Friday 18th July 2025
Blog Page 1207

Review: Blur

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★★★☆☆

Three stars

No one really knew what to expect from Magic Whip, Blur’s first offering in over a decade aside from the odd single. On top of this, the recording strategy was odd in itself – the album is comprised of material recorded by guitarist Graham Coxon in Hong Kong last year, with Damon Albarn’s lyrics added over the top. It’s certainly unconventional, but perhaps that’s what makes it so alluring. There’s hints of classic Blur in there – whether it be singing about the “5.14 to East Grinsted” in ‘Lonesome Street’, or the general feel of a song like ‘I Broadcast’ which feels as if it could have come straight off the B-side to Parklife.

However, this record has a distinctive mood that sets it aside from the band’s other work. Coxon described it as “sci-fi folk”, and perhaps he’s on to something. Synthesisers, reverb on the guitar and electronic noises generated by Albarn on his iPad give the album a distinctive feel. It has to be said, this isn’t a sing-along album. It’s the haunting, understated riffs, overlaid with Albarn’s melodic vocals which creates an overall ambience. For that reason, you could argue it’s best listened to as an album from top to bottom. Nonetheless, songs like ‘Go Out’ and the album’s opener, ‘Lonesome Street’, do stand up to the test. All in all a solid eff ort by Blur on reforming, but it probably won’t be making them too many headlines.

Live Review: James Bay

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★★★★☆

Four stars

It has been a meteoric rise for James Bay, the talented 24-year-old singer-songwriter from Hitchin. James has won many of us over with his gravelly yet soulful voice, luscious melodies and alternative pop/rock storytelling songs. Consequently, he has earned a Brit Award for ‘Critics’ Choice’ as well as going straight to number one with his debut album Chaos And The Calm.

On a somewhat chilly April night, with much feverish anticipation, I made my way to the O2 Academy in Cowley. An hour before James set the stage on fire, the Norwich boys from the support act Port Isla helped to warm up the sell-out crowd with their lively alternative pop tracks that complimented the expressive style of James’ performance. James finally rocked up on stage in black skinny jeggings, T shirt and his trademark hat, followed by his accompanying threeman band.

Strikingly, at first glance, his chiselled looks much resemble a young Johnny Depp. The set was ostensibly simplistic, only a big banner displaying his name in thin lettering helped to decorate the backdrop. The opening number ‘Collide’ was a high octane, fast-tempo track that immediately set the stage alight. “I can’t bear to let you go/ So keep on throwing your sticks and stones,” he howled grittily. Love is a central theme in his songs; hopeful, dying and painful love. ‘If You Ever Want To Be In Love’, ‘Let It Go’ and ‘Scars’ were eagerly lapped up by the crowd, with the enthralled audience singing along enthusiastically.

He gave softly spoken introductions to the songs, always rather polite and humble in his manner of speech. The crowd livened up to ‘Best Fake Smile’, a chirpy, rock’n’roll-tinged track that had us dancing on our toes and clapping fervently. Almost all the tracks from the debut album were performed on the night. His voice at times was reminiscent of James Morrison; his style was a putative combination of Mumford & Sons meets Bruce Springstein meets Damien Rice. ‘Hold Back The River’ ended the gig on a delirious climax to everyone’s pure delight as we belted in unison. It was a ravishingly raw and mesmerising gig that left us craving more. James’ performance was delivered with panache and confidence that surpassed his age, a sure sign of a burgeoning musical career ahead. It’s hats off and big thundering claps to this Hertfordshire musical maestro.

 

Joni Mitchell: much misunderstood, much revered

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At the end of March, Joni Mitchell was discovered unconscious in her home in Los Angeles and rushed to intensive care. Since then, the sheer range of musicians who have paid tribute to her and her music has revealed the depth of her infl uence on several musical generations. With vocal admirers as diverse as Bob Dylan, Charles Mingus, Bjork and Sonic Youth, Mitchell’s output and influence are fragmented across genre and style, era and demographic to the extent that it can feel difficult to reassemble those fragments into one cohesive and coherent Joni Mitchell.

