Heard it through the Snapesvine

Articles and offcuts by Laura Snapes, Features Editor, NME

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Bad Machinery Book 2 available now! 

scarygoround:

I’m proud to announce that Bad Machinery Book 2: the Case Of The Good Boy is now available through Oni Press!

image

I’ve done more than thirty new pages for this edition, plus bonus material from the top drawer. We’re all proud of this book and I hope you enjoy it.

The best way (for me) that…

Everyone on the internet is sad. Why else would they be on the internet? I mean, I’m not super-sad. That stuff is kind of tongue-in-cheek. Even if it’s not uplifting, I think that for young sad girls on the internet to hear another sad girl their own age being really productive and making songs is a positive influence. Instead of just being depressed, do something with that depression. If anything, I’m hoping that I can inspire people to do that. I hope people hear it and realize that writing music is kind of easy. Or that taking your sadness and turning it into a beautiful song is worthwhile.

I like this Greta Kline gal (h/t Jenn Pelly)

IN THE STUDIO: SCHOOL OF LANGUAGE

In Field Music’s 10-year existence, David and Peter Brewis have always operated in the margins. They reject traditional rock star excess, driving their own van, working from a riverside studio on the Wear and taking care of the pennies. The outsider mentality has proved one of their greatest strengths: the unique perspective results in records like 2012’s distinguished ‘Plumb’, which tackled the deceptive ideas of “change” wheeled out by campaigning politicians. It leaves them free to make records apart, too – in 2008, Peter became The Week That Was and released an album of the same name, while David transformed into School Of Language for the excellent ‘Sea From Shore’.

With Field Music on a break again, David has put his School Of Language cap back on for ‘Old Fears’, a record that offers clues as to the origins of Field Music’s anti-herd stance. Here, he’s looking back to 2001 when he was a 19/20-year-old student at home in Sunderland, refusing to engage with his peers. “Part of that was me being an arrogant dick, but a large part of that came from my own shyness and not being able to cope with it very well,” he says. “I didn’t intend to write about that time so much, but that was the period when those fears and anxieties were most influential over my character.” A sweetly stubborn younger version of David comes through on ‘A Smile Cracks’, where he spends his birthday sitting on a beach alone, trying to learn Catalan from a book: “Watching people having fun/ My only language/ Was in my head/ Just another teenage affectation”, he sings over kindling-snap percussion and arid, funky guitar. With the exception of a single saxophone flourish, David played every part on ‘Old Fears’, appreciating the “liberating speed” of strict self-reliance. He wanted to make music reminiscent of polished 1980s pop records, which he skews with a sense of creeping menace.

Thirteen years later, David says he’s by no mean immune to those feelings of nervous isolation. “I don’t think I would have been able to write about them in the same way if I didn’t feel most of them.” Ultimately, his lonely younger self gets a happy ending on ‘Old Fears’ that persists to this day. On ‘Suits Us Better’ (in which a looped vocal percussion recalls ‘Sea From Shore’’s defining aesthetic) he remembers meeting his wife, Laura, for the first time: “I’m still as self-conscious as the day we met/Leaning on a pillar, jean-jacket and hair/Hoping you’d waste some time on me”.

The final song, ‘You Kept Yourself’, reflects on returning from their first holiday together. “I dropped her off at her house, and that seemed like an insane thing to do,” he says. “The idea that we would live in different places seemed wrong.” They moved in together. It’s the last song on the record because it signals an end to teenage David’s self-imposed isolation. “It’s about how my ability to cope with all those fears and anxieties changed fundamentally when I had love and safety to cling onto. That’s what the record’s about for me.”

HOLA.

On March 22, I am running the Merge 25K in North Carolina. I KNOW, I DON’T KNOW HOW THIS HAPPENED EITHER. The race is in honour of Merge Records’ 25th anniversary, and I have already banned myself from employing a metaphor about a rabbit and a hare when I come to write about the whole palava for NME a couple of weeks after the fact. I am harbouring a secret fantasy about bounding along next to Mary Timony and the rest of Ex Hex for 25k, when in reality I will be bringing up the rear with just the police escort for company. Above is my Sportface and messy bedroom for your enjoyment.

Anyway! I am raising money and soliciting YOUR kind sponsorship: half of the money I raise will be split between Food Bank of Central & Eastern North Carolina and Habitat for Humanity of Durham and Orange County, the local charities that the race benefits. The other half will go to Macmillan Cancer Support as a thanks for the work they’ve done for my family in recent months.

The responsible part: I set this up through ZEQUS as they don’t take any of the money people donate, and I want to split the money I raise between two different groups. None of the other charity sites would let me do that (as far as I can tell) so your money will go into my Paypal account, and then directly onto the groups indicated above. I will send it to Macmillan myself, and send the other half to the good folks at Merge to distribute among their local charities. (In the name of accountability, I will post the evidence!)

The extreme gratitude part: this would not be possible without…

  • The aforementioned heroes at Merge, especially Christina Rentz.
  • The extraordinarily helpful humans at the North Carolina tourist board who have sorted out my trip.
  • Sapan Sehgal at London Fields Fitness, who has patiently watched me grumble my way through squat thrusts every Wednesday morning since the turn of the new year. On our first meeting he told me that you can “never have too much junk in the trunk”, and I knew we would get along fine.
  • And YOU, for (hopefully) sponsoring me.

oh look, all my boyfriends and girlfriends in one handy photo

This website recently decided they wanted me to review some new, up and coming singles … [one of the bands], I can’t even explain how stupid it was. Not only are you not doing anything constructive with the space you’ve been given to advance any sort of positive agenda, but you’re fully embracing your white privilege, like it’s a blanket that’s gonna keep you warm at night, and you’ve made this batshit nuts video – like, really? This is how you wanna represent yourself and your friends? This is what you want to do with the five minutes you have to exist on the world’s radar? You are wasting this. You do nothing. That to me is like a singularly offensive act, to have space and you do nothing with it. That complacency is the reason that I’m never, ever, ever going to shut up.

meredith graves from perfect pussy in conversation with laura snapes for nme. yes. this: "YOU ARE WASTING THIS / YOU DO NOTHING" … that thought that crosses my head pretty much every day watching indie rock drones waste away these huge fucking opportunities to do or say meaningful things in front of mass audiences. especially with interviews. man, like, why would any person on this planet agree spend so much of their life doing dozens and dozens of interviews with rando publications around a record or a tour or something, and then SAY NOTHING INTERESTING or important. drives me fvcking crazy yall (via lizpelly)

So perfectly states, also, why so many music writers end up hating music writing (or just music in general).

