Singles Club #38


Ready for 2k10s biggest dose of psychedelic rocket fuel?

The Besnard Lakes: AlbatrossSingle Of The Week
Older readers of this here mess, will be well versed in the mutual appreciation society that went down last time The Besnard Lakes rolled into the Pool.
Sharing beers, drunken tales of the Stone Roses and Prince tattoos, were the whopping blackcherry on top of a record and live performance which had our hearts and heads a fluttering.
But, f*ck that, this aint the soccerball, and if they came back with a limp-wristed follow up then allegiances go out the window.
Thankfully they haven’t. And on the evidence of this barnstorming comeback, they’ve only gone and ramped up the anticipation. Albatross is essentially the most simple of tricks – a scuzz-soaked cyclical jangle which, from understated beginnings cracks open into a joyous psyche riot of multi-layered harmonies, thundering brass and the characteristic vocal trade-off between Olga Goreas‘ breathy, liquid-like delivery and husband Jace Lasek‘s heavenly falsetto.
The new record (out in March) is called The Besnard Lakes Are the Roaring Night, and on this evidence there seems no more a fitting name.

The Besnard Lakes: Albatross
Besnard Lakes/Jajaguwar feature.
Warpaint: Exquisite Corpse
While at high school I read a book by Poppy Z Brite called Exquisite Corpse, it was loosely based on Dennis Nilsen leaving prison and embarking on a cannibalistic, fetishistic sexcore ritual with his sweetheart psychopath Jeffrey Dahmer.
Not sure if this is Warpaint‘s insprational bag, but judging by this nifty six track introduction, the much-blogged about LA ladies certainly indulge in things far left of centre with snaking, quasi trip-hop beats, bleak-as-black guitars, chamberpop vocals and a melodic verve which seeps in gradually with venomous intent.
Fans of Sleeter Kinney, stabbing guitars and a penchant for the sinister need to get involved.

Warpaint: Stars
New Young Pony Club: Lost A Girl
Electro, electro, electro. Seems like electro has been doing the rounds since 1994. Do people even buy guitars anymore? I know my friend Chris invested in an acoustic recently, but I think that’s purely for ornamental purposes; one of those guitars which come with a stand to prop in the corner of a dining room and gaze at during meal times.
Fortunately, Tahita’s crew are way above the norm, and despite this being compressed to an inch of it’s life (it’s like an ad break, you’ll have to turn your speakers down as to avoid ear disintergration) it’s hella catchy and will sound impossibly great on a Saturday night when you’re face down on a piss-soaked table with a beermat glued to your forehead.
Moonface: Dreamland EP: marimba and shit-drums
I’m not quite sure what Spencer Krug (bro from Sunset Rubdown, Wolf Parade, about a dozen other Canadian indie bands), is attempting to do on marimba and shit drums other than make a complete racket using those very tools.
Part ghostly, whacked out vocals, part Patrick Moore lo-fi prog, this is as intriguing as it is annoying. The more you play it, the more you’re sucked in and yet conversely the more your mind starts shouting: ‘Stop hitting the shitting xylophones, you complete balloon.’
Take a look at his dreams here.
Hurts: Wonderful Life
My, this painfully bland stuff. Reminds me of guys with blusher on, more peacock (emphasis on the second syllable) than human, shoehorned into waistcoats power shouldering it round some naff coke nosejob joint. And oh, look, the video confirms my suspicion.

Marina and the Diamonds: Hollywood
This is about a Polish immigrant coming to Hollywood and bagging off with the rich and famous and as Marina alludes to she’s ‘obsessed with the mess that’s America.’ That double whammy of a couplet, ‘Oh my God you look just like Shakira, no, no, no, Catherine Zeta, actually my name’s Marina,’ grates like a bitch, but hey, she’ll no doubt be everywhere in 2k10. Tolerable. Just.

Sugababes: Wear My Kiss
It’s just as well that the continuing soap opera played out on Twitter or in the gossip columns has overshadowed the Babes’ tunes, because it’d be utterly embarrassing if peeps were paying any notice to this absolute rotter.