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The enigma of Joni Mitchell is in her contradictions. She’s the trailblazing pioneer who declared, “All my battles were with male egos, ”an attitude which has always shone through in songs like 1975’s ‘Don’t Interrupt the Sorrow’, with its wry line, “He says, ‘We walked on the moon, you be polite.’” Yet she has publicly distanced herself from feminism as far back as the 1970s. She was the ethereal hippie the 1970s. She was the ethereal hippie goddess who wrote ‘Woodstock’, yet she dismissed the counter-culture of the 1960s as “a ruse”.

She has fought bitterly against the label of ‘confessional songwriter’ yet she seems unwilling to empathise with female artists who have been similarly misunderstood. In a 2013 interview with Jian Ghomeshi, she complained, ‘They lump me in with Plath and Sexton. To me, Plath is morbid and Sexton is a liar… they’re not as honest as I am.”

Raised in Saskatchewan, Mitchell began playing folk music in cafés and bars around Alberta to support herself after leaving art school. In 1965, she gave birth to a daughter who she gave up for adoption. This part of Mitchell’s personal history, commemorated in several of her songs, is well known to any fan of ‘Little Green’ from her 1971 album Blue. The track recalls the stigma and silence that surrounded unmarried mothers in the mid ‘60s. She would later place the beginning of her career as a songwriter in this experience.

Mitchell’s first recordings appeared as the American Folk Revival was petering out, and early reviews, though generally positive, had an edge of condescension. As far as Rolling Stone was concerned she was just another wide-eyed folk guitarist, a ‘wispy blonde’ with little to differentiate her from the saccharine songs of Joan Baez and Peter, Paul and Mary. It was not until Blue in 1971, with its mixture of knotty alternate tuning and twisting, ambitious vocal melodies that the depth of Mitchell’s musical talent revealed itself. It is difficult in hindsight to understand how something as wistful and melancholy as Blue could be considered provocative, but in 1971 Mitchell was raw, new, and quickly gaining an audience.

Over the albums that followed, For the Roses, Court and Spark, and The Hissing of Summer Lawns, Mitchell’s popularity increased, yet she preserved the persona of an outsider. She has spoken of herself as an artist without contemporaries and without predecessors, totally unique and alone on the musical landscape.

Her lyrics, particularly in 1976’s ‘Hejira’ – perhaps her artistic peak – fixate on the isolation and displacement of the traveller. ‘Song for Sharon’ drifts over childhood memories to explore the sacrifi ces and triumphs of a solitary artistic life. Mitchell’s role as an outsider only intensified as her interest in jazz developed. As her music became more experimental, the reaction from critics and fans increasingly became one of puzzlement and disappointment. It was diffi cult to reconcile the Mitchell who chirped ‘Big Yellow Taxi’ to the erratic rhythms and spoken word of 1979’s ‘Mingus’. As Mitchell’s creative vision diverged with the public’s expectations, and as her ever-precarious health deteriorated further, she retreated from the public eye. She has gained a reputation as a thorny and slightly bitter interviewee, dwelling on questions of honesty and authenticity.

In Mitchell’s vision of her musical history, she is an original who has been continually misunderstood. She may be right – there is much about her that is difficult to understand and difficult to reconcile. In spite of this, the emotional power of her music has allowed millions of listeners to forge a personal bond with her on their own terms. Anyone who has spent time listening to her music has their own personal Joni Mitchell. It doesn’t really matter how close we get to the real thing.

Review: Sufjan Stevens

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“You checked your texts while I masturbated” is not a lyric you expect to hear trundled so calmly off Sufjan Stevens’ tongue in the elegiac album to his mother. I hasten to add the line is (presumably) about a girlfriend – but hard-hitting candour is the gravitational pull of an otherwise hauntingly ephemeral collection. Departing from the famous violin crescendos of ‘Chicago’ from Illinois (2005), Stevens’ seventh studio album Carrie and Lowell, drops several gears, but this confessional homage to his mother and stepfather demands (and deserves) so much more than the label ‘easy-listening’. Raw ordinariness and blunt grief are sprinkled with glorious drops of mythology and poetry. Whilst so soothing it is also a busy, highly populated album; it’s often hard to identify an addressee – mothers, girlfriends, step-fathers, but the universal appeal is strong and surprising.