(via dynamofire)

I feel so fucking lucky that what led me to be in a place where people cared about the art that I was making with my friends was me being brave enough to talk about abuse. I think that’s crazy.

scarygoround:

How to completely destroy a brilliant character design.

My profile of Wild Beasts for last week’s NME:

By the end of 2011, Wild Beasts were broken men. They had been touring ‘Smother’ for six solid months without a break – it was their third album in four years, each made in great haste to sustain momentum after their slow beginnings. The end was in sight in Istanbul, just under a week before the serious touring would be over for a while. After the show, the four Beasts painted the town red, and then green, the night playing out like one of the less elegant scenes from their bawdy second album, ‘Two Dancers’.

“I got horrendously drunk,” says co-frontman Hayden Thorpe, working an interesting look of ribbed thermals and immaculately slicked-back hair in an upmarket Deptford café in mid-January. “Got lost, pissed in the street, all sorts. Vomited on the way back to the hotel, vomited all the way back to London, then got home and was like… what was that? What has become!”

What could have amounted to a day of Netflix and fried eggs actually led to a moment of sudden calm that he hadn’t experienced for years. “You have those really rare, fleeting moments of clarity in life,” he says, sitting next to guitarist Ben Little. “You feel this sense of wellbeing that’s gone again in an instant; you’re always drawing it from memory – you can never see it full in the face.”

‘Smother’ was essentially about how touring ‘Two Dancers’ ruined their relationships and lives, which inevitably became a “claustrophobic world” to live in. With the memory of that album consigned to the gutters of Istanbul, over the next few days Hayden developed the idea for a song called ‘Pregnant Pause’, an early first step towards Wild Beasts’ fourth record. But before the band went anywhere near a studio, they took eight months off to decompress at home in north London, rehabilitating their broken lives and only seeing each other for odd social occasions. After the reassuring, hard-won success of ‘Smother’, it was the first time they had ever been able to take a break and contemplate the band’s existence. The hiatus proved valuable.

“I think we rediscovered our innocence,” says Hayden of the mood that informed ‘Present Tense’, Wild Beasts’ superb new album, which was partially recorded down the road in a railway arch studio. “We rediscovered each other in a way. It feels like all the other records are a big intake of breath and this is a final, long exhale.”

The week before our Deptford meeting, Wild Beasts received a not entirely welcome reminder of the relative level of fame that ‘Smother’ brought them. “Wild Beasts take swipe at British bands who sing with US accents”, stated a headline in The Guardian. The subhead declared, “Hayden Thorpe claims lyrics to new single refer to UK singers with Americanised voices – such as the Arctic Monkeys”. The story misconstrued remarks that Hayden had made to Pitchfork about ‘Wanderlust’, the lead single from ‘Present Tense’ – with its lyric, “in your mother tongue, what’s the verb ‘to suck’?” – and dug up past examples of disdain fired at other British bands for good measure. But the words “Arctic Monkeys” never crossed Hayden’s lips, only those of the interviewer. “I was pretty upset and embarrassed,” he says. It feels like an unfortunate own goal where someone’s kicked the ball at my head and it’s hit the back of my own net.”

“It makes us look like petty bastards,” adds Wild Beasts’ other singer, Tom Fleming, with a groan. “Like we’re trying to generate column inches by slagging off much more successful bands.”

“For all the liberal frontage, they pick up on something that’s poisonous,” says drummer Chris Talbot, whose voice creaks like an old ship. “There’s no good to come out of that.”

As Domino labelmates, Arctic Monkeys’ success essentially ensures Wild Beasts’ survival – and what made it all even more absurd was the fact ‘Wanderlust’ covers the kind of subjects The Guardian normally use to butter their bread: Britain’s widening poverty gap, class conflict and the romance of the landscape. There’s another angle to it, too: “Wanderlust, with us the world feels voluptuous”, Hayden purrs, “I just feel more with us/It’s a feeling that I’ve come to trust”. On first listen, it sounds like a tribute to adventurous erotic possibilities with a new lover. Then you realise: it’s a love letter to Wild Beasts and everything they can achieve.

“It was our mission statement,” says Hayden. “From the Stone Age to now, we judge our whole past by the culture people have left behind. ‘Wanderlust’ is almost a kind of war cry, asking, is this the best we’ve got – kids singing in accents that aren’t their own, singing about lives that aren’t theirs, and reaping huge rewards from it? So little is done with so much privilege – music is really a class thing, because if we’re under a government that’s making people pay £9000 a year for university, then it’s only the rich kids who’ll get to art and music school. We’re talking about such a small group of people who are gonna create work that is supposed to define or tell us what our lives are. It’s a very scary prospect. So we had to redefine our parameters: this is what we are, what we do, what we kick against. It felt necessary because we’ve always prided ourselves on – and I’m worried it sounds really cynical, but it’s not – saying, this is our patch, this is what we believe in, this is what we don’t believe in. That has to be the starting point for any creative work, really.”

When Wild Beasts reconvened in the studio after those eight months apart, it was the first time they’d been alone in a room together in many years, away from the parade of journalists and managers out on the road. After the lonely, dimpled downheartedness of ‘Smother’, their aim was to sound like a gang again. It wasn’t particularly difficult – they huddled around a laptop in a tiny room in east London because they couldn’t afford to hire a bigger one, and eventually succumbed to cabin fever. 

Inspired by their love of the abstracted, broken qualities in the music of Tim Hecker, Clams Casino, Ben Frost and Lil B, and the idea that cracked software is the new lo-fi, they delighted in the limitations and immediacy of working on a laptop. “Suddenly you haven’t just got four pairs of hands,” says Tom, “you’re building worlds.” Songs were assembled from a patchwork of original recordings, samples and presets, which they then recorded in Bath and Deptford with electronic producers Lexxx and Leo Abrahams.

The end result isn’t a mass of dense electronic layers, but 11 distinct, prowling pop songs that are testament to Wild Beasts’ refined craft. ‘Present Tense’ is a hugely rewarding album to tuck into: spend some time with it and you’ll notice that the first three songs play out like acts of a tragedy, where desire is within anyone’s reach on ‘Wanderlust’; concealed on the provocative ‘Nature Boy’; but gone completely by ‘Mecca’. Hayden’s songs are probably the most emotional and heartfelt he’s ever written, in awe of romance and possibility. ‘A Simple Beautiful Truth’ is the essence of all that, and was one of the hardest songs to finish, tiptoeing the line between sounding honest and intimate or playing to the cheap seats.

