pick out a track which isn’t fantastic. The heavenly opening, Angels, sets the tone perfectly; ‘And with words unspoken, a silent devotion, I know you know what I mean, and the end is unknown.’ A hopelessly romantic beginning, no?  These musically basic, but still brilliant, slower tracks, (Try, Missing) are this album’s eulogies to the ghosts of relationships past; heart-string tugging and profoundly moving tales of pain, misunderstanding, denial and emotional redemption. My favourite of these, and my favourite lyrically in the album, is Unfold; the now iconic psychedelic guitar in top form, Oliver Sim’s vocals are even more angsty than normal, Romy Madley Croft’s, even sexier, but the lyrics are incredible, the defining form of pseudo love-poetry for our generation; ‘In my head, you tell me things you’ve never said, and I choose to forget, and take the good and leave the rest.’ It ranks up there with Radiohead’s Motion Picture Soundtrack, Okkervil River’s A Stone and Airborne Toxic Event’s Sometime Around Midnight among my favourite love songs from the past twenty years.

It’s not just stunningly pretty melodies they’ve come up with, there are some pure pop and R&B tracks also. Jamie Smith has been one of the most in-demand DJs of recent years, and the experience he's gained on his turn-tabling travels has given The XX a new dimension; many of their new songs have cracking beats to match the synths, bass and guitar. One of the build-up songs on the album, Swept Away, is almost house music; an eclectic mix of the old and new, guitar, bass and the drum machine percussion. Reunion, another build-up song, even throws steel drums into the mix, and when the song kicks in around 2 minutes, I can guarantee it’s one of the most sensational climaxes in a track you’ll hear this year. Maybe, just maybe, my favourite song off the album is Fiction, the prime beneficiary of this beat improvement. The toe-tapping guitar soon gives way to Dizzee Rascal-lite beats, and then they combine flawlessly with the occasional rhythmic intrusion of a deep piano note. It’s... perfection. My ears weep for never again will they hear anything as aesthetically pleasing. The lyrics are, again, contemporary genius, a voice for the dissatisfied late teenage/early twenties romantic. Reality disappoints the fictitious illusions of chivalric, or ‘old school’, romance; ‘come real love, why do I refuse you? Cause if my fear’s right, I risk to lose you, and if I just might wake up alone, bring on the night.’ Sensually sad.

If you held a hypothetical gun to my head and told me to state my favourite song off the album, I’d say you were an idiot as an imaginary gun isn’t particularly intimidating, but if you asked politely, I might have to say Fiction. But I don’t want to. Coexist is my album of the year so far. Even with releases from Crystal Castles and The National, it will be extremely difficult to topple it from its esteemed throne. Buy it. For your ears’ sake.