At first I felt like an intruder, flicking through a meticulously composed family photo album, but it isn’t long before Stevens’ tentative, husky vocals and bold lyricism lure you in. You think honesty is glaring – a cathartic scream, a crash of cymbals, but the shock comes from the opposite. “We’re all going to die” are megaphone-worthy words, but the melodic chords pulse sweetly and stoically on in my personal favourite, ‘Fourth of July’. The impact is always felt through Steven’s resigned, but not despairing, deliverance. Warning: Tear ducts will be targeted. A whispered conversation with hismother, or his ‘star in the sky’, features the jolting simplicity of: “make the most of your life, while it is rife, while it is life.”

At times, Bon Iver leaks in, and there’s a trace of Simon & Garfunkel, particularly in the titular song. Combinations of piano, acoustic guitar and banjo smoothly introduce most of the tracks – think ‘Going to California’ before Robert Plant wades in. I will definitely revisit this album. Some might find it quite repetitive, but I think that’s the point, and it’s not like anyone of us can tell Steven’s how he should grieve. 

#NotGuilty: A Brief Reflection on the First Week

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Things have become pretty overwhelming. The interest in covering the #NotGuilty campaign and engaging with it has surpassed all intangible ambition that we had begun with. But as national newspapers get involved, negativity too suddenly becomes far more present. From the mist of the internet’s deepest, darkest depths emerges: trolls. But I will not call them ‘trolls’. Because that gives each particular grey face a pseudo-community which they do not deserve. These singularities suggest ideas that are repulsive. They try to evoke any response that they can.

It is miserable that in response to a campaign about community. About the wonderful unity of man, and a mission to stand tall in adversity…we meet aversion. Distorted keyboard-bashers with masks happily covering their real, human faces. But they only make themselves exceptions. Fantasists too arise, stories with strange erratic discordance that resonate to us that something is wrong. There is something not right.

But. This is irrelevant. Irrelevant to the overwhelming and usurping response that we have already achieved. Those who have suffered assault have come forward, those who have never suffered assault have come forward. Our community has responded to the #NotGuilty campaign, and personally to Ione and her poignant piece. It is not just a campaign of empathy, but sympathy. It is a campaign about stepping forward and remembering that each of us is real and part of something implicit and eternal.

Blurred exceptions, you do not have a community. It is not a community, but a bitter web of grey faces. We stand strong. Ione’s face boldly stands on The Times’ front page. Her words embellish website after website, positive response falls from tweet to tweet, and each Facebook share adds to this interweaving, ever-growing, and ever-fighting community. The pride we feel will not be destroyed. We remain gleeful and enthused. The responses pile up, and the society we live in is lifted. For a moment, our community rises from unanimously implicit, to explicitly present. People are using their voice – their words, and those words enforce, letter by letter, that we exist. And that we exist together.

A retort to ‘Sex, Drugs, and Taboo’

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In her recent article Lament for the Victorian World-View (published in Cherwell as ‘Sex, Drugs, and Taboo’, Millie McLuskie champions a retrogressive and inane social moralism, regaling us with how she transported her personal, entitled sense of propriety with her to a foreign country over the vacation.

Prior to her departure, Amsterdam had seemed to McLuskie as India must have seemed to the young Victorian gentleman just out of public-school; she was “looking forward to passing… a weekend of intoxicated hedonism – a spiffing jaunt on the continent!

Alas, we are soon to learn that “Amsterdam did not quite meet [her] expectations”, failing to live up to her upstanding British values. “Whilst it might be safer over there”, McLuskie acknowledges, she simply “did not feel at ease with everything being so shamelessly public”. Indeed, we ought to be on our guard that these European whims for public ‘safety’ – for open and progressive social attitudes towards sex and drugs – don’t infringe on our British decorum! For shame indeed!