“I was kind of terrified when we finished the album,” he admits. “Emotionality is hijacked so much now, it’s hard to make music that’s genuinely positive and not just fun-time Frankie-style – it feels almost like you’re trying to take advantage, expecting someone to pick up the phone and send you money if you touch them in some way. I was embarrassed about some of the lines – is this soppy, is this over-sentimental? But I think that’s a good place to be at, really. Someone could easily think this is overly emotional music, but that’s where the fault line is, where people can get into it.”

By contrast, Tom credits the patchwork writing method with helping him “take the songwriter out of it” and enable him to write from a less personal place: ‘Nature Boy’ is a homoerotic treatise on male sexual prowess; ‘Daughters’ envisions an apocalyptic future in which our children take revenge on us for the mess we’ve made; ‘A Dog’s Life’ is a tragic tale of death, canine or otherwise. “There’s a certain amount of guilt making music,” he says. “It tends to be very much me, me, me. The whole world is outside happening and you’ve got to remember that you’re part of it.”

It comes back to the idea of responsibility couched within ‘Wanderlust’; Wild Beasts constantly talk about “justifying” their existence. It’s refreshing – think of Kaiser Chiefs’ Ricky Wilson, who recently admitted that his role as a judge on The Voice was essentially a promotional tool for the band’s new album: give it up, already. “I’d hate to think we were going through the motions,” says Tom. “We’re still in touch with why we started doing this, remembering that angry 16-year-old from a small town, sick of everything around him and desperate to be heard. While our premise for existing has evolved, it’s definitely because we think we’ve got something to add to the discussion. No-one else is doing what we’re going to do, so it’s important that we do it.”

“I’m not saying we’re the future and the forerunners,” says Hayden, “because we’re not. We’re guys who do our best pushing computers and synths around. But the album title hints at a sense of responsibility, that there’s so much we can do, yet so little is expected of us.

“It’s important that our end of the bargain is still held,” says Chris.

Hayden talks about how the follow-up to ‘Present Tense’ will probably see them having to change the way they work, calling the record “the final realisation of a lot of things we started”. But for now, Wild Beasts’ patch is well established: it’s one they share with the likes of These New Puritans, East India Youth, Jon Hopkins and Anna Meredith, the new alternative British music firmament who perceive identity not as a restriction or embarrassment, but as a whole world of possibility.

Reading back over old interviews, what’s amazing is how immaculately consistent Kendal’s Wild Beasts have been over their 12 years together: bristling against the conventions of boorish British rock music, never apologising for their capital-R Romantic tendencies or their undaunted self-confidence. The band got its unwitting start when Ben Little came over to Hayden’s house after school for a big night of drinking Mr Thorpe’s beer and smoking his cigarettes. “We were 14, 15; it was the era of MiniDisc,” recalls Hayden. “You could make home recordings – it felt like the future. I’d accidentally left one of mine in my player; Ben came round and clicked play, and I was like” – he grits his teeth – “oh my god.”

Fortunately, Ben was a fast fan, and the pair soon started writing songs together. What came out was “effeminate, fragile, displaced” – a side they had no intention of revealing to their classmates until their first gig as Fauve (“wild beast” in French) at now-defunct Kendal mainstay, Dicky Doodles, a year or two later. They wielded the strange emotional qualities of their songs as “a shock tactic”, says Hayden. “We wanted people to react to it, and I think they were quite taken aback.” A local journalist asked the pair why they made music. “Because we think we’re better than everyone else,” they replied.

Present that night were Chris Talbot, who they’d met at primary school, and Tom Fleming, who was in the year above. One interim bassist later, the pair eventually completed the newly named Wild Beasts. Together they built a studio, The Unit, in a nearby industrial estate, which Ben quit school after doing his AS-levels to run full-time. They worked there three days and four nights a week, trying to infuse the Peak District landscape into their music in the same way that Björk had done with Iceland. These were the first steps to world domination. “It astounds me how sure we were that it was going to work out,” says Ben, shaking his head. “There wasn’t a plan B.”

“I don’t think there was ever a doubt we were going to get signed,” adds Hayden. “It’s weird. It’s an arrogance that baffles me now. I had expected that at 30, we would have made our millions, burnt out and been in rehab. That was genuinely my initial outlook – it’s over by 30, get on with the rest of life.”

He concedes that things will have to go pretty well for them to be millionaires by the time they’re 30. They’re all 27 or 28 – bar Tom, who’s 29, and refers to himself as “the grandad” of the band – and aware of the wolf at the door. They’ve all left Dalston in east London because it’s too expensive, and perpetually feel one pay cheque away from returning to Kendal with their tails between their legs.

In a sense, they made good on their youthful cockiness – not many bands get to release four albums on an internationally respected British indie – but not before time. Domino signed them for debut ‘Limbo, Panto’ in 2008, which turned out to be as much an obstacle to success as it was a minor victory. Baffled reviewers likened them to Mika and The Darkness, while they played festival sets to small crowds comprised solely of other bands.

“That was the frustration with that record,” says Tom, “that everyone thought it was some kind of art-school project when we set ourselves in complete opposition to that.”

“I think the best thing that happened to us was that our dreams were shattered with ‘Limbo, Panto’,” says Hayden as the other three laugh. “Literally shattered. That broken-heartedness was the making of us.”

The 2009 follow-up, ‘Two Dancers’, was nominated for the Mercury Music Prize and ‘Smother’ won them huge critical respect, but Wild Beasts still suffer from underdog syndrome, worrying that the poppier songs on ‘Present Tense’ could see them “torn down”. Isn’t that rockist nonsense, or just self-doubt by another name? “Well… it is self-doubt,” says Tom, who admits that he’d love to make music like his heroes, experimental noise titans Swans. “But we’re the sort of band that depends on critical consensus. We don’t have massive financial form and we don’t have much Radio 1 airplay, everyone’s going to be supportive if we’re not doing too well. We don’t want to alienate the people who have been with us all this time.”

“I don’t think there’s a danger of that,” says Chris, restoring sanity. “We made a brasher and bolder record, there’s no doubt about it.”

They all seem nervous about turning 30, referring to it as a “big shadow” on what they see as a young man’s game. But instead of self-pitying defeatism, they’ve sized up age as another challenge. “Have you heard Grayson Perry’s Reith Lectures?” asks Hayden. “They’re really good – he said that sometimes the word ‘art’ can excuse inability and laziness. A band becomes an ‘art band’ when they can’t write good songs. We’re definitely conscious of that – after this amount of time, we have to be good at our craft on a fundamental level. A pop song should be absolutely weightless, it should defy gravity and sound so effortless, like a piece of fluff you’ve just kicked off the floor. Ironically, for us, that’s the hardest thing to do – it’s not really in our natural remit, though we want it to be because it’s hard to attain. If we have to make a three-and-a-half-minute song to fit with [the modern industry’s] parameters, then we’ll make one no-one can touch.”

