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| The fields I till.... |
Another week, another grab-bag of musical artists, another playlist: welcome to the second MAME May 2019 newsletter/playlist. Virtually nothing connects this week’s bands/artists beyond the fact they’re most of what I listened to over the past week (or so). I hope to start with themes one of these days – e.g., finding my favorite song by Journey – but I’ll work on finding a rhythm on posting.
Now, moving on to this week’s featured artists, and going by loose chronological order.
One Hit No More: Doris Troy, A Helluva Lot More than “Just One Look”
“When I recorded that song in a little basement studio in New York, I asked God to keep that song alive forever. And you know, he answers prayers.”
Doris Elaine Higginsen, later Doris Troy, wasn’t the first young woman raised in gospel to stealthily slip into the “wicked world” of R&B. Somehow she convinced her parents to let her work as an “usherette” at the Apollo Theater, where James Brown (! yes, the funkiest, most-sampled man alive) discovered her. She started writing songs for other artists as Doris Payne (Dee Clark’s “How About That” was her first - $100!), but she co-wrote “Just One Look,” the song that made her famous, with Gregory Carroll. But she made her career one step removed from the spotlight.
Her one hit was her last turn in the spotlight. As noted in the obituary ran by The Guardian after her death in 2004 (which makes sense; you’ll see), Troy figured out early on that she could earn steadier pay as a back-up singer/arranger for “more established artists” – a term that, in reality, translates to enormously fucking famous. The woman who would transform into “Mama Soul” left her fingerprints on some of the most famous music of the late 60s/early 70s: The Rolling Stones (“You Can’t Always Get What You Want”), Pink Floyd (all of Dark Side of the Moon, apparently), Dusty Springfield, Carly Simon (“You’re So Vain”). Her connection to The Beatles’ George Harrison would give her a final shot at fame.
Now, moving on to this week’s featured artists, and going by loose chronological order.
One Hit No More: Doris Troy, A Helluva Lot More than “Just One Look”
“When I recorded that song in a little basement studio in New York, I asked God to keep that song alive forever. And you know, he answers prayers.”
Doris Elaine Higginsen, later Doris Troy, wasn’t the first young woman raised in gospel to stealthily slip into the “wicked world” of R&B. Somehow she convinced her parents to let her work as an “usherette” at the Apollo Theater, where James Brown (! yes, the funkiest, most-sampled man alive) discovered her. She started writing songs for other artists as Doris Payne (Dee Clark’s “How About That” was her first - $100!), but she co-wrote “Just One Look,” the song that made her famous, with Gregory Carroll. But she made her career one step removed from the spotlight.
Her one hit was her last turn in the spotlight. As noted in the obituary ran by The Guardian after her death in 2004 (which makes sense; you’ll see), Troy figured out early on that she could earn steadier pay as a back-up singer/arranger for “more established artists” – a term that, in reality, translates to enormously fucking famous. The woman who would transform into “Mama Soul” left her fingerprints on some of the most famous music of the late 60s/early 70s: The Rolling Stones (“You Can’t Always Get What You Want”), Pink Floyd (all of Dark Side of the Moon, apparently), Dusty Springfield, Carly Simon (“You’re So Vain”). Her connection to The Beatles’ George Harrison would give her a final shot at fame.
When she finally relocated to London (to cut down on her commute, basically), Harrison signed Troy to Apple Records and worked to produce Troy’s eponymous 1970 debut album. Even more rock legends pitched in to produce it – e.g., Eric Clapton, Ringo Starr, Harrison (listen to the guitar; it’s hard to miss), Peter Frampton, and Steven Stills – but Troy’s album barely sold. Her name still carries real currency, though, and she’s still got a niche in the Northern Soul community with a song called “I’ll Do Anything” (He Wants Me to Do),” and you can see how sweetly and fondly she’s recalled in an interview/duet (of unknown date) with a guy named Michael Barrymore.
