Once upon a time, whilst looking after his teenage daughter at Reading Festival, my uncle Roger was told to “go home” because he was “too old” to be there. His age wasn’t his fault but Sum 41 and age 41 didn’t add up in the eyes of one particular young lady that afternoon.
Today, when I listen to Indoor Pets, I simultaneously feel like both the uncle and the teenage girl.
I first saw these scallywags as ‘Get Inuit’, supporting The Big Moon a couple of years ago at Ramsgate Music Hall. After a name change and a deal with Wichita, their first album is set for release next month. One song I particularly remember from seeing them live is ‘Pro Procrastinator’:
Yes, the video is tongue in cheek, just a bit of fun, and all that; but it doesn’t take a genius to figure that this is a band that are most likely going to reverberate with teenyboppers and drunk uni students. At best it may soundtrack Made In Chelsea; and when that’s the best, it’s usually a sign for miserable old bastards like me to steer well clear.
It’s not just “I’m wasting my life”, it’s “I love being strange, … where are all the other freaks?”, it’s “I’ll never get that ‘Hi’”. But those hooks… they’re just too good to resist. I’m the dieting chubster; they’re the bacon sandwich. I’m the married man; they’re the new receptionist at work. I’m Homer Simpson; they’re the forbidden donut.
I don’t think I’ve ever felt old when liking new music before. That feels like an odd concept. So often when I hear bands that remind me of those I listened to as a teenager – in this case: The Cribs, Ash, Weezer, etc. – I write them off as copycats or poor impressions of the same old shtick, but it’s a credit to the quality of Indoor Pets that their music appeals to me and seems to offer something a little different.
A trend of upbeat choruses and edgier Cribs-esque middle 8s are somewhat formulaic, but it’s a clever mix. You can definitely see how they will grow up alongside their burgeoning fan base over the coming years. It’s not gonna be wanking dinosaurs forever.
I’m intrigued to hear how consistent their debut album Be Content will manage to be. I’ve pre-ordered the album, but I avoided the ticket bundles. At 30, I wonder if an Indoor Pets gig would already see me creeping towards my first ‘uncle Roger treatment’. And that’s not an attractive-sounding sentence in any sense…
So, my problem with Indoor Pets is ultimately me. I can blame them for writing great songs but it’s more my apparent fear of being chastised by a pissed-up sixteen-year-old girl in a field in Berkshire that categorises them as much as a guilty pleasure as just another band I’m in to. While I’m nowhere near old enough to be frontman Jamie Glass’ dad – even by today’s standards – I’m already old enough to be jealous of the amount of hair he has, and I’m disgustingly jealous of his ability to write dem hooks doeee. (cn I be young still pls?).
I bought my first record in 2003; ‘Yah, man, I was, like, so ahead of the trend’. Or, alternatively, I was just such a stereotypical, long-haired, Nirvana-obsessed moron that I would pay £3.50 for an issue of Q magazine so I could cut out a 2-inch bit of paper with a quote from Dave Grohl to put in to a scrapbook. With everything else (including a rug of Kurt Cobain’s face) already purchased, when I saw a 12” single of ‘Come As You Are’ on the wall of a shop, it was the latest thing to be the most amazing thing ever. I didn’t even know what it was but at the very least it was a big version of the CD artwork and that would do me.
This opened a whole new avenue of Nirvana memorabilia to collect. After that, I moved on to Pearl Jam, then basically any music eBay allowed me to get my hands on. Something about vinyl hooked me. I won’t bore you with the details – we all know what the supposed perks are – but with CDs the preferred format of the era; vinyl was so cheap.
However, for the last decade or so, vinyl has experienced a huge boom. At first, this meant I could get new releases on vinyl pretty consistently which enabled me to modernise my collection and purchase music on my preferred format. Yet with artists and labels both noticing and contributing to the trend, vinyl began to cost more and more. Fashion dictates, but it seems strange that a new album today can cost £4.99 on iTunes (or potentially for free when streamed), or £30 on vinyl. Yes, the production costs are higher, but not that much higher. At this point, it’s not the music we’re paying for, it’s the method of consumption, with one format ripping off the artist, and the other ripping off the customer.
Vinyl buyers weren’t ripped off in the 2000s at least. The Cribs’ second album, which I bought on Amazon for £6.99, now sells for over £100. The Hives’ debut tells a similar story. So does The Killers’… I could go on.