“We’ll do it fucking well, thank you,” says Tom, confidence restored.

My profile of Wild Beasts for last week’s NME:

By the end of 2011, Wild Beasts were broken men. They had been touring ‘Smother’ for six solid months without a break – it was their third album in four years, each made in great haste to sustain momentum after their slow beginnings. The end was in sight in Istanbul, just under a week before the serious touring would be over for a while. After the show, the four Beasts painted the town red, and then green, the night playing out like one of the less elegant scenes from their bawdy second album, ‘Two Dancers’.

“I got horrendously drunk,” says co-frontman Hayden Thorpe, working an interesting look of ribbed thermals and immaculately slicked-back hair in an upmarket Deptford café in mid-January. “Got lost, pissed in the street, all sorts. Vomited on the way back to the hotel, vomited all the way back to London, then got home and was like… what was that? What has become!”

What could have amounted to a day of Netflix and fried eggs actually led to a moment of sudden calm that he hadn’t experienced for years. “You have those really rare, fleeting moments of clarity in life,” he says, sitting next to guitarist Ben Little. “You feel this sense of wellbeing that’s gone again in an instant; you’re always drawing it from memory – you can never see it full in the face.”

‘Smother’ was essentially about how touring ‘Two Dancers’ ruined their relationships and lives, which inevitably became a “claustrophobic world” to live in. With the memory of that album consigned to the gutters of Istanbul, over the next few days Hayden developed the idea for a song called ‘Pregnant Pause’, an early first step towards Wild Beasts’ fourth record. But before the band went anywhere near a studio, they took eight months off to decompress at home in north London, rehabilitating their broken lives and only seeing each other for odd social occasions. After the reassuring, hard-won success of ‘Smother’, it was the first time they had ever been able to take a break and contemplate the band’s existence. The hiatus proved valuable.

“I think we rediscovered our innocence,” says Hayden of the mood that informed ‘Present Tense’, Wild Beasts’ superb new album, which was partially recorded down the road in a railway arch studio. “We rediscovered each other in a way. It feels like all the other records are a big intake of breath and this is a final, long exhale.”

The week before our Deptford meeting, Wild Beasts received a not entirely welcome reminder of the relative level of fame that ‘Smother’ brought them. “Wild Beasts take swipe at British bands who sing with US accents”, stated a headline in The Guardian. The subhead declared, “Hayden Thorpe claims lyrics to new single refer to UK singers with Americanised voices – such as the Arctic Monkeys”. The story misconstrued remarks that Hayden had made to Pitchfork about ‘Wanderlust’, the lead single from ‘Present Tense’ – with its lyric, “in your mother tongue, what’s the verb ‘to suck’?” – and dug up past examples of disdain fired at other British bands for good measure. But the words “Arctic Monkeys” never crossed Hayden’s lips, only those of the interviewer. “I was pretty upset and embarrassed,” he says. It feels like an unfortunate own goal where someone’s kicked the ball at my head and it’s hit the back of my own net.”

“It makes us look like petty bastards,” adds Wild Beasts’ other singer, Tom Fleming, with a groan. “Like we’re trying to generate column inches by slagging off much more successful bands.”

“For all the liberal frontage, they pick up on something that’s poisonous,” says drummer Chris Talbot, whose voice creaks like an old ship. “There’s no good to come out of that.”

As Domino labelmates, Arctic Monkeys’ success essentially ensures Wild Beasts’ survival – and what made it all even more absurd was the fact ‘Wanderlust’ covers the kind of subjects The Guardian normally use to butter their bread: Britain’s widening poverty gap, class conflict and the romance of the landscape. There’s another angle to it, too: “Wanderlust, with us the world feels voluptuous”, Hayden purrs, “I just feel more with us/It’s a feeling that I’ve come to trust”. On first listen, it sounds like a tribute to adventurous erotic possibilities with a new lover. Then you realise: it’s a love letter to Wild Beasts and everything they can achieve.

“It was our mission statement,” says Hayden. “From the Stone Age to now, we judge our whole past by the culture people have left behind. ‘Wanderlust’ is almost a kind of war cry, asking, is this the best we’ve got – kids singing in accents that aren’t their own, singing about lives that aren’t theirs, and reaping huge rewards from it? So little is done with so much privilege – music is really a class thing, because if we’re under a government that’s making people pay £9000 a year for university, then it’s only the rich kids who’ll get to art and music school. We’re talking about such a small group of people who are gonna create work that is supposed to define or tell us what our lives are. It’s a very scary prospect. So we had to redefine our parameters: this is what we are, what we do, what we kick against. It felt necessary because we’ve always prided ourselves on – and I’m worried it sounds really cynical, but it’s not – saying, this is our patch, this is what we believe in, this is what we don’t believe in. That has to be the starting point for any creative work, really.”

When Wild Beasts reconvened in the studio after those eight months apart, it was the first time they’d been alone in a room together in many years, away from the parade of journalists and managers out on the road. After the lonely, dimpled downheartedness of ‘Smother’, their aim was to sound like a gang again. It wasn’t particularly difficult – they huddled around a laptop in a tiny room in east London because they couldn’t afford to hire a bigger one, and eventually succumbed to cabin fever.

Inspired by their love of the abstracted, broken qualities in the music of Tim Hecker, Clams Casino, Ben Frost and Lil B, and the idea that cracked software is the new lo-fi, they delighted in the limitations and immediacy of working on a laptop. “Suddenly you haven’t just got four pairs of hands,” says Tom, “you’re building worlds.” Songs were assembled from a patchwork of original recordings, samples and presets, which they then recorded in Bath and Deptford with electronic producers Lexxx and Leo Abrahams.

The end result isn’t a mass of dense electronic layers, but 11 distinct, prowling pop songs that are testament to Wild Beasts’ refined craft. ‘Present Tense’ is a hugely rewarding album to tuck into: spend some time with it and you’ll notice that the first three songs play out like acts of a tragedy, where desire is within anyone’s reach on ‘Wanderlust’; concealed on the provocative ‘Nature Boy’; but gone completely by ‘Mecca’. Hayden’s songs are probably the most emotional and heartfelt he’s ever written, in awe of romance and possibility. ‘A Simple Beautiful Truth’ is the essence of all that, and was one of the hardest songs to finish, tiptoeing the line between sounding honest and intimate or playing to the cheap seats.

