![]() ![]() Best of all, though, is the collaboration’s germinal seed, “Willie O’Wimsbury”, on which loping double bass and subtle guitar picking provide a relaxed but enveloping bed for Chaney to spin a tale of commoner intercession into royal romance. And starkly different tactics: the retributions threatened on the titular turncoat here are far more brutal than anything encountered in these more delicate days.Įlsewhere, the delicate filigree of guitars and violin which carries the seductive “The Gardener” contrasts with the rockier approach taken on “Sheepcrook And Black Dog”, where organ, electric piano and heavy fuzz-guitar chording offers a piquant contrast to Chaney’s sylvan tones while the fizzy guitar arpeggios, violin and harmonium of “Old Churchyard” build up a dense droning texture of almost oppressive eeriness. It’s revelatory, a rollicking reminder of how workers have faced the same battles through many generations, albeit in subtly different guises. “Blackleg Miner”, which follows, is a centuries-old political broadside sung by Meloy over a dense weave of guitar, mandolin and harmonium driven by resolute drumming. The album’s psych-folk-rock bona fides are established at the outset by the title-track’s electric harpsichord, which summons echoes of “Sunshine Superman” – except that here, it proceeds with an unusual, courtly gait, whilst Chaney negotiates a lyric of unrequited desire between the eponymous Queen of Hearts and the Ace of Sorrow. ![]() ![]() Martine has long been The Decemberists’ go-to producer, and his deft touch with female vocals was confirmed by last year’s album from Neko Case, kd lang and Laura Veirs here, he plays midwife to a beautiful brood of offspring from the collaborative Offa Rex, ranging in style from the jaunty Fairport-esque romp “Bonny May” to a moving version of Ewan MacColl’s “The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face” featuring Chaney’s pure, clear tone aching over her lonely harmonium drone. The result, recorded by electro-acoustic production genius Tucker Martine, is The Queen Of Hearts, a sublime collection of old songs given contemporary heart transplants without ever betraying their essential original truth and spirit. But the titles tell their own story: “Ready For You”, “Right Now”, “Walking Away”, “I Want You Back”… it’s the songwriting equivalent of a child’s colouring book, except they never crayon anyone blue or green. Instead, those family-sized harmonies are harnessed to a slim selection of stylistic tropes hinting at influences they’d hope might trigger memories of grander designs: “Nothing’s Wrong” boasts a spangly keyboard sound prevalent in plenty of Eighties West Coast pop, while “You Never Knew” has a tick-tock pop pleasantry akin to Christine McVie, though not as melodically adhesive, despite the achingly extended repetitions that seek to rivet these half-songs into one’s consciousness. Clearly knocked up in the studio following months of weary touring, these songs are as limp as long-lost lettuce, several of them barely meriting the appellation “song” at all. ![]() Haim’s follow-up to Days Are Gone suffers from much the same shortcomings as that debut, but further debilitated by the classic Difficult Second Album Syndrome. But among a collection nodding variously back towards Italian house piano fanfares, dancehall twitches, and invitations to “party like it’s the Seventies”, it’s the echoes of Nineties G-Funk in the low-rider celebration “Rollin” and the quacking synth riff of “Holiday” that are most welcome. Pharrell’s light pop touch lifts the pleasant party piece “Heatstroke” and cod-reggae number “Feels”, featuring Ariana Grande and Katy Perry, respectively and Frank Ocean adds his usual idiosyncratic take on dancefloor mores and moves to “Slide”. In many ways, it’s a typical contacts-book R&B exercise, with an impressive cast of guests (including Frank, Pharrell, Snoop, Nicki, Katy, Ariana and others) on a fairly underwhelming series of grooves. On his follow-up to Motion, Calvin Harris all but ditches the brutalist techno that was his stock-in-trade for albums like 18 Months, in favour of a more reflective, retro-styled collection: as the title suggests, not so much bangers as bounces. ![]()
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