Exuding all the moral dualism of a Jekyll and Hyde figure, McLuskie seems abhorred of those “people who… project lewd and misguided ideas onto the women in the windows”, noting how they “suffer the stigma of prostitution”, yet, just lines later, goes on to write “Some taboos are there for a reason: to deter people from engaging in sordid and degrading behaviour. In my view, [prostitution is] illegal for a good reason”. It seems clear to me who is projecting “misguided ideas”; where that ‘stigma’ is coming from.

Indeed, why can’t those sordid women – indeed, the whole degraded Dutch nation – just follow McLuskie’s example and be more refined and duplicitous – more British – in their hedonism? They could at least have the decency to pretend some sort of double standard, if only out of courtesy to their British visitors.

For a moment, McLuskie appears to betray a vestige of self-awareness – “Maybe I am just painfully British…” she ponders, tantalising her reader with the possibility of some kind of absolution – maybe with a reconsideration of the nuances of national identity, or through a realisation of the need for measured cultural relativism in a post-colonial world.  However, with a cliché reference to her “stiff upper lip”, she plants herself firmly back in the 19th century, and, straining the boundaries of her desire for Victorian repressiveness, postulates that there might be “a place for taboo in our society”. 

But where is that place? Can taboo really serve as an admissible instrument of moral direction or instruction in the modern day and age? These are questions which McLuskie might have raised or addressed in her article about taboo, but instead, crossing the sensibilities of a Jane Austen novel with what reads like a vapid Holden Caulfield, McLuskie is seemingly incapable of consideration beyond her sheltered adolescent longing for “the thrill [of] the possibility of getting caught”. Who even cares about the realities of pressing social issues? So what if we continue to waste millions of pounds on failed policy? But I guess it’s not really a waste, is it? Because, as McLuskie eruditely and definitively concludes, “illegality just makes for a more thrilling high”…

It is of course this very principle which has long formed the cornerstone of British policy and legislation. In a country so desperately lacking excitement – where cricket was invented, and where articles like ‘Sex, Drugs, and Taboo’ find publication – measures have to be taken to ensure citizens have sufficient opportunity for the “thrills of illegality” that are the sole reason we don’t all throw ourselves from Dover’s cliffs.

Indeed, in light of the upcoming general election, the Conservatives have come under heavy fire for their stance on drugs; it seems there is a growing consensus among the general public that Britain’s drugs laws simply aren’t thrilling enough.  A 2014 study found that only one in five people who had received cautions from the police for possession of cannabis would describe the experience as “thrilling”, and that as many as seven out of ten inmates incarcerated for two years or more were now only receiving “mild amusement” from their imprisonment.

In a recent interview, Ed Miliband was quoted as saying – “Clearly things aren’t working as they are. I think it’s high time we extend prohibition to consumer goods. Tea and coffee, for instance – the working people of Britain are bored of purchasing their hot beverages legally from “simple, convenient, safe” commercial outlets. Why not ban them, and create a whole new criminal market? Think of the untapped thrills!”. David Cameron dismissed the proposal as “impractical”.

Despite being divided over such issues as drugs, tea, and coffee, all the major parties are in agreement that more needs to be done to interest voters in political issues, especially young people. The Conservatives, Labour, and the Liberal Democrats have all therefore pledged to ensure that politics is made illegal before the next general election, in an attempt to up the ‘thrill factor’ of engaging with the democratic system.

Review: Cake

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★★☆☆☆
Two Stars

Jennifer Aniston goes without make-up or a laughter track to demonstrate her “serious” side in Cake, a half-baked sugary affair that spends a little too long in the oven without ever really rising. If there weren’t enough cake-based puns packed into that sentence for you, you’ll be even more disappointed with the distractingly absent eponymous cake from the actual film itself, at least not until the final act – and even then it just seems a little bit shoehorned – a little bit half-baked.