“I was kind of terrified when we finished the album,” he admits. “Emotionality is hijacked so much now, it’s hard to make music that’s genuinely positive and not just fun-time Frankie-style – it feels almost like you’re trying to take advantage, expecting someone to pick up the phone and send you money if you touch them in some way. I was embarrassed about some of the lines – is this soppy, is this over-sentimental? But I think that’s a good place to be at, really. Someone could easily think this is overly emotional music, but that’s where the fault line is, where people can get into it.”

By contrast, Tom credits the patchwork writing method with helping him “take the songwriter out of it” and enable him to write from a less personal place: ‘Nature Boy’ is a homoerotic treatise on male sexual prowess; ‘Daughters’ envisions an apocalyptic future in which our children take revenge on us for the mess we’ve made; ‘A Dog’s Life’ is a tragic tale of death, canine or otherwise. “There’s a certain amount of guilt making music,” he says. “It tends to be very much me, me, me. The whole world is outside happening and you’ve got to remember that you’re part of it.”

It comes back to the idea of responsibility couched within ‘Wanderlust’; Wild Beasts constantly talk about “justifying” their existence. It’s refreshing – think of Kaiser Chiefs’ Ricky Wilson, who recently admitted that his role as a judge on The Voice was essentially a promotional tool for the band’s new album: give it up, already. “I’d hate to think we were going through the motions,” says Tom. “We’re still in touch with why we started doing this, remembering that angry 16-year-old from a small town, sick of everything around him and desperate to be heard. While our premise for existing has evolved, it’s definitely because we think we’ve got something to add to the discussion. No-one else is doing what we’re going to do, so it’s important that we do it.”

“I’m not saying we’re the future and the forerunners,” says Hayden, “because we’re not. We’re guys who do our best pushing computers and synths around. But the album title hints at a sense of responsibility, that there’s so much we can do, yet so little is expected of us.

“It’s important that our end of the bargain is still held,” says Chris.

Hayden talks about how the follow-up to ‘Present Tense’ will probably see them having to change the way they work, calling the record “the final realisation of a lot of things we started”. But for now, Wild Beasts’ patch is well established: it’s one they share with the likes of These New Puritans, East India Youth, Jon Hopkins and Anna Meredith, the new alternative British music firmament who perceive identity not as a restriction or embarrassment, but as a whole world of possibility.

Reading back over old interviews, what’s amazing is how immaculately consistent Kendal’s Wild Beasts have been over their 12 years together: bristling against the conventions of boorish British rock music, never apologising for their capital-R Romantic tendencies or their undaunted self-confidence. The band got its unwitting start when Ben Little came over to Hayden’s house after school for a big night of drinking Mr Thorpe’s beer and smoking his cigarettes. “We were 14, 15; it was the era of MiniDisc,” recalls Hayden. “You could make home recordings – it felt like the future. I’d accidentally left one of mine in my player; Ben came round and clicked play, and I was like” – he grits his teeth – “oh my god.”

Fortunately, Ben was a fast fan, and the pair soon started writing songs together. What came out was “effeminate, fragile, displaced” – a side they had no intention of revealing to their classmates until their first gig as Fauve (“wild beast” in French) at now-defunct Kendal mainstay, Dicky Doodles, a year or two later. They wielded the strange emotional qualities of their songs as “a shock tactic”, says Hayden. “We wanted people to react to it, and I think they were quite taken aback.” A local journalist asked the pair why they made music. “Because we think we’re better than everyone else,” they replied.

Present that night were Chris Talbot, who they’d met at primary school, and Tom Fleming, who was in the year above. One interim bassist later, the pair eventually completed the newly named Wild Beasts. Together they built a studio, The Unit, in a nearby industrial estate, which Ben quit school after doing his AS-levels to run full-time. They worked there three days and four nights a week, trying to infuse the Peak District landscape into their music in the same way that Björk had done with Iceland. These were the first steps to world domination. “It astounds me how sure we were that it was going to work out,” says Ben, shaking his head. “There wasn’t a plan B.”

“I don’t think there was ever a doubt we were going to get signed,” adds Hayden. “It’s weird. It’s an arrogance that baffles me now. I had expected that at 30, we would have made our millions, burnt out and been in rehab. That was genuinely my initial outlook – it’s over by 30, get on with the rest of life.”

He concedes that things will have to go pretty well for them to be millionaires by the time they’re 30. They’re all 27 or 28 – bar Tom, who’s 29, and refers to himself as “the grandad” of the band – and aware of the wolf at the door. They’ve all left Dalston in east London because it’s too expensive, and perpetually feel one pay cheque away from returning to Kendal with their tails between their legs.

In a sense, they made good on their youthful cockiness – not many bands get to release four albums on an internationally respected British indie – but not before time. Domino signed them for debut ‘Limbo, Panto’ in 2008, which turned out to be as much an obstacle to success as it was a minor victory. Baffled reviewers likened them to Mika and The Darkness, while they played festival sets to small crowds comprised solely of other bands.

“That was the frustration with that record,” says Tom, “that everyone thought it was some kind of art-school project when we set ourselves in complete opposition to that.”

“I think the best thing that happened to us was that our dreams were shattered with ‘Limbo, Panto’,” says Hayden as the other three laugh. “Literally shattered. That broken-heartedness was the making of us.”

The 2009 follow-up, ‘Two Dancers’, was nominated for the Mercury Music Prize and ‘Smother’ won them huge critical respect, but Wild Beasts still suffer from underdog syndrome, worrying that the poppier songs on ‘Present Tense’ could see them “torn down”. Isn’t that rockist nonsense, or just self-doubt by another name? “Well… it is self-doubt,” says Tom, who admits that he’d love to make music like his heroes, experimental noise titans Swans. “But we’re the sort of band that depends on critical consensus. We don’t have massive financial form and we don’t have much Radio 1 airplay, everyone’s going to be supportive if we’re not doing too well. We don’t want to alienate the people who have been with us all this time.”

“I don’t think there’s a danger of that,” says Chris, restoring sanity. “We made a brasher and bolder record, there’s no doubt about it.”