More ridiculously, I bought a signed Kelly Jones solo record for £4 from a second-hand record shop in Camden. Selling it online for £100 a few years ago felt like a great piece of business, but unfortunately for me, it now goes for over £300 unsigned. Specialist online marketplaces such as Discogs track and display every single sale price of an item. This results in market value inflation as sellers naturally want to push the boundaries of what they believe they can get whilst paying little attention to the circumstances or condition of previous records sold.
However, while increased record value grew from low demand in the 2000s, ample supply today means new releases have little value at all. Records, much like new cars, lose value as soon as you give them a spin. With online platforms making physical sales less profitable than ever before, artists are now releasing more and more bizarre packages of goods to bolster them:
Option 3: Limited (to about 50,000…) version of vinyl (hey, the artwork colours are inverted!), with hand-signed lyric sheet, and T-shirt.
Option 5: Standard vinyl, CD album, unsigned lyric sheet, and lithograph.
Option 8: Standard vinyl, Limited CD, signed lithograph, tote bag, and empty sweet wrapper from last tour.
It’s all gone a bit crazy. I’m actually all for it – if it’s what fans want at a price they will pay – then I’m glad artists can still make good money from their art. Touring is where it’s at financially, but touring doesn’t give us anything to listen to at home. The problem is though, not many are giving value for money…
I’ve already picked on them lately, but a good example is the new Foals record. For £50, the black circle you’ll spin will actually be violet-coloured. Okay… but, get this, it’s SIGNED! …well, one of two art prints will be signed by one member of the band.
As much as I respect Foals, having the guitarist (or the drummer? I can’t tell, it’s only a squiggle) run some pen over a photo doesn’t quite live up to its tag of ‘Signed Vinyl Collector’s Edition’ for me.
Equally, while Record Store Day has been great for the high street; over-expensive items are consistently cheaper and available in large quantities in the aftermath, which is when the 4am queues realise they’ve been lied to about the numbers of copies available. The few releases which are worth something in the future are sold for preposterous amounts; the profit being made by scalpers, not the independent record stores the day was designed for.
This current over-saturated market has undoubtedly alienated many serious collectors, happy to sell, and wait for the fad to die down before buying again. It’s hard to tell if the market has already peaked, but if you were thinking of selling parts of your collection, I probably wouldn’t wait too long. Reissue culture is thriving and is devaluing original vinyl copies with every new re-release.
Extravagant inflation still prices the majority of punters and nearly all new adopters down to reissues, but these are often mastered from digital sources: crap vinyl played on crap turntables with crap built-in speakers. After the novelty of the artwork being printed all nice and big wears off, without records holding the qualities that originally attracted audiophiles to vinyl, a great percentage of new buyers may give up the ghost of formats past and revert back to the convenience of streaming services both at home and on the go. Or, you never know, maybe with vinyl becoming too mainstream, hipsters will start a trend of listening to the even more inconvenient cassette again… What? It’s already happening? Shit.
One.Three.Nine. is a three-stage review that captures initial reactions and more considered standpoints by writing after more and more listens.
It’s a word we’ve heard a lot over the last few years. In the time Foals have been away from our airwaves, ‘exit’ (with its various hard; soft; deal or no deal; red, white and blue; Br- prefix) has rarely left them. Bored to tears with a lack of progress? Disappointingly, on first listen, that statement feels as relevant to ‘Exits’ as it does Brexit.
An effect-soaked lead guitar riff over a mid-tempo groove is all too reminiscent of Foals’ previous work, yet instead of being accompanied by frontman Yannis Philippakis’ trademark howl, we hear vocal delivered with the same amount of urgency that Britain have shown in negotiating. It feels a long way from when ‘Inhaler’ or ‘What Went Down’ led album campaigns in years gone by.
He’s going on about dreams a lot, but ‘Exits’ is more of a Lee from ‘The Office’ dream than a Martin Luther King one. The biggest issue is that despite being almost six minutes in length, there is so little melodic development. The catchiest and most interesting part has already occurred within 34 seconds.
While the intro grows on you, with robotic trade-offs between bass and guitar, the song slowly builds without ever reaching a peak. In fact, the chorus is actually boring. Instrumental and vocal layers coupled with expansive drum sounds give the impression of vastness, but it’s the aural equivalent of chicken fillet inserts.
Although the verse becomes surprisingly addictive over time, I have come to detest the lethargic drum fill which leads into the chorus in a particularly uninspiring fashion (1:20). It is emblematic of a general lack of conviction; something which Foals have always had in spades in the past.