Aniston gives it her all as Claire, a woman whose chronic pain and scars (both physical and emotional) seem to give her a get-out-of-jail-free card to treat everyone in her life as if they owe her something. Wallowing in her depressive slump and dissatisfied with the corny condescension of her support group, Claire becomes fixated on the suicide of one of the group’s members – a young woman named Nina (Anna Kendrick), who threw herself off a motorway bridge. Claire never really knew Nina, but she’s compelled by the conviction of her suicide – much to the annoyance of the group’s leader (a woefully underused Felicity Huffman), who she blackmails into providing her with Nina’s home address.

We never really understand why Claire is so determined to seek out Nina’s residence, but her conveniently hunky widower Roy (Sam Worthington) seems to compensate for any incredulities we may have. Before long, Claire and Roy strike up what at first seems the most inappropriate of friendships, but slowly develops into an almost touching connection between two very lonely people. But things aren’t destined to go that smoothly for Claire, who begins seeing whacky hallucinations of Nina’s ghost – taunting and shaming her very existence and confronting Claire with the big question of why she too hasn’t killed herself. It’s all rather bleak.

Instilling a little bit of sanity and regulation into Claire’s life is her housemaid Silvana, in a scene-stealing turn from Adriana Barraza. Silvana knows Claire better than anyone, but she somehow refrains from asking Claire what Nina so bluntly does: “why are you such a c***?”. Instead, Silvana waits on Claire hand-and-foot, patiently accepting her pain, profanity, and pill-popping – she even makes bizarre dangerous trips to Mexico to provide Claire with drugs. But even through Silvana’s tolerant eyes, it’s often hard to see Claire as anything but pissy.

The truth, as we slowly learn, is that Claire pushes people away. After her tragic accident she loses everything dear to her and is henceforth hesitant to bring herself close to anyone again. There’s a well-worn Ebenezer Scrooge arc at Claire’s centre, and her journey is a little bit too predictable. Cake was clearly intended to be something of an “ugly” role for Aniston à la Charlize Theron in Monster – perhaps even an Oscar-fishing ploy – but a thin script and thinner yet characters forbid her from ever receiving the support she requires.

Claire’s abrasive personality ultimately proves too much. It’s a sincere attempt at throwing vanity to the wind for Aniston, but there are too many well-trodden tropes and clichés crammed into Cake’s overwrought running time and the film enjoys teasing out its subplots a little too gradually. The simple fact is that it’s hard to like a character like Claire, whose contempt and short-temper topple over the edge of “black comedy” and become something altogether more annoying. It’s a recipe that just doesn’t work – the proof is in the pudding.

Review: Earl Sweatshirt

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The first thing to be said about Earl Sweatshirt’s new album is that it’s by no means an easy listen. Then again, it isn’t meant to be. It’s not written for the consumer. It’s not written for the reviewer. It’s written for him. The recent Lil Chris tragedy has cast the spotlight firmly on the difficulties of young fame, especially in the music industry, and it’s clearly a running theme in Earl’s latest offering. To put it in perspective, Earl is world-famous and the age of a finalist. While you’ve been grappling with Spenser, he’s spent the last few years of his life grappling with fame, fortune and everything that goes with it. Considering he cancelled tour dates last year, it’s hard not to associate the album’s content, and title, with the struggles he’s had with exhaustion, both emotional and physical. 

On the first track, ‘Huey’, Earl is already talking about drugs and the effects they’ve had, “And my bitch say the spliff take the soul from me.” The album continues in this vain, with Earl refusing to shy away from the big issues. In ‘Off Top’, he talks about racism in his childhood, “Raised up where every mouth that speak the truth get taped shut/ Peep the evening news, my nigga, we don’t do the same stuff.” While his lyrics are introspective, the backing sounds on the album feature the laconic beats and off-point synths clashing chords that we’ve come to expect from Odd Future, yet even murkier and more blurred.

In the lead track, ‘Grief’, Earl doesn’t trust anybody, “All I see is snakes in the eyes of these niggas,” and you get the impression that in writing this album he was dragging himself out of a hole. It’s an album that might get over-looked with the release of To Pimp A Butterfly, but the emotional and artistic depth of I Don’t Like Shit, I Don’t Go Outside definitely make it worth a listen.

