Riz Ahmed—The Long Goodbye

Any unfamiliar with Riz Ahmed’s music will recognise him from roles in high-profile Hollywood films—since his breakout in Chris Morris’ Four Lions, Ahmed has ascended to the status of household name. Despite inter-continental success and schmoozes with chat show hosts in the US, Ahmed is fierce in his self-identification as a Brit (grabbing stateside headlines in 2016 with a timely assertion “this is what British looks like”).

Swet Shop Boys—Ahmed’s collaboration with former Das Racist member Himanchu Suri—had consequently felt compromised; its singular thrust slowed and bisected between continents. Suri is from Queens, and enjoys Punjabi-Indian heritage. By contrast, Ahmed is a Wembley native with Muhajir Pakistani roots. The duo enjoyed the broadness, the contrasting viewpoints, that this afforded Swet Shop Boys. But by shedding Suri and his laid-back, affable style for The Long Goodbye, Ahmed’s work has been emboldened and found new focus and conceptual rigour.

The concept itself finds Ahmed in a break-up with Britain; the country’s centuries of contradiction, colonisation and mistreatment of Asia worked into a small-scale personal narrative. Ahmed has corralled cameos from high-profile pals (including Chabuddy G of People Just Do Nothing, Mindy Kaling of The Office and even Mahershala Ali), each offering advice, well-wishes or general thoughts on how his “ex” is treating him. “Britney” is positioned as an emotionally abusive character who extorts, impels or begs one second and turns her nose up the next—and Ahmed so capably weaves the history of the UK into his telling it’s impossible to disagree.

Material which could seem played-out in the hands of a lesser MC (I’m looking at you, ‘Where You From’) is elevated by Ahmed’s delivery, the strength of his arguments and the lyricism they float on. The Long Goodbye is something like Britain’s To Pimp a Butterfly—an unflinching, stunningly frank discussion of how racism still permeates every level of society—though it wouldn’t surprise anyone to hear that it doesn’t match the ambition of Kendrick’s piece. It is, though, similarly complex; a peaceful album which admonishes temperance, but never feels contradictory. It’s also a multimedia piece: the short film which accompanied the LP is linked below. The Long Goodbye does the only thing that many can: tries to clear its throat in a country which has made a centuries-long habit of ignoring its voice.  

Listen to the #TheLongGoodbye album here: https://rizahmed.ffm.to/thelonggoodbye.oyd Subscribe to see new videos first: https://smarturl.it/rizahmedyoutube S...

The Long Goodbye is available for purchase and streaming here.

Words: Andrew O’Keefe

BABii—iii

It won’t surprise any listeners to learn that Margate-based producer BABii has, in the past, co-created an album with Iglooghost (xyz): a familiar clanging chaos litters her new EP, iii, one hole-punched by hollow-sounding, quasi-Noh percussion. But where Iglooghost’s music is like a hyperactive DnB mix produced by CBBC, BABii grounds iii with big-hearted explorations of closeness and distance.

It’s oddly fortuitous, given the circumstances. In the cloistered, claustrophobic togetherness of self-isolation, we’re prompted to discuss what it means to share space with someone. It’s all too easy to transpose the three tracks presented on iii to reflect our current situation—a situation they have no awareness of. This, in a way, reveals the broadness of their appeal; the universality with which BABii is speaking.

Opening track ‘BEAST’ is the most overt example of these themes—though iii is far from furtive with their presentation throughout. The longing of long-distance relationships is contrasted with loveless close-quarters ones. Essentially, the idiom ‘absence makes the heart grow fonder’ is unravelled and unpicked across the course of four minutes. ‘BEAST’ features some lyrics which are gorgeous in their simplicity (standouts include: “your distance is distance/ but I still feel close to you”; and “I wanna love you/ whenever I want to”). It also does great work in laying beat-driven foundations for what follows.

‘SNAKE’ and ‘RGB’, the EP’s final two tracks, are incrementally more complex and ambiguous. ‘SNAKE’ details a damaged relationship with a toxic (literally “venom” producing) person who’s been given one too many chances. It comes at the point of excision, where closeness is unviable and distance must be established. A snake is an almost comically clichéd metaphor to use, but it gives the song directness and a kind of counter-bitchiness all of its own. And ‘SNAKE’ climaxes by breaking its own grimy tension in a beautiful percussive rush.

‘RGB’ uses the primary colours to symbolise jostling dynamics in a relationship. It’s gently hugged by celestial synths, which underline in form the song’s content: a hug should be an embrace—to hold but not hold in place.  ‘RGB’ is a track is conflicted and ambivalent as the others on iii—and this is to the EP’s great credit. It’s the little complexities—in both its lyrics and production—that ensure iii is such a blast; never schmaltzy, constantly surprising. Grab it and keep it close.

iii is available for purchase and streaming pre-order here.

Words: Andrew O’Keefe

Myrkur—Folkesange

With Folkesange, Danish composer Myrkur (Amalie Bruun) undergoes what is, by now, a black metal rite of passage—she’s produced a stripped-down traditional folk album. Folkesange has a welcome focus on Bruun’s vocal dexterity, and reinterprets durable arcane compositions to reflect a very modern world. Here, swashes of vocal processing and mysterious reverb imitate a voice dancing over the green vales.