Troy deepened her (somewhat specific) legacy when her sister, Vy Higginsen, and her brother-in-law, Ken Wydro, wrote a musical based on her life/escape into music called, Mama, I Want to Sing. Even if you’ve never heard of it, it was hardly a flash-in-the-pan. As noted in the obituary that ran in The Herald of Scotland, “it toured all over the world for more than 20 years, making it one of the most successful off-Broadway shows to date.” In a fitting (and, realistically, necessary) coda, Troy never played the lead in the play. Chaka Khan took the role (among others); from 1984 through 1998, Troy played her mother.
[NOTE: Due to scheduling complications, all the Doris Troy tracks actually went in last week’s playlist. I chose “Whatcha Gonna Do About It” from her early career (better than “Just One Look” in my mind, and, better still, “Ain’t That Cute,” “Give Me Back My Dynamite,” and “So Far” from her solo album.]
The Fratellis, A Happy, Well-Adjusted Trio
“Each record is just a snap shot of where we find ourselves at any given time. Each day when I write I’m just trying to keep myself entertained.”
The more I read and watched interviews with members of The Fratellis – almost all of them with Jon Fratelli (born, John Lawler; for the real gluttons, here’s a 30-minute interview in twoparts) – they come across as among the happiest, simplest people in music – and “simple” isn’t a dig. It comes through in their songs, certainly; for all the fuzz and weight they get out of their guitars – she “Shameless” from 2008’s Here We Stand – The Fratellis specialize in upbeat tunes with broad, uncomplicated lyrics. As the quote indicates, they do what they do for fun.
There are two other Fratellis – Barry Fratelli (bassist, born Barry Wallace) and Mince Fratelli (drums/backing vocals) – and, to answer the question I saw while typing a query into Google, no, they’re not brothers, seriously, just look at them. They started in Glasgow, Scotland, and came out around the same time as acts like Franz Ferdinand, Hot Hot Seat and The Rapture, circa 2005 (one source called all that the “dance rock explosion”). Their debut album, 2007’s Costello Music, could very well have been their peak – at least that’s the platform for the songs most people seem to reference when they talk Fratellis – e.g., “Chelsea Dagger” and “Whistle for the Choir” (both on my April 2019 playlist), as well as “Henrietta” and “Flathead” from this week’s playlist. They haven’t let up since, even with the quieter profile, and, according to their Wikipedia page, they’ve got a sixth album coming soon.
According to multiple interviews, Michael Jackson is one of the few, if not the only artist they all agree on. I don’t hear that influence in any obvious way, but listening to their 2018 release, In Your Own Sweet Time, makes you wonder if they’re not all closet Neil Diamond fans (see the chorus to “I’ve Been Blind,” especially, but I left “Starcrossed Lovers” on my rejects playlist for the same reason). In the interest of keeping the review of The Fratellis manageable, I chose to key on that album, Costello Music and, their second, Here We Stand. (The attempt wasn’t a pure attempt, which is how “Whiskey Saga” from 2013’s We Need Medicine found its way onto the playlist). 13 years have changed the band, something that comes through on a pop-pure track like “Next Time We Wed,” and something immediate as how Jon Fratelli looks in a 2008 interview against the pt. 1 and 2 above.
To close with some random notes, they had a fan/booster in Roger Daltrey, who compared them to early iterations of The Who (based on what I know of them, the comparison probably fits better with Daltrey’s preferred iteration of The Who). Oh, and they picked up their name from the crime family in The Goonies, a movie they clam to have never seen. Overall, they perform as advertised: they’re a fun, upbeat, power-pop act with no further, apparent ambitions in any direction. And when they had the platform to kick a little cash to charity, they did it. Good dudes, good band.
Harlem, How We Sound to Ourselves
“In my minds eye, I would open my voice and it would sound like Aretha Franklin or something. It’s this constant disappointment to myself that I don’t have that kind of charisma or talent. Drawing from those influences is this impossible goal, but I definitely feel it. Way more so than some scuzzy guy playing guitar as an influence.”
