Drugs, dodgy lobotomies and a wayward ‘sister’ more concerned by the fact blood will ‘stain the carpet’ than a murder. Velvet Underground’s White Light/White Heat seemed somewhat out of place in the midst of the pop records of a second-hand vinyl store in Dublin where I found it.

The album’s black cover is deceptively demure, giving no hint of the sounds within that jut out like a broken thumb of most genres. It’s a mongrel of composition, yet it all strangely fits together. A catchy chorus fuses with the aural replication of the effects of amphetamine usage in the bass of the title track. A flip of the record and the beautifully calm tones of ‘Here She Comes Now’ slams into the assaulting feedback of ‘I Heard Her Call My Name’. But the record’s masterpiece comes in the final furious seventeen minutes. ‘Sister Ray’ has garnered a legendary status as a bizarre mutated jam – many have heard of it, yet few have man- aged to sit through its’ entirety. The three chord jam creates genius out of simplicity, a cacophony that is held together by Lou Reed’s drawling narrative. Instead of shunning this lengthy track, I want to move the needle back and start again. If my speakers can handle it, that is.

When electronic music first appeared about 35 years ago, sceptics predicted that its inherently artificial nature would stop it from ever being sincere or soulful. I think it’s fair to say they’ve been proved resoundingly wrong, but you can understand where they were coming from when you listen to Close to Glass.

The title is more than just a title here – it’s a pretty good description of what it actually sounds like. The electronic elements on the songs are almost always cold, clean and mechanical. The laissez-faire vocals on many of the tracks only increase this lack of sentiment, and it’s hard to really connect with anything here.

A lot of the songs aren’t particularly catchy either, with some very unremarkable synth work to be found. Having said that, there are some notable ex- ceptions on the album, which call into question whether The Notwist’s foray into electronica was a good idea. On the most straightforward indie rock track ‘Kong’ they excel, giving us a brilliant example of warm, sunny and sophisticated songwriting, even giving a subtle nod to The Beta Band’s track ‘Dry the Rain’.

The other few rock pieces, ‘7 Hour Drive’ and ‘Steppin’ In’, are again pretty strong, one noisy and one acoustic, and I can’t help thinking that if they’d have stayed more conventional the band would’ve been putting out a better album. 

Experimenting is fine, and the easiest way for a rock band to do that is to start adding more electronic into the mix. But it’s by no means a guarantee that your music will get better, and on Close to Glass it feels too forced to be listenable. It’s no coincidence that on the best tracks the album has everyone sounding more relaxed, as if playing more conventional music is what comes naturally to them. They’re good songwriters, with a good ear for a hook, and I’d love to see them stick to that more.

I really think The Notwist haven’t done themselves justice with Close to Glass, which is a real shame. I will however be continuing to play ‘Kong’ on repeat for a while longer, so it’s not all bad I suppose.

Rating: 2/5

When I first saw the title of this album, together with the band’s name, I was certain I was about to hear a barrage of hardcore; it screamed of the angry, disaffected aesthetic of bands like Crass and Minor Threat. I was to be proven wrong.

What you get here is certainly disaffection, but in a more defeated way. Singer Domenic Palermo has done jail time, where he “got into metaphysics”, and started playing music as a form of escapism from the despair he felt in his life.You probably won’t be able to directly empathise with Palermo’s situation, but Nothing can offer you some of the same escapism. A blanket of fuzz engulfs the guitar and the drummer is liberal with the crash, creating a wall of noise over which soar the ethereal vocals. Though the singing steals the spotlight somewhat, the rest of the group should be applauded on expertly creating the mesmerising backdrop to it.

They grew up listening to My Bloody Valentine, and you feel like this record is nothing more than an attempt to recreate the sound of their heroes. Which is fine by me – the songs are well written and bizarrely catchy, and there’s a real sense of emotion throughout the album; the band really cares about these songs, and after a few listens so will you.

Rating: 4/5

Electric Balloon is the second major release from the Brooklyn-based quintet Ava Luna, following their 2012 EP Ice Level. In the seven years since their inception, the band has assumed various guises, and sounds, and even different members, but now they finally seem to have settled into an individual and recognisable sound. While they retain the under-produced harmonically challenging vocal melodies and low-fi, minimalist guitar riffs, the album is a more coherent and mature work than their previous efforts. Lead singer Carlos Hernandez’s sensitive and intelligent writing shows through in the restrained instrumentation, rich, defiant harmonies, and stark changes in tempo.

Opening track ‘Daydream’ is a frantic rush of sharp and caustic tones; the combination of snappy, syncopated drums, Hernandez’s falsetto and the stripped down distorted guitar is reminiscent of Lonelady’s album Nerve up. The title track features a repeating synthesiser bass line with CDOASS-style vocals and clipped drums. ‘Aquarium’, revolves around a mesmerising, galloping drum track, paired to Hernandez’s discordant acoustic guitar and vocal musings. Electric Balloon is not a relaxing album, but it is rich, interesting, challenging and ultimately a rewarding listen.

