Any writer can offer excuses, but I don’t feel obligated. I write on this blog out of pleasure, in the hope that it inspires people to listen to music that inspired me to write about it, if you’re into those endless cycles. I mean, it’s tough to be writing, promoting (comedy shows, weirdly enough) and doing a degree simultaneously but that’s not really it. The lack of new music on this page is actually because I had the chance to review the most enchanting album of this decade so far, so ingrained in my head that thinking about much more new music seems a bit futile.
Generally, it’s got pretty good reviews. Certainly no classic (that’s gotta be 5 stars, right? 10.0, whatever), but definitely an impressive album. A reviewer can make a snap judgement or really absorb an album and either way, they’ll generally make a fair and subjective criticism of it. Then, that’s it. They might not listen back to it, because the job’s done, but more often than not, they’ll buy it once it’s officially out, because it matches their tastes and intrigues in a lasting way.
However, sometimes an album arrives at the perfect time for a writer, given context.
(As an aside, I’m loathe to call myself by any means a “made”, published writer, but I’ve had an okay level of success having started on a website at 15 (or 16, I can’t remember, honestly) and stepped my game up significantly since then. That okay? Okay.)
Growing up is difficult. It’s a bit startling when everyone’s getting more responsible, or self-destructive, you find yr peers combust or galvanise. Jobs become more real, education’s done with ([CLICHÉ AHEAD] you never stop learning though, right? [/CLICHÉ]) or you’re half-way through, and the looming job market and expectations of culture and success have to be met or you’ll struggle for as long as it takes to get to the heights a person aspires to.
Part of growing up is moving on, moving out. It’s not always the barnstorming social beehive you expected, or if it is, it can’t last. Jobs happen, there’s stuff to do, and the adjustment can be a little overwhelming. People you thought would stick become rare treats, and vice versa. Add to that the ability to make being a skinny, suburban lower-middle-class late-teenager look fucking difficult and you’ve got yrself something quite big.
Who thought, then, that a remix album by the percussionist from The xx would become the most important record in my life so far this year? It’s all very well planning the perfect collaboration, or wacky remix ideas (“Omg imagine if Slayer and Cliff Richard did a song lol?”), but rarely does it work so effectively.
Sure, it’s poet and singer Gil Scott-Heron’s lyricism that makes this album such a personal thing, but the production is incredible. Harking back to the more modest, minimalist tones of earlier dubstep and adding a glaze of IDM (from the Boards of Canada and Kieran Hebdon school) creates a woozy landscape, cold and dissonant, sometimes frantic (the stabs of NY Is Killing Me), more often comforting at arms’ length. Heron’s prose and warm melancholy meets this perfectly. He is a priest on a mountain of sugar, if you will.
The basic story is that Gil Scott-Heron’s moved to New York City. It’s bewildering for a man raised in the All-American, red-state territory of Jackson, Tennesee, having been born in Chicago, and whose Dad left the US to play football for Celtic (a tip of the cap for the latter part, Gil Heron). Now in his early 60s, I’m New Here is an introspective and deeply personal take on the big city experience. He meets a woman of huge significance, and the rest of the hubbub and streetlights seem like a futile and monstrous outside world.
We’re New Here, then, is an album of hugely touching moments. From the start, I’m New Here, the juddering, icy synth sound cultivates in a Gloria Gaynor sampling, off-dubstep plunge into the dance floor, the ironic response to a lonely call for help.
I’m new here, will you show me around?
I’m not going to go track-by-track. A small essay laden with superlatives makes for a clunky, useless read. That said, to go without mentioning My Cloud ignores the finest point on a brilliant LP. It is the perfect expression of isolation and desire, wrapped in Jamie xx’s aforementioned pitch perfect production, taking a fairly obvious Four Tet influence and putting a unique spin on a theme. A loop of gentle melodic sighs and off-kilter beats provide the perfect platform for the most amazing sentiment that needs to be heard, rather than described.
Sure, it’s no excuse not to be involved in the blogs, and new bands, or whatever, and I’m returning back into the investigative mindset. But my lesson here is that, no matter what anyone thinks, when you find the record that’s perfect for yr situation, never, ever let it go.
Won’t you come and join me on my cloud?