After hitting it “indie-big” with 2010’s Hippies, Michael Coomers and Curtis O’Mara, the two permanent members of the Austin, TX-by-way-of-Tucson, AZ band, Harlem, walked away from more tours and another album on Matador records. Neither of them walked away from the music business entirely – Coomers kept going with a band called Lace Curtains (who I haven’t heard) and O’Mara played with Grape St. (same) – but something about Harlem’s trajectory spooked them both. When the whole thing shut down (Wikipedia pegs it at 2012), the other member of Harlem, bassist Jose Boyer, turned to his own projects as well (Daytona and Los Rosas).
Then, and by all accounts out of the blue, Harlem got together (with Coomers living in O’Mara’s living room) to record and release 2018’s Oh Boy – and to a decidedly uneven reception, at least on Pitchfork. Whether it’s an issue of taste or baggage, I didn’t struggle with Oh Boy the same way Pitchfork’sreviewer did. What’s more, if you read interviews with the band, you’ll see whichever one of them is speaking at the time repeat the same thing over and over – e.g., they wouldn’t want to do something like Hippies, never mind Hippies II, and on the grounds they’d already done that one. As both members explain (almost to the point of pleading), they’re not 24 anymore, and they see no reason why they should sound 24. And there’s no question Oh Boy is a different album from Hippies.
It was “Swervin” from Oh Boy, in fact, that made me to take a longer look at Harlem. Lo-fi indie rock still provides the foundation, but it’s slowed down and with nearly all the fuzz dusted off. I lined up some direct comparisons between Hippies and Oh Boy on the playlist with songs like “Smoke in Mirrors” versus “Gay Human Bones” (with its Pixies-esque opening motif), “Dreams Is Destiny” (um) versus “Someday Soon,” or “Click Your Heels” versus “Be Your Baby.” As much as I agree with Pitchfork’s second reviewer when he says Harlem lost some of its energy, I don’t hear a worse album; I heard something different, which is more or less what O’Mara and Coomers offered the world. And I don’t resent them for growing up and out of it.
“Each record is just a snap shot of where we find ourselves at any given time. Each day when I write I’m just trying to keep myself entertained.”
The more I read and watched interviews with members of The Fratellis – almost all of them with Jon Fratelli (born, John Lawler; for the real gluttons, here’s a 30-minute interview in twoparts) – they come across as among the happiest, simplest people in music – and “simple” isn’t a dig. It comes through in their songs, certainly; for all the fuzz and weight they get out of their guitars – she “Shameless” from 2008’s Here We Stand – The Fratellis specialize in upbeat tunes with broad, uncomplicated lyrics. As the quote indicates, they do what they do for fun.
There are two other Fratellis – Barry Fratelli (bassist, born Barry Wallace) and Mince Fratelli (drums/backing vocals) – and, to answer the question I saw while typing a query into Google, no, they’re not brothers, seriously, just look at them. They started in Glasgow, Scotland, and came out around the same time as acts like Franz Ferdinand, Hot Hot Seat and The Rapture, circa 2005 (one source called all that the “dance rock explosion”). Their debut album, 2007’s Costello Music, could very well have been their peak – at least that’s the platform for the songs most people seem to reference when they talk Fratellis – e.g., “Chelsea Dagger” and “Whistle for the Choir” (both on my April 2019 playlist), as well as “Henrietta” and “Flathead” from this week’s playlist. They haven’t let up since, even with the quieter profile, and, according to their Wikipedia page, they’ve got a sixth album coming soon.
According to multiple interviews, Michael Jackson is one of the few, if not the only artist they all agree on. I don’t hear that influence in any obvious way, but listening to their 2018 release, In Your Own Sweet Time, makes you wonder if they’re not all closet Neil Diamond fans (see the chorus to “I’ve Been Blind,” especially, but I left “Starcrossed Lovers” on my rejects playlist for the same reason). In the interest of keeping the review of The Fratellis manageable, I chose to key on that album, Costello Music and, their second, Here We Stand. (The attempt wasn’t a pure attempt, which is how “Whiskey Saga” from 2013’s We Need Medicine found its way onto the playlist). 13 years have changed the band, something that comes through on a pop-pure track like “Next Time We Wed,” and something immediate as how Jon Fratelli looks in a 2008 interview against the pt. 1 and 2 above.