So, while the solid but unspectacular ‘Exits’ boasts the kind of groove that would allow it function well as an album opener (which I imagine it may well be), it doesn’t feel like a particularly great single. It’s a safe choice that will allow Foals to be welcomed back, securing album and tour pre-sales; but if a new band released this, they’d get relatively little airplay.
I’m sure ‘Exits’ will reach double figures on my play count at some point but, much like Brexit itself, I’m not exactly excited about it.
Journalist Suzanne Moore said, “it’s easier to write about something you hate than something you love”. She’s probably right. We can spend hours in the pub detailing why Bob from accounts is a prick, with an alphabetised mental list of his wrongdoings, shortcomings and fashion faux pas, yet Becky on reception is just “alright”, really. Although writing criticism by its very nature implies perceived authority, it’s much easier to not come across as self-important when you’re not telling people how objectively brilliant something is.
The fact is that ‘beauty is in the eye of the beholder’, and there’s a big difference between recommending a TV show or restaurant to a friend and waxing lyrical about something to the entire, incredibly diverse world. What I’m saying is subjective beliefs are absolutely fine but preaching the good word of Weezer to you is not necessarily my business. So, I can only apologise if I come across as some kind of musical Jehovah’s Witness, singing the hymn ‘Say It Ain’t So’ in to your intercom at a particularly unholy hour of your morning lie-in. You were expecting a package, but you got ‘90s geek rock.
I was deep in a YouTube rabbit hole. We’ve all been there… Accidentally spending our Tuesday evenings watching ‘try not to laugh’ compilations, a WWF bout from 1996, clips of Dale’s Supermarket Sweep, or whatever else the internet gods deliver us. But on this occasion, I stumbled upon a 23-year-old VHS upload of the American group Weezer performing ‘Say It Ain’t So’ on the Late Show with David Letterman.
As my ears pricked up and my pixelated eyes began to focus, I became transfixed. It reminded me of how I felt when I first heard ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’, and that’s a pretty big deal. Losing my Nirvana virginity triggered a chain of events that made music my hobby, my career, my life; leaving indelible marks on both my musical perceptions and taste. Considering the stature of both songs it may seem like a disproportionate comparison, but both had the same effect on me: I thought it was great, I wondered how I’d not heard it sooner, I wanted to hear it again and again, and I wanted to share it with friends.
Through social media, I did exactly that. Those people all thought it was… well, fine. Fine. Only fine?! It’s great! I mean, I do have the ability to look objectively and understand that it is a technically imperfect performance of a bog-standard rock song, but what the hell is objective about taste? Throughout the last month I’ve watched it around fifty times. Are they the idiots, or am I?
Regardless of subjectivity, I really want to try and explain what it is that sets it apart in my mind from other songs by Weezer and by countless other ‘90s rock groups. It might not make you like it, it may make you think me a moron, but it may also make you consider the reasons you have your own tastes.
To me, this is an authentic performance. It is an original composition. Every band member appears to have an emotional investment in their playing of the song. On national TV, they barely have a hairstyle between them – that is to say nothing seems manufactured or contrived – and therefore I believe what they’re doing and saying.
Of course, authenticity is entirely unquantifiable. Whether you identify with lyrical content, artist image, the geographical origins of the artist, or anything else; your perception of authenticity will in some way reflect your life experience, upbringing and previous musical taste. One comment on the video accuses Weezer of being “a group of social outcast nerds/geeks who started listening to nirvana then learned how to play instruments”. It’s a claim which is all too easy to make about countless rock bands in a post-Cobain America, but it’s one which could just as easily refer to me and my friends as teenagers in Britain. If Weezer did relate to Nirvana like I did, that may explain why I like their musical approach as well…
Musically, there’s a clear Nirvana comparison to be made through the quiet verse / loud chorus template of the ‘Say It Ain’t So’ sound. Kurt Cobain would stamp on a Boss DS-1 distortion pedal to make that change in dynamics and timbre, although there’s an even simpler approach from Weezer frontman Rivers Cuomo who just uses his guitar’s volume knob to control the change. In a world of pedalboards and gizmos, this minimalist approach keeps one crunchy tone throughout, leaving the listener focused on the quality of the songwriting and not the variety of the sounds on display. There is a simplicity to the bones of the song too; its four-chord hook never bothered by a doubled chorus or cheesy key change overkill.