They all seem nervous about turning 30, referring to it as a “big shadow” on what they see as a young man’s game. But instead of self-pitying defeatism, they’ve sized up age as another challenge. “Have you heard Grayson Perry’s Reith Lectures?” asks Hayden. “They’re really good – he said that sometimes the word ‘art’ can excuse inability and laziness. A band becomes an ‘art band’ when they can’t write good songs. We’re definitely conscious of that – after this amount of time, we have to be good at our craft on a fundamental level. A pop song should be absolutely weightless, it should defy gravity and sound so effortless, like a piece of fluff you’ve just kicked off the floor. Ironically, for us, that’s the hardest thing to do – it’s not really in our natural remit, though we want it to be because it’s hard to attain. If we have to make a three-and-a-half-minute song to fit with [the modern industry’s] parameters, then we’ll make one no-one can touch.”

“We’ll do it fucking well, thank you,” says Tom, confidence restored.

Weekly links #2

David Hepworth on why fashion needs fashion magazines and music needs music magazines. Ellen Page, duh. "Confidence is like leaning back. It becomes a grand sleight of hand." On-set with Parks & Rec in the UK. Hermione Hoby on interviewing (and criticism): “The other person becomes themself through you, and they become a different themself through someone else.” Why Kacey Musgraves, Brandy Clark and Ashley Monroe aren’t making country radio’s playlists. Radiator Hospital study the classics and find beauty in not being original.The rise of the YouTube popstar. Luke Turner’s review of the new Wild Beasts’ album: “just as their old lyrics about sex were crude without being crass, dirty-minded without becoming misogynist, on this excellent album they manage to embrace modern romance without being schmaltzy, ersatz or twee.” Lorde on the power of short sentences.

This is now my official go-to .gif for emotions marked “joy”.

This is now my official go-to .gif for emotions marked “joy”.

britticisms:

1. A man can not save you. This was something that I never understood as a teen and something I struggle to not forget as an adult. Other people can not solve the problems of ourselves. Love does not cure all, is not a balm, is not the only solution. 

2. But still, I love and continue to love the non-verbal components of Rae and Finn’s relationship on My Mad Fat Diary. Finn touches Rae’s body, this body that society has told her is wrong. This body that she has scarred and burned to release the feelings kept bottled up inside, deteriorating her very soul. 

3. Sometimes, self-hatred can run so deep that we mistrust the people who see our beauty and light. If the darkness envelops everything you do and see and understand about yourself and the world, a lie is hearing you have worth. When I was 16, 17, 18, I used to turn down any young man that hit on me. My friends said I had high standards. But inside, I thought: There must be something wrong with him to want me. 

4. Female sexuality is real. It is hidden and ridiculed and misunderstood. It exists in a myriad of different ways. It can mean a lot to some or nothing at all. We are different, complex, more than you can ever imagine. 

Rae’s articulation of what she wants is a strong counter to her emotional vulnerability. A person can be “damaged” and still want. A woman can exist outside of standards of beauty and body and still want. Wanting does not disappear because of size. 

And Rae wants in a way that is rare on screen. She wants openly and vocally and proudly. I love that Rae says, “I want him to go down on me for so long that he has to evolve gills,” and it’s funny, but not a joke. She wants that intimacy and she wants it now and she doesn’t want it to stop. 

My feature interview with Annie Clark for NME.

Photo by Shamil Tanna

Something about the first few minutes of this interview with Annie Clark feels like taking part in a performance art piece. Dressed in a black trench coat and high-necked black dress with white lace panels – think cloister couture – she’s spacey, switching between gazing up at the window and offering blank stares from the comfort of a checked red armchair. Fiddling with her rings and pulling Kirby grips from her lilac-white cloud of hair, either the wildly ambitious guitarist is stand-offish or maybe I’m off-puttingly awkward; some combination of the two. Either way, it feels as much like a considered performance as her ballistic live shows as St. Vincent. Between us is a side table holding Clark’s white wine and pumpkin soup, which she sups intermittently from a comically large and formal silver ladle.

We’re in the private suite of a Soho members club in late November, talking about – appropriately – human interaction in the 21st century, though the kind where the sharp edges are removed: “I’m interested in the way it seems as though we don’t know how to have a private moment any more,” says Clark. “We watch a show through a tiny lens on an iPhone; we can’t just have a meal, we have to take a picture of it and get the applause and approval of millions of tiny eyes. The cart has been put before the horse. Now it’s about seeking the validation of having had the experience rather than just having the experience.”

For Clark, life is a full-contact sport where feeling the thud is important – sometimes literally. In August 2012, Clark played the last date of the ‘Strange Mercy’ tour at Japan’s Summersonic Festival, almost a year after the original release of her third album. She jumped off the stage and up onto the barricade, and was about to leap into the crowd – as she had been doing throughout the tour – when someone grabbed her breasts with aggressive intention. She turned to her monitor engineer, who had come down to the front to feed her cables, and shot him a look that said, hell, no. “I turned around and threw myself up against the barricade and punched the perpetrator in the face, hit them in the face with the microphone,” she says. “I really hope they’re okay, because I feel really bad about it, but it was a moment of rage – like, I don’t remember, just blind rage.”

She stands, takes my hand and presses it against her thigh to feel the permanent indentation left by the barricade, before digging out an iPhone photo (#nofilter) of the original bruise. There’s a noticeable pit in her femur. Don’t bands usually say that Japanese audiences are quite reserved? “They are,” she says, “but I think I broke that fourth wall.”

The day after returning from Japan, a bruised Clark went straight into three weeks of choreography-heavy rehearsals with David Byrne for the tour around ‘Love This Giant’, their brassy full-length 2012 collaboration for 4AD. Once out on the road, Clark noticed that the lack of self-consciousness from the performers was getting the audience out of their seats to dance. “People were just free and it was really sweet and special. I’d never really played music that people danced to, like, ‘Oh, okay, this is kind of worth pursuing!’” 36 hours after returning home from tour, having sworn that she would take a break, she started writing. Six weeks later, she was done.

Clark is by no means the first or even millionth musician to breach the traditional performer/audience contract, but doing so has added a new dimension to the way she approaches her work. When it came to writing her fourth solo album, her aim was to make something “groove-heavy that would make a really intense live show”, eliciting the physical responses she had witnessed whether stage-diving, doing the conga with Byrne and their huge brass troupe, or spitting Big Black songs at a New York tribute show in late 2011. But smuggled beneath those invitations to loosen up and step out of yourself are Clark’s concerns about human identity, connection and validation in an extreme world warped by the digital realm. “Call the twenty-first century, tell her give us a break”, she sings on ‘Every Tear Disappears’. On ‘St. Vincent’, she’s standing in the rubble where the fourth wall used to be and surveying the wreckage, figuring out what’s important amidst the unremitting sensory assault.