To close with some random notes, they had a fan/booster in Roger Daltrey, who compared them to early iterations of The Who (based on what I know of them, the comparison probably fits better with Daltrey’s preferred iteration of The Who). Oh, and they picked up their name from the crime family in The Goonies, a movie they clam to have never seen. Overall, they perform as advertised: they’re a fun, upbeat, power-pop act with no further, apparent ambitions in any direction. And when they had the platform to kick a little cash to charity, they did it. Good dudes, good band.
Harlem, How We Sound to Ourselves
“In my minds eye, I would open my voice and it would sound like Aretha Franklin or something. It’s this constant disappointment to myself that I don’t have that kind of charisma or talent. Drawing from those influences is this impossible goal, but I definitely feel it. Way more so than some scuzzy guy playing guitar as an influence.”
After hitting it “indie-big” with 2010’s Hippies, Michael Coomers and Curtis O’Mara, the two permanent members of the Austin, TX-by-way-of-Tucson, AZ band, Harlem, walked away from more tours and another album on Matador records. Neither of them walked away from the music business entirely – Coomers kept going with a band called Lace Curtains (who I haven’t heard) and O’Mara played with Grape St. (same) – but something about Harlem’s trajectory spooked them both. When the whole thing shut down (Wikipedia pegs it at 2012), the other member of Harlem, bassist Jose Boyer, turned to his own projects as well (Daytona and Los Rosas).
Then, and by all accounts out of the blue, Harlem got together (with Coomers living in O’Mara’s living room) to record and release 2018’s Oh Boy – and to a decidedly uneven reception, at least on Pitchfork. Whether it’s an issue of taste or baggage, I didn’t struggle with Oh Boy the same way Pitchfork’sreviewer did. What’s more, if you read interviews with the band, you’ll see whichever one of them is speaking at the time repeat the same thing over and over – e.g., they wouldn’t want to do something like Hippies, never mind Hippies II, and on the grounds they’d already done that one. As both members explain (almost to the point of pleading), they’re not 24 anymore, and they see no reason why they should sound 24. And there’s no question Oh Boy is a different album from Hippies.
It was “Swervin” from Oh Boy, in fact, that made me to take a longer look at Harlem. Lo-fi indie rock still provides the foundation, but it’s slowed down and with nearly all the fuzz dusted off. I lined up some direct comparisons between Hippies and Oh Boy on the playlist with songs like “Smoke in Mirrors” versus “Gay Human Bones” (with its Pixies-esque opening motif), “Dreams Is Destiny” (um) versus “Someday Soon,” or “Click Your Heels” versus “Be Your Baby.” As much as I agree with Pitchfork’s second reviewer when he says Harlem lost some of its energy, I don’t hear a worse album; I heard something different, which is more or less what O’Mara and Coomers offered the world. And I don’t resent them for growing up and out of it.
The word “paradox” doesn’t come up all that often when you’re talking about popular music, but I went with the quote up top very deliberately. Based on what I’ve read about them, Harlem 1) never cared for the “garage rock” label, or at least they chalk up their sound more to having shitty instruments than intent, and 2) they don’t really like touring. That second detail alone makes Oh Boy something of a weird project…it’s not like they’re going to make money off selling the record. Regardless, Harlem is a solid band for the right kind of person. For me, both “Swervin” (a genuinely good song) and “Friendly Ghost” (again, on the April playlist) did a serviceable job of scratching an itch I’ve had for two, three decades now.