The more you unpeel the connection between black metal and folk, the stranger it becomes. Both genres have a focus on tradition—but black metal’s traditions are near-exclusively in the domain of swordsmen, conquesters and trolls. There has, at times, been a similarly Tolkien-inspired yet uncomfortably eugenic focus on race; far rarer has that focus extended to what these ancient paragons of people did. Folk, by contrast, is the music of working people (clue’s in the name, dummy).

Folkesange regularly calls on the traditions of these workers—most notably in the kulning which bookends ‘Fager som en Ros’ and ‘Tor i Helheim’. Traditions like these cattle-calls were enforced by the daily grind; they’re practices which pushed through the cracks of people’s routines like moss, and announced themselves as vital. The original “milkman’s cheery whistle”.

There is thus a deeper humanism to Folkesange than Myrkur’s previous releases. The cold death of guitars is supplanted by warm vocal harmonies. Any stringed instruments present are isolated into pockets of staccato plucking. The posturing and machismo of black metal is stripped away—revealing Scandinavian culture for the slightly puckish and playful thing it’s always been. The exaltation of women is foregrounded, too, and in a more sincere way than having men grow their hair out and get it silky-smooth with Pantene. Even down to its cover—feminine, floral and sun-soaked—Folkesange finds Myrkur boldly confronting her own image.

The result is a beautiful, contradictory album which would probably play better in a biddie-filled Yorkshire pub than the offices of Kerrang. Closing track ‘Vinter’ illustrates this wonderfully—led by piano and choir, we marvel at the delicacy and beauty of snow. The roaring winds are settled, the sky is clear, and the earth is glittering at our feet.

Folkesange is available for purchase and streaming here.

Words: Andrew O’Keefe

Moaning—Uneasy Laughter

L.A. trio Moaning elevate their latest release, Uneasy Laughter, with beautiful production flourishes and a bright blast of emotional approachability. Jangly guitars and ten-fill-a-minute drums bolster the album’s unique sound; a sun-kissed swerve away from tired old post-punk dirge. It’s what post-punk used to be in the 80s—something you could actually move around to. 

Sean Solomon adopts a pastiche-y drawl which recalls vocalists of the era. But he’s a kind of anti-Morrissey; a voice as weather-beaten and camp, but espousing with a self-reflexivity and grounding which the Smiths singer always lacked. ‘Stranger’ is essentially a laundry list of personal failings—but it feels affirmative and hopeful. The song’s vocal hook, “sadness turned to anger,” is made bittersweet by being situated in the past. Solomon accepts culpability and seeks hope. 

‘Make It Stop’ internalises the age of post truth. It reverses the direction of buzzword-y phrases like “authenticity isn’t what it used to be”, pointing them inwards. It’s an ingenious method to explore the loss of integrity—a horror of modernity which has largely seen itself subbed out for broader social panic—and one which, ironically, makes this song feel very sincere. Moaning smartly integrate the personal and political, and portion them in out quantities which don’t leave you fatigued. 

They are confident songwriters, too—‘Connect the Dots’ takes a bold dip into near-silence before a late reprise. It’s a song which can only have been written by people who know how good its chorus is. Moaning share a lot of DNA with (the underrated) Metric; both bands are suffuse with sadness which brushes—but doesn’t burst—a bubble of fun. And they’re both propulsive, synth-led throwback acts whose songwriting chops spare them from tumbling into embarrassing territory. 

80s revivalism has now lasted longer than the entire 1980s. But Moaning prove there’s still some fresh stuff in the punnet. 

Uneasy Laugher is available for purchase and streaming here.
Words: Andrew O’Keefe

Hilary Woods—Birthmarks

With Birthmarks, Hilary Woods joins the increasing number adopting the musical guise of witchhood. The kinship makes sense; witches were misunderstood, inventive, strong-willed, and intelligent women whose mode of expression chimed discordantly with that of broader society. People like this still exist. Now, we call them “artists”; their conjuration “art”. Woods also tackles her own pregnancy: the greatest feat of alchemy a human being can achieve.

‘Tongues of Wild Boar’ kicks off knee-deep in this alchemy. Woods’ voice is swaddled by plods of funereal timpani and dark, longing cello; a nightingale whistling through the thick canopy. Birthmarks recalls Hawthonn’s Red Goddess (of this men shall know nothing)—a similarly Romantic and pagan LP—but offers a good deal more variety, and is far thicker with texture.

In fact, some tracks here serve little purpose beyond servicing this texture. ‘Lay Bare’ is an atmospheric interlude between the album’s first and second halves which further charges the air with fog. Equally effective are second-half efforts ‘The Mouth’ and ‘Cleansing Ritual’. The former stacks hissing fissures of air and voiceless bilabial trills, which succumb in glorious exhalation to its string outro. The latter is infective; an insectoid brass buzz combining with a hiss of little wings to deeply unnerving effect.

This is not an abject or a disgusting album, though. It is rich with beauty and tenderness. ‘Orange Tree’ finds Woods both summoning and shrinking away from their internal power; the knife’s edge of excitement and anxiety which accompanies a new baby. ‘Through the Dark, Love’ reads like a PJ Harvey song banged on the other side of the wall by a ghost—touching, bittersweet but deathly (“Down, down, down…”). And closer ‘There Is No Moon’ is a quiet but tense conclusion, one that allows space for listeners to absorb the packed album it caps off. Birthmarks is a dark thicket to get lost in—but it teems with life.

Birthmarks is available for purchase and streaming here.

Words: Andrew O’Keefe