3. It’s Better Than the Studio Version
My obsession is as much about the performance as the song itself. I don’t watch, for example, this performance from last year and get even 1% of the same feeling. Features of the Letterman performance, such as drum fills and lead guitar parts, had been slightly developed since the recording of the studio version of the track. On top of this, the whole performance features a slightly quicker tempo and a satisfying, rawer guitar sound. Whether those changes were due to dissatisfaction with the studio version, or simply that they better reflected Weezer at that time, particularly Cuomo delivers his parts with more confidence and conviction. I therefore consider this Letterman performance to be the definitive version of ‘Say It Ain’t So’.
4. The Guitar Solo
This live version features one of my favourite guitar solos of all time. It’s not some virtuosic, faux-epic Guns ‘n’ Roses bullshit (thank God), but those bends wail, they’re emotional. The melody sits perfectly against the backing and, unlike on the overly clinical solo found on the studio version, the heavy vibrato technique which leaves other strings rattling through the engrossed Cuomo’s amp (3.05) perfectly encapsulates the vibrancy and the grit of this performance. The way Cuomo uses the same technique to let the final note hang in to the last chorus is even better, strangling every last breath out of his guitar’s neck.
5. The Chorus
Despite the heavier rock sounds of the guitars, ‘Say It Ain’t So’ unashamedly boasts a chorus just as catchy as pop songs with far greater reputations. Both Rivers and rhythm guitarist Brian Bell play and sing identical parts. No harmonies. No lead guitar parts to distract or complicate. It’s a team effort to deliver one simple idea as a straight down-the-line onslaught.
6. Mr. Matt Sharp
When watching the Letterman performance, it’s particularly hard to ignore bassist Matt Sharp, whose bad timing in the chorus would get him fired if he was standing still. However, his variety of leaps and poses, and the strumming techniques he attacks his bass with more than make up for this, enhancing the visual performance of the group no end. Despite his attention grabbing, he doesn’t come across as a cocky rock star; his moves are excitable but awkward. Plus, the way Sharp extends the word bubbling (0.50) is a perfect indicator of how he doesn’t seem to take himself too seriously. While I’ve got a lot of time for the Radioheads of this world, it’s nice to hear something which has an outlet in humour alongside the serious subject matter found in the lyrics.
7. The Eyes
The other members may not match Sharp’s performance level physically, but they match his dedication. With frontman Cuomo, who was actually recovering from surgery and unable to walk without the aid of a cane (which you can even see hanging off of his mic stand), the performance is in the eyes. Take, for example, the possessed look he gives when he “wrestles with Jimmy” (0.48) or the moment of realisation that he is “drowning in the flood” (2.48), his eyes seeing the light after having kept them shut for the majority of the bridge.
When he does open his eyes, breaking his own spell, his voice breaks. It’s the least noticeable of three times this happens (the most noticeable undoubtedly at the beginning of the final chorus), but I even love the mistakes. Why? Well, it’s unashamedly subjective, but as an unexceptional vocalist myself who has made similar mistakes on stage, it’s nice to see that an imperfect performance can (or at least could in the 90s) still be given a platform to reach millions of people. Throughout popular music history, many bands have been branded around their frontmen. It’s arguably just an unavoidable component of celebrity culture, but Weezer come across very much as a ‘band’s band’, on stage because of group ability rather than individualistic talent.
The ‘realness’ of live performance comes from the potential of human error, and the level of performance above the studio version comes from human development. There is an appropriately youthful mix of both vigour and naivety in this performance that perfectly suits Weezer’s anxious ‘geek rock’. 1995 seemed to be the perfect time for ‘Say It Ain’t So’.
I may not have convinced you that this is a great performance, but I do better understand why I think it is. Clearly, the grunge ideologies from the conception of my musical interests have stuck hard. I hope that as an old dog I’ve learnt some new tricks since 2001, but it’s clear that I also have to recognise that the leopard in me hasn’t changed its spots. To be honest, I should probably be more worried about the number of animals in my psyche than why I like a bit of music.
Anyway… must stop writing. I’ve got things to watch.
The best art is believable. It doesn’t matter if it’s Monet or Mozart, Emin or Eminem, Stormzy or Stravinsky; usually the rebels who do have a cause have the largest and longest-lasting effect. Bristol five-piece Idles’ second album Joy as An Act of Resistance gives you something to believe in, delivering gut punch after gut punch to give you the most glorious beating of your life.