Pan Amsterdam, On Getting In Where You Fit In
“…he seems to be making music for himself and no one else, not caring what people think of this strong opinions…”
I’ve been quietly obsessed with Pan Amsterdam since I heard “Landlord Elijah” sometime in 2018. I credit a middle passage for the fixation, where the narrator (and he often feels like a narrator) related these lines: “cleanin’ feces every day, she worked with disabled adults/at night we drank Gato Negro, trade each other some insults.” The precise familiarity of that scenario gives way over the next few bars into what makes Pan Amsterdam so goddamn magical: “that woman there had the heart of Rudy, dead ass/Judge Judy…Judge Judy would have been all up in my booty.” All that plays over a relatively minimal beat with a refrain (“every day”) underlining the struggle. It took a little digging to get to the inspiration for that song, but the reveal borders on literary:
“Just your run of the mill jazz musician realizing that I didn’t vibrate well on the NYC jazz scene, with a sympathetic girlfriend paying the rent in a shitty apartment and watching her become resentful and bitter.”
Even if it’s not for everybody, sitting through Pan Amsterdam’s 2018 debut, The Pocket Watch, is like walking the creek at Sutter’s Mill and tripping over one shiny object after another.
Pan Amsterdam came into the world with a little mythology – see claims of waking up “on the Miami coast ‘in a state of apparent amnesia’” – which has since evaporated. The main man behind the project is Leron Thomas, a New York-based jazz musician who’s been on that grind long enough to (by one count) put out 10-11 albums under his own name. As he makes clear over multiple interviews, Thomas struggled with the politics of the New York jazz scene, but he was also driven/determined to “make it,” however it was ultimately defined. As he puts it in “Landlord Elijah,” that forced a choice: “a jazz musician died, Pan Amsterdam was born.”
Thomas made the transition with the help of some influential friends. In an interview with The Witzard (solid looking blog, btw), he credits a music critic/long-time friend, Ben Ratliff, for putting him in touch with Iggy Pop (who would ultimately collaborate with him on “Mobile”; you’ll recognize Iggy immediately). In a different interview, he credits a contact through Malik Ameer Crumpler that directed him to thatmanmonkz (aka, Scott Moncrieff) for gifting him the beats that made Pan Amsterdam possible (and it’s a pretty good story; hope I got it right).
Half of what I put on the playlist came from The Pocket Watch – e.g., “Plus One” and “Darlene” (which opens with this perfection: “Thanks for the glazed donuts, Darlene/here’s laminations to tomorrow’s show, all access, backstage/make sure your lady-friends are good, clean women, no Billie Jeans/I’m gonna try to wife one of ‘em”) – but I added a couple from Elevator Music, Vol. 1 (“Coat Check” and “No Snare,” ft. Open Mike Eagle, btw), the first of three EPs that he’ll drop over 2019; the next one will feature him as Yves Sane Leron, while the third remains a mystery; Thomas decided he couldn’t talk about that without spoiling it. I only know I’m looking forward to hearing it.
And…that takes care of the featured artists. After that, and for the first time in a while, the rest of the playlist isn’t made up of purely random acts. First, Discover Weekly reminded me that Diane Coffee exists by way of the song “Hymn” from 2013’s My Friend Fish. When I bounced over to reconnect with 2015’s Everybody’s a Good Dog, home to a handful of songs I’ve admired since first hearing that album (e.g., long-time favorite “Everyday” and the long and satisfyingly winding “Spring Breathes”), I noticed he/they released something just this year, Internet Arms…which, sadly, didn’t work for me. It’s too 80s-influenced for my ear, but I held one song, “Stuck in Your Saturday Night,” for the playlist.
The other artist is Sam Cohen, a guy I’ve been meaning to get to since hearing “Let the Mountain Come to You” at the beginning of 2018. Cohen, as it turns out, is busy as Doris Troy, part of more projects than your av-e-rage musician. To this point, I’ve only spent time with his 2015 release, Cool It, the home of “Let the Mountain Come to You” as well as two songs from this month’s playlist, “The Garden” and “Last Dream.” It’s probably no coincidence that those are two of the heavier songs from that album, but I held “Don’t Shoot the Messenger” for the Rejects playlist to capture his more normal mode on Cool It.