Brassy single ‘Digital Witness’ is the most literal manifestation of Annie Clark’s concerns about a world seen through screens (“If I can’t show it/If you can’t see me/What’s the point in doing anything?”), though other songs on the record approach the topic with more elegance and empathy, for others and for herself. The schizophrenic ‘Huey Newton’, a song named for the co-founder of the Black Panthers who appeared to Clark in an Ambien-induced dream, is the sinew that binds all of the record’s organs. Its verses unspool oblique images in a passionless game of free-association designed to feel like a Google wormhole: “Fake knife, real ketchup/Cardboard cutthroats/Cowboys of information/Pleasure dot loathing dot Huey dot Newton/It was a lonely, lonely winter…

“I was envisioning a world where we’re so disconnected from other people and ourselves that we have to learn what feelings are from flashcards – a smile corresponds to feeling happy, and only knowing that intellectually and not intuitively,” Clark says. “It’s also about being angry at the impotence of the internet: the fact that it suggests a reality but is a third-tier version of actual reality.” The song later refers to Hale Bopp and the Heaven’s Gate Cult, Hail Mary, and Hagia Sophia, a museum in Istanbul that’s previously been a place of worship for every major religion bar Judaism. Heaven’s Gate is one of Clark’s obsessions – “ which I am fascinated by and love, if you can say that you love a cult where they were waiting for the comet to come and committed mass suicide, all wearing Nikes” – and here it’s part of a triumvirate that shows the ways in which humans have tried to create meanings in their lives over the course of history.

It’s a resonant theme for Clark, who grasped for any sense of self or hope after losing several people close to her during the period that informed ‘Strange Mercy’. (‘Huey Newton’ also refers to that time, but during one of its swaggering, snarled moments: “In perpetual night, oh, it’s terribly frightening, you know”.) Written during a period of isolation in Seattle – she called it a “loneliness experiment” – the record was coated in a paralysing haze that felt like trying and failing to scream during a nightmare. An archetype tends to emerge while she writes, she says; here it was of a housewife dosed up on barbiturates and white wine, a portrait of domesticated repression that was more Revolutionary Road than Peyton Place. It was about “a lot of pain in various forms, a more self-lacerating record,” Clark says.

By contrast, ‘St. Vincent’ is the most aggressive album Clark has ever made. The archetype she imagined here was of being a “near-future cult leader”, though it comes off more in the visuals, where Jodorowsky’s surreal classic Holy Mountain meets the residents of the Capitol in The Hunger Games. (I tell her she looks “terrifying”, which she accepts as a compliment.)

“It’s more extroverted, less about sublimated or submerged anger, and more about owning up to every emotion,” she says. “And I like songs where you don’t necessarily like the narrator; or admitting your humiliations and downfalls – I think everybody can relate to that. But I wasn’t at a place where I felt that kind of self-laceration, self-loathing, self-denial – all that stuff. I was more confident and comfortable and in a better place. It’s probably still not what people would consider a light-hearted record, but it’s light-hearted for me.”

Ultimately, the album looks at how human beings find salvation and validation beyond the superficial digital realm. ‘Prince Johnny’ is a “love letter to a tragic character and the New York downtown freak, weirdo, queer scene” whose titular character hangs out in bathroom stalls and tries to affirm his worth through famous fucks, but is safe in the city’s embrace. “It’s the kind of story you don’t get from New York City when you’re still clutching your purse on the subway,” says Clark. “It’s the kind you get when you’ve proven your devotion to this city. Then she lets you in her arms.”

The songs that fall towards the end of the record are where the important things float to the surface and everything else just blows. “‘Honey, quit your worrying/Distance is exactly like a blowing wind/Putting out the embers and the tiny flames and keeping the big ones burning’”, someone tells her on ‘Psychopath’. ‘I Prefer Your Love’ – “to Jesus” – is about Clark’s relationship to her parents. “You get to a point where you realise that you can lose them. Or you already have. And like… crossing some precipice into – it’s so unsexy, but – adulthood.”

Annie Erin Clark picked up the guitar as a 12-year-old in Dallas, Texas, forsaking her place on the girls’ soccer team to learn how to play; by 14 she was recording into her computer. During school holidays when she was a few years older, she roadied for her aunt and uncle, jazz duo Tuck and Patti, learning her craft – and the dividends of dedication – from the two workaday musicians. (“Dabblers” are one of Clark’s pet hates.) After briefly attending Berkeley College Of Music, she quit to join the Polyphonic Spree and play sideman in Sufjan Steven’s touring band before releasing her solo debut, ‘Marry Me’, in 2007. The guitar was still omnipresent, but it wasn’t until ‘Strange Mercy’ that she started using it to write songs rather than figuring them out on her laptop: listening to country music and “playing the troubadour”, as she’s previously put it.

Clark’s frenzied guitar work – guitar-centric riff-o-rama somewhere between Robert Fripp, Nile Rodgers and Sister Rosetta Tharpe – has long been her defining trait, but she decided to push it further on ‘St. Vincent’, using it to enable the record’s general bloodletting. “There’s a long history of rock guitar, but I’m not that interested in trying to recreate the quintessential rock guitar paradigm,” she says. “I like it when guitars don’t sound like guitars. But conversely, I like it when guitars sound like fucking guitars, you know? I think I approach it as a means to an end, a way to say the things that I don’t know how to say with my words or my voice.” On the most confrontational songs here – like the borderline devotion/obsession of ‘Bring Me Your Loves’, inspired by Pantera and Turkish folk singer, Selda – the guitar sounds like a pinball machine, whizzing and flipping before lighting up middle-eights like Christmas trees.

“I think Annie is one of the most inventive and dynamic guitarists out there,” writes Carrie Brownstein in an email. (She should know, given her past in Wild Flag and Sleater-Kinney.) “She doesn’t seem too precious about the guitar as a monolithic entity, she doesn’t worry about its lineage. She approaches it as a means of expression, as a conduit for a broad sonic and rhythmic vocabulary.”

During the making of the record, Clark was reading Miles Davis’ autobiography. “Man, sometimes it takes you a long time to sound like yourself,” he sighs. “So I thought, yeah, I sound like myself on this record,” she says. “I’ll call it ‘St. Vincent’.” It wasn’t the first time a piece of music had pre-empted her identity. “A lot of the time, songs are weird,” she told me by phone back in September, prior to sequencing the record. “I’ll write about something and then it’ll come true. I’m not much of a mystical person – I’m pretty pragmatic and like to err on the side of science, but that is the case, the songs having a lot of power in that way.”

