So. You remember that rejected 33 1/3 chapter that Everett True posted on here back in September? Well, shorty after that, he posted on the Facebooks that he had a new idea for a book, and he needed writers FAST! Within a day, those who replied were shepherded into a new group called Rejected Unknown […]
There was this. And while I can’t vouchsafe for this, I can’t deny that the occasional public acknowledgement – once every 10 years, right now – does buck me up for a few minutes. I sometimes think about what I’ll say when Everett dies. Only ‘cos I’m obsessed with death. Or more acutely, what comes after and what’s […]
I seem to have been tongue-tied for the last half of last year; I couldn’t find the words. So I’ve only just got round to writing about these beauties from 2013, some of the fifty or so tracks I’d collected and had intended to prune into a Best Of… I’m not going to write about […]
This song spills over with as much joy and innovation (both prime pop ingredients) as a kindergarten art class and is just as fun, splashy, bright, intent and contrary.
Here’s someone making empowered, brilliant pop on her own terms and no one needed to get paraded around in their knickers.
Like, is there really no other way of challenging sexism and racism in music videos accept by doing the EXACT SAME THING but with a knowing wink? Really?
Isn’t that the way a love song – and indeed love, and indeed religion – works? Takes the internal intangible and makes it audible, physical, present, be it a 7” single or a cathedral.
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Wake up you lucky bastards! This is transformative, inspiring, innovative stuff, all of which are dull-as-ditchwater words for music which is really, really anything but.
A review of ‘Arc’ by Everything Everything that absolutely takes issue with everything the NME and the Tories stand for
The words come tumbling out of Jonathan Higgs’ mouth like so many bright bees, clouds and clouds of them buzzing about, so numerous and sharp such that their ingenuity, volume and ambition remind me of Joanna Newsom’s meticulous verses. He conjures up drone strikes, billionaires, footballers’ wives, broken war-heroes, landmines, volcanoes, rioters, pterodactyls, post-apocalyptic landscapes, revelatory visions. Not a waistcoat in sight.
It’s leather trousers worn by men in pubs. It’s an OAP still piling the remainder of his hair into his Teddy Boy quiff, which has over decades thinned to the point where it’s just a flimsy hint, a ghost of a style.