Now, to round out the rest of the playlist. I hope anyone who finds this post, hears something they like.
beadadoobee – “If You Want To”
Vicedescribes her (Bea Kristi) “the Gen Z songwriter crafting simple, affecting earworms.”
Bleached – “Think of You” and “Shitty Ballet”
Wikipedia’s page on the female-fronted rattles off a succession of genres orbiting around the word “punk.” I’ll state that a “Harlem-esque” difference separates these two songs.
Blind Pilot – “Three Rounds and a Sound”
Hey…Portland, Oregon-based indie-folk. I gave ‘em a spin based on a concert notice. They didn’t melt my brain, but this one hell of pretty song.
Caroline Rose – “More of the Same”
Fell in love with her last October. Long Island-based, she started in folk/country-inspired indie before donning a track suit and switching to indie-pop for Loner.
Har Mar Superstar – “Lady, You Shot Me”
A Los Angeles-based artist, who (bravely) plays shirtless, named for a Minnesota shopping mall. He’s R&B, with a 70s inflection based on what I’ve heard so far, aka, catnip for me.
Holy Sons – “Source Decay”
Another Portland, OR act (and probably lifted from another concert listing), one built around a single dude named Emil Amos. Wikipediacalls his genre “avant garde.” This song is quiet, somehow on the edge of getting really loud.
MC Paul Barman, ft. Open Mike Eagle – “(((echo chamber)))”
Indie hip hop, placed among “The top 20 Whitest Musicians of All Time” by LA Weekly, which seems fair.
Pivot Gang – “Colbert”
Chicago-based hip hop artists, who put out stuff on their own, but also collaborate amongst themselves and with others. They’re pretty au courant for indie hip hop sound-wise.
St. Vincent – “Now, Now”
You know who this is, if you want to. I’m going to give her a long look soon. Haven’t heard a song by Annie Clark that I didn’t rate yet.
“…he seems to be making music for himself and no one else, not caring what people think of this strong opinions…”
I’ve been quietly obsessed with Pan Amsterdam since I heard “Landlord Elijah” sometime in 2018. I credit a middle passage for the fixation, where the narrator (and he often feels like a narrator) related these lines: “cleanin’ feces every day, she worked with disabled adults/at night we drank Gato Negro, trade each other some insults.” The precise familiarity of that scenario gives way over the next few bars into what makes Pan Amsterdam so goddamn magical: “that woman there had the heart of Rudy, dead ass/Judge Judy…Judge Judy would have been all up in my booty.” All that plays over a relatively minimal beat with a refrain (“every day”) underlining the struggle. It took a little digging to get to the inspiration for that song, but the reveal borders on literary:
“Just your run of the mill jazz musician realizing that I didn’t vibrate well on the NYC jazz scene, with a sympathetic girlfriend paying the rent in a shitty apartment and watching her become resentful and bitter.”
Even if it’s not for everybody, sitting through Pan Amsterdam’s 2018 debut, The Pocket Watch, is like walking the creek at Sutter’s Mill and tripping over one shiny object after another.
Pan Amsterdam came into the world with a little mythology – see claims of waking up “on the Miami coast ‘in a state of apparent amnesia’” – which has since evaporated. The main man behind the project is Leron Thomas, a New York-based jazz musician who’s been on that grind long enough to (by one count) put out 10-11 albums under his own name. As he makes clear over multiple interviews, Thomas struggled with the politics of the New York jazz scene, but he was also driven/determined to “make it,” however it was ultimately defined. As he puts it in “Landlord Elijah,” that forced a choice: “a jazz musician died, Pan Amsterdam was born.”
Thomas made the transition with the help of some influential friends. In an interview with The Witzard (solid looking blog, btw), he credits a music critic/long-time friend, Ben Ratliff, for putting him in touch with Iggy Pop (who would ultimately collaborate with him on “Mobile”; you’ll recognize Iggy immediately). In a different interview, he credits a contact through Malik Ameer Crumpler that directed him to thatmanmonkz (aka, Scott Moncrieff) for gifting him the beats that made Pan Amsterdam possible (and it’s a pretty good story; hope I got it right).