You will go to the ball

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And so Trinity begins. Our favourite term, exams aside, for its punting, croquet and balls. We may be ready for exams (well, kind of), but invariably we find ourselves two weeks away from a ball with absolutely nothing to wear. So in this editorial Cherwell Fashion acts as fairy godmother providing you with black tie solutions in classic black and gold, skirts, dress trousers and a lot of rummaging in Mum’s wardrobe #vintage

Model: Alice Correia Morton

Concept & Styling: Rosie Gaunt & Summer Taylor

Photographer: Alexander Hoare

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Interview: Twin Atlantic

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Sam McTrusty was a little distracted at the beginning of our call. His fellow bandmember, the Twin Atlantic guitar player Barry McKenna, had apparently parked up next to him, got out, opened his shirt and started dancing in front of the window in the realisation his mate was doing a phone interview. Thiswas yet another sign of a band still going strong after eight years together. Sam mentioned that he feels very lucky with how the dynamics of Twin Atlantic have evolved, and that theyare at their happiest and most comfortable position right now. It’s easy to see why; their latest album, Great Divide, has received a great deal of positive press. It reached number six in the album charts, and one of their singles was premiered by Zane Lowe on BBC Radio 1 as the “Hottest Record in the World”.

Twin Atlantic came about in 2007, when all four members abandoned their jobs and universities to form a band, transforming music from their part-time hobby to their livelihood. Sam himself gave up art school, which he sees as the driving force behind his introduction to music and song writing. “If it wasn’t for my drawing and painting, I wouldn’t be in a band.” The art world, and indeed his fellow art students, introduced him to bands and music in a way he’d never encountered before. He found that music motivated him far more than his studies. Since the band has grown in popularity and fame, Sam has had little time to keep up his drawing and painting, but seems very contented with his lot.

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As he should be. The self-described ‘rock band from Glasgow’ have been going from strength to strength, while never leaving their Glaswegian roots behind. If you’ve ever heard a Twin Atlantic song, you will know that one of the most distinctive elements of Sam’s voice is his enchanting Glaswegian accent. You’d be surprised to hear that he’d ever sung along to Blink-182 in a “fake American accent”. This Scottish touch has made the band stand out amongst a sea of rather generic voices, something that Sam finds rather strange, “It does surprise a lot of people, but the surprise should be that they’re surprised, because we are Scottish.”

The Glaswegian influence doesn’t just stop there. Sam’s pride for his hometown is apparent, although he is wary of the widespread reputation it has gained as a dangerous city. He explains that while this is true to some extent, Glaswegians are also the friendliest people you’ll ever meet, and you’d struggle to have a bad night out there. In Sam’s words, “People like to party here but we also like to fight.” These contradictions have led to the city feeling somewhat confused and conflicted, almost ideal conditions to allow creativity to thrive. Sam himself turns to the weather, rather poetically, to explain the large amount of creativity that Glasgow seems to foster. “The weather here is so fucking weird that in turn it makes all the children that grow up here a little bit weird, because you spend so much time indoors, you have to lean on your imagination.”

Sam’s imagination is clearly still thriving, wet weather or not. The band’s aim when they formed was to bring more honesty to rock music. They didn’t want to swing into either extreme of rock: on the one hand, it can be overly serious, while on the other, theatrical and over-dramatised. Instead, they prefer to draw upon raw human experience of love and loss, themes that underlie most of their songs.

 

This honesty can go some way to explain their popularity. Combined with the authentic accent, the music and the feeling behind it gains an unusual element of credibility. Their live performances burn with the energy and passion of earnest men. They have been privileged enough to play in some beautiful venues, such as Koko in London or Ontario Place in Toronto. They will embark shortly on yet another UK tour, which will culminate in a headline show in their hometown. If you’re looking for complexity, Twin Atlantic are not for you; Sam refuses to over-categorise the music, claiming that labels such as Scottish-angular-rest rock, “driven by pop with an underlying tone of appreciation of song writing from the past,” are far too pretentious for them.

However, if you’re looking for classic British rock music with an honest heart, there will be few better examples. As Sam says, “We’re just a rock band and I think that’s cool.” Me too.