Brutalism, their 2017 debut, was incredibly well received but there’s no sign of sophomore slump here. The thick layers of guitar and vocals in the second half of opening track ‘Colossus’ give the impression of a band who want to make as much noise as they can, however the drum and bass guitar-lead ‘I’m Scum’ are surprisingly danceable, with a jaunty guitar lick butting in every time frontman Joe Talbot announces that, well, he’s scum. On ‘Television’, he delivers the line ‘Love Yourself’ with the sort of bullish assurance that makes Danny Dyer sound like Milhouse Van Houten. Elsewhere, unseasonable darkness sets in in ‘June’ where the lyrics, “a stillborn was still born, I am a father” and “baby’s shoes for sale: never worn” are repeated. It’s all the more powerful for its limited and repetitive approach.
But lyrically, the album’s most prevalent quality is humour. “I’m sorry your Grandad’s dead… ahhh… lovely spread”, begins ‘Gram Rock’. In some cases a defence mechanism as much as a tool of language, there’s a lot of topics which are tackled tongue-in-cheek. It’s typical of a punk genre which had its heyday 40 years ago, but with political unrest comes artistic backlash once again. That spirit running through Idles’ veins has never felt more necessary than today.
The state of Britain is tackled on the catchy ‘Danny Nedelko’, which features the line, “Fear leads to panic, panic leads to pain, pain leads to anger, anger leads to hate”. But on anti-Brexit tirade ‘Great’, the comedy specs are back on again:
“Blighty wants his country back
Fifty-inch screen in his cul-de-sac
Whooping charm of the union jack
As he cries at the price of a bacon bap”
Such visual social commentary may not be considered eloquent, but neither is the divide that exists in this country right now. Each song feels incredibly relevant, keeping you gripped as characters and stories unfold line by line. Even when Talbot sings, “ten points to Gryffindor” repeatedly, sounding like he’s scripting a new Rowntree’s fucking Randoms advert, such is the conviction with which it is delivered you’ll feel it’s your problem to figure it out rather than his for singing it.
It’s in the vocals, but it’s also in the pounding drums, the frantic guitar, the driving bass; Joy as An Act of Resistance is a collection of the most intense and believable music you’ll hear in a long time. By the time you’re being told to burn your house down in final track ‘Rottweiler’, you’ll feel like anything is still possible. It barely even matters what they’re saying. They’re going to save your world.
“Who are you if you’re not a mirror view of what’s come and what’s gone?”. A fitting lyric considering that while Hazey Jane named themselves after Nick Drake’s duo of tracks from 1970’s Bryter Layter, as reverb-soaked electric guitars wash across your speakers introducing you to their 2018 EP Lifeboat, you immediately know this is folk inspired by and made for the modern day.
Hailing from Hackney, London, there is an undeniably British sound resonating through Hazey Jane’s music. Indeed, the influence of those 60s and 70s troubadours such as Nick Drake and Van Morrison are there, but they are joined by the high production values and chorus hooks of Coldplay and U2, and the mid-noughties essence of Athlete and Turin Brakes; often hinting at melancholy but never truly immersing themselves in it.
The old folk tradition of story-telling is constant in Hazey Jane’s lyrics, making each song feel like a book you can’t put down. But like all the best books, there’s something which makes you come back to them. Something you might have missed the first time. On ‘Lifeboat’ it may be the sumptuous backing vocals, on ‘Mother’s Lie’ the bass line which subtly adds so much interest at carefully chosen moments, and the rolling drums and guitar solo on ‘Mirror View’ will ensure you keep from switching Lifeboat off a few tracks in time after time.
For the Folking Around attendee, the most exciting song from Lifeboat may be the live version of ‘Grow’, clearly showcasing the true quality of the ensemble. A tight, driving rhythm section allow an intense vocal and intricate lead guitar to shimmer with some real meaning. Alternately, final track, ‘Losing My Mind’ is the most obviously ‘folk’ song of the collection. Acoustic and vocal (oh, and let’s not forget the hand claps) prove surprisingly engaging throughout, maybe helped by the fairly quick tempo of the song.
While not the most challenging of listens, the quality of the musicianship and the compositional craftsmanship found on Lifeboat make Hazey Jane rise above their competitors even at this early stage of their career. I imagine we’re a year or two from Hazey Jane’s first full length effort, but by taking one or two risks they will likely produce an LP which may set them slightly further apart sonically and really capture the attention of the bigger labels. Folkin’ quality.