Half of what I put on the playlist came from The Pocket Watch – e.g., “Plus One” and “Darlene” (which opens with this perfection: “Thanks for the glazed donuts, Darlene/here’s laminations to tomorrow’s show, all access, backstage/make sure your lady-friends are good, clean women, no Billie Jeans/I’m gonna try to wife one of ‘em”) – but I added a couple from Elevator Music, Vol. 1 (“Coat Check” and “No Snare,” ft. Open Mike Eagle, btw), the first of three EPs that he’ll drop over 2019; the next one will feature him as Yves Sane Leron, while the third remains a mystery; Thomas decided he couldn’t talk about that without spoiling it. I only know I’m looking forward to hearing it.
And…that takes care of the featured artists. After that, and for the first time in a while, the rest of the playlist isn’t made up of purely random acts. First, Discover Weekly reminded me that Diane Coffee exists by way of the song “Hymn” from 2013’s My Friend Fish. When I bounced over to reconnect with 2015’s Everybody’s a Good Dog, home to a handful of songs I’ve admired since first hearing that album (e.g., long-time favorite “Everyday” and the long and satisfyingly winding “Spring Breathes”), I noticed he/they released something just this year, Internet Arms…which, sadly, didn’t work for me. It’s too 80s-influenced for my ear, but I held one song, “Stuck in Your Saturday Night,” for the playlist.
The other artist is Sam Cohen, a guy I’ve been meaning to get to since hearing “Let the Mountain Come to You” at the beginning of 2018. Cohen, as it turns out, is busy as Doris Troy, part of more projects than your av-e-rage musician. To this point, I’ve only spent time with his 2015 release, Cool It, the home of “Let the Mountain Come to You” as well as two songs from this month’s playlist, “The Garden” and “Last Dream.” It’s probably no coincidence that those are two of the heavier songs from that album, but I held “Don’t Shoot the Messenger” for the Rejects playlist to capture his more normal mode on Cool It.
Now, to round out the rest of the playlist. I hope anyone who finds this post, hears something they like.
beadadoobee – “If You Want To”
Vicedescribes her (Bea Kristi) “the Gen Z songwriter crafting simple, affecting earworms.”
Bleached – “Think of You” and “Shitty Ballet”
Wikipedia’s page on the female-fronted rattles off a succession of genres orbiting around the word “punk.” I’ll state that a “Harlem-esque” difference separates these two songs.
Blind Pilot – “Three Rounds and a Sound”
Hey…Portland, Oregon-based indie-folk. I gave ‘em a spin based on a concert notice. They didn’t melt my brain, but this one hell of pretty song.
Caroline Rose – “More of the Same”
Fell in love with her last October. Long Island-based, she started in folk/country-inspired indie before donning a track suit and switching to indie-pop for Loner.
Har Mar Superstar – “Lady, You Shot Me”
A Los Angeles-based artist, who (bravely) plays shirtless, named for a Minnesota shopping mall. He’s R&B, with a 70s inflection based on what I’ve heard so far, aka, catnip for me.
Holy Sons – “Source Decay”
Another Portland, OR act (and probably lifted from another concert listing), one built around a single dude named Emil Amos. Wikipediacalls his genre “avant garde.” This song is quiet, somehow on the edge of getting really loud.
MC Paul Barman, ft. Open Mike Eagle – “(((echo chamber)))”
Indie hip hop, placed among “The top 20 Whitest Musicians of All Time” by LA Weekly, which seems fair.
Pivot Gang – “Colbert”
Chicago-based hip hop artists, who put out stuff on their own, but also collaborate amongst themselves and with others. They’re pretty au courant for indie hip hop sound-wise.
St. Vincent – “Now, Now”
You know who this is, if you want to. I’m going to give her a long look soon. Haven’t heard a song by Annie Clark that I didn’t rate yet.
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