Follow the line from ‘Cheerleader’, off ‘Strange Mercy’ – “I, I, I, I, I don’t wanna be a cheerleader no more” – to the willfully demonstrative persona on ‘St. Vincent’, which opens with two very different declarations of arrival: ‘Rattlesnake’ may be as far from the domestic archetype as Clark has ever roamed, documenting a very different kind of isolation. One hot day in Texas, she found herself alone in the wild and stripped naked to experience nature fully – before realizing a snake was lurking nearby. “Yes, I think about dying all the time,” she says, “and that would have been an awesome way to die – like, it would suck to choke on a chicken bone alone in your apartment, but dying by rattlesnake bite is cool – but I was like, no, not this time.”

It’s followed by the electrifying ‘Birth In Reverse’, seen from the perspective of a curtain-twitching shut-in: “Oh what an ordinary day/Take out the garbage, masturbate”, she begins, before deciding to break out into the world beyond her blinds, embracing fear and daring others to join her. “Laugh all you want, but I want more/‘Cause what I’m swearing I’ve never sworn before”.

“I played that for my best friend and he just laughed at me, like, ‘The only thing you wouldn’t do it take out the garbage’,” she recalls. “That’s true. I probably wouldn’t.”

‘St. Vincent’ is Annie Clark’s first album for major imprints Loma Vista (in the US) and Caroline (in the UK) after leaving 4AD late last year. The move seemed surprising – the high-budget, artistic videos for ‘Cruel’ and ‘Cheerleader’ didn’t suggest that the highly respected indie denied Clark anything. “My contract was up and I just thought it would be time to put a little new blood around it, simple as that,” she says, appearing taken aback that anyone would find it significant. “It’s a brave new world in the music industry, and the old ideas don’t apply in today’s world.” What old ideas? “In terms of… I mean, Beggars put out Adele. They’re not a small label.”

To intimate that Adele’s presence on the label was a deterrent for Clark would be wrong. “I love Adele. She’s no bullshit. She wields such power with such nonchalance. Like somebody standing around casually holding an AK-47. She will slay you with that thing. I was merely making the point that Beggars is by no means a small label. There was nothing untoward or acrimonious about my decision to move labels.” The “old ideas” refer to “the fate of the ‘record’ as we know it,” she says. “In the digital world, there is no physical technology that insists upon a 40-ish-minute format any more. The medium is changing. Case in point: Beyoncé’s ‘visual album’.”

Clark can’t stand all the extra components that the internet has added to promoting a record these days – “not just doing some press and shooting a video, all this fucking making a big fuckin’ deal about shit”. She knows it’s all going straight into a void where everything lives forever and everything is the same age. “And there’s no way to really delineate value from meaninglessness unless you’re using your own filters, but your own filters as so fucking exhausted from being inundated all the time that you lose it.”

In November, a few days before we meet, Clark was in a situation that realigned her filters. She received the Smithsonian Institute’s American Ingenuity Award (“recognising shining achievements and innovators”) for performing arts, honoured alongside the team who helped land the Rover on Mars, a woman who helped all of America’s high-achieving, low-income students get access to Ivy League schools that they thought were out of their reach, and various Nobel Prize winners. “I was psyched!” She laughs. “I play guitar, la-de-da. The world is big, and it’s important, I think, to see what you do not just in the context of a small little world, but as part of the zeitgeist and commenting on where we are right now in the course of history. That helped put it in context for me.”

Not to do down the importance of just playing guitar, la-de-da. Clark emerged out of the darkness that informed ‘Strange Mercy’ “stronger than ever”, she says, the salvation coming from a familiar place. “Music is very powerful. We must never underestimate it or take it for granted. I am one of the many who can say, and mean quite literally, ‘music saved my life’.”

PATRON SAINTS

MATT JOHNSON
Drummer, ‘Strange Mercy’ tour; performed and wrote on Jeff Buckley’s ‘Grace’
As a person, Annie is real sweet, yet she is ferocious in her spirit. She has the burn to create, to reach out of, into, and beyond herself in the hopes of discovery and synthesis. Watch her! She will be singing something, while also playing some crazy guitar shit that seems as if it would require a second musician to perform. But she just jumps off and gives it a go, not knowing if she can pull it off. She takes real chances. It’s exciting! Especially in our time, when douchebags get up at big gigs and fake their little fake asses off. Fuck em. They fucking suck! Annie rocks!

BOBBY SPARKS
Mini-Moog, ‘Strange Mercy’, ‘St. Vincent’; Grammy-winning keyboardist and producer
I met Annie through Producer John Congleton, I had known John since the mid-‘90s. John and I have mutual friends and also worked at the Dallas Sound Lab studio. One day he called me for the ‘Strange Mercy’ sessions and the rest is history… Annie is amazing, I’ve never seen an artist like her. She is the most creative person I’ve ever worked with. As a composer/arranger, the music is so abstract and her lyrics match perfectly and most of all I love her stories. She allows me to create and do my thing while trying all kind of crazy ideas and figuring things out.

MACKENZIE SMITH
Drummer, ‘Actor’, ‘Strange Mercy’, ‘St. Vincent’; drummer, Midlake
She is one of my favorite guitarists ever. She plays like no one else and doesn’t seem to give a shit about what anyone else is doing… she just does her own thing. As an arranger, she loves to take a seemingly ordinary thing and completely take it apart and reassemble it in some totally abstract way. And sometimes she takes a seemingly ordinary thing, and just slightly makes it its own odd and beautiful thing. In the past, there have been certain parameters that Annie wanted to work within, but on this new album, I guess you could say we just let it all out and had a party.

FRED ARMISEN
Co-director, ‘Laughing With A Mouth Of Blood’ video; Portlandia co-creator
She’s a captivating performer. I’ve always been a fan of hers. She plays to the sketches perfectly. So funny in the right way. I’ve been friends with her for a while, and we are both fans of the same type of comedy.

DANIEL MINTSERIS
Keyboards, ‘Strange Mercy’, ‘St. Vincent’
I’m always blown away by Annie’s orchestral approach to songwriting, whether she’s using orchestral instruments or not. The way she layers vocal, synth, and guitar melodies is extraordinary and very original. In my mind, she’s uncompromising about reaching for new ground and raising the stakes, but with the overriding goal of making a visceral, personal, emotional connection with words and melodies. I find that to be a rare gift.

Angel Olsen - Burn Your Fire For No Witness 

I reviewed Angel Olsen’s wonderful new album for NME

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