Rating: 4/5

In their latest attempt to demonstrate their Neanderthal moral values, Wahoo recently presented us with the opportunity to enjoy a ‘Country Estates and Council Estates’ fancy dress night. Next week, the esteemed discothèque will hopefully give up the pretence altogether and throw a jamboree with a ‘Golliwogs and Golly Gosh, Aren’t We Privileged’ theme.

We all know that Wahoo are morons and put on terrible club nights. But in more general terms, the visualisation of the council estate by the British media often follows a depressingly familiar trajectory.UK hip-hop legend Skinnyman’s track ‘Council Estate of Mind’ speaks to this sense of anger and alienation with its depiction of an urbanised and utterly isolated mindset.

His illustration of poverty on the estate is grimly compelling: “I live amongst smashed syringes/squatters’ doors hanging off they hinges/hookers looking for Bobby/shotting in they minges”. Even the phrase ‘sink estate’ is derived from the biological notion of ‘behavioural sink’, a collapse in animal behaviour when population density passes a critical tipping point. Originally modelled on rats, it has subsequently been mapped onto the poor of Britain.

The original biological report speaks of “a pathological withdrawal from which individuals would emerge to eat, drink and move about only when other members of the community were asleep”. It is difficult not to be reminded of ASBOs forbidding people to leave the house after daylight hours, and histrionic calls for blanket curfews from the right-wing media.

Skinnyman also acknowledges this fear when he raps: “Blud, you go to sleep round here and have nightmares/wake up and find the worst reality is right there”. The dehumanising implication is clear. Crowd the rats together and they will start to eat each other: crowd the poor together and they will rob and kill each other.

Of course, there is a distinction to be drawn between Skinnyman’s legitimate depiction of the urban decay of Britain and the lazy stereotyping of Matt Lucas’ shellsuit-clad abomination Vicky Pollard. It would be irresponsible to submerge the hardships of life in many of our council estates under a deluge of cheery community spirit.

Admittedly, TV shows like Misfits and Shameless might attempt to map warmth and humanity onto the streets of London and Manchester, but there is a fine line between well-meaning and affectionate caricature and cruel stereotype. In 2012, Southwark council banned film crews from two of its estates, sick of being depicted as the worst of our society condensed into a handful of towerblocks. For the people of Southwark, the line was overstepped once too often.

“What I don’t expect you to ever comprehend is/why I got all actin’ so self-defensive”, Skinnyman raps. In the sneering distinction Wahoo are drawing between country estates and council estates, one is implicitly worse. 

Council estate dwellers are depicted as nothing but animals, the same vermin the rich hunt on their country estates. If you wouldn’t go to Wahoo in blackface, you shouldn’t be going to Wahoo in Burberry and fake gold chains. As long as they keep perpetuating this poisonous mockery of the working class, perhaps we shouldn’t be going to Wahoo at all.

I am art. I am creator. I have ‘originality’ written through me like a stick of Brighton rock. Day to day, I create. Afterwards, I comment on others’ creations, and try to trick people into thinking I am an intellectual.

Sadly, my barbed comments about others’ art are not always heard, however loudly I spit them out in the echoing recesses of the Tate. My diet of crumpets and gin, though charmingly eccentric, has left me malnourished and emaciated. I can’t wait to get back to Oxford for a hearty brunch and a glass of port. For the past weekend, I have been living with a group of art students living in a filthy flat in Finsbury Park. Alliteration aside, mine is a dismal state of affairs.

The flat is paid for by a combination of parental handouts, student loans and sheer luck. Bills are not included in the scandalously low rent, but no one knows who pays for the gas or electric. The tenants don’t ask and the landlord doesn’t tell. They think he keeps bodies in the boiler room but no one pushes it: it adds, they think, to the flat’s mystique.

The floor is littered with paint palettes and fag ends. Days are spent in artistic frenzies and everyone has a drinking problem. It quickly becomes clear to me that each artist is treading the thin line between art and masturbation, but only one flatmate has addressed this explicitly in his work: he recently filmed himself wanking delicately into a human skull. The footage received a wink and a thumbs up from his tutor. No one knows why.

The artist I am shadowing is named Marcus, a friend of a friend who returns to his pleasant house in Surrey on the weekends when he needs his washing done. His art school friends are intolerably hip and relentlessly opinionated. Pre-drinks end with definitive proclamations about the role of the artist, and people have been known to leave when Marcus misdefines colour theory. The paintings that germinate in their dust-lined living room do not necessarily retain value outside of it, although Marcus’s grandmother buys an abstract imagining of a penis every Christmas.

My companion tires of me rapidly. I am neither attractive enough nor weird enough to be his muse. I am also in the way: when trying to create my own masterpiece, I get oils on the inside of Marcus’ flatmate Cosmo’s overalls. Oils on the inside of overalls defeats the purpose of overalls, he snarls, and I am consigned to the kitchen like a mucky dog.

Between 4 and 11am, Cosmo paints, overalls askew. The look in his eyes is that of a wolf eying alamb at 50 paces. He has one goal, and that is to create what he is currently imagining. He looks ridiculous as he scrutinises his work at dawn through turpentine-stained fingers, but he is entirely independent. The first and only person he wants to impress is himself.

It is this thought that prevents me from boarding the Oxford Tube with an entitled  spring in my step. This term’s hard-won tally of good essays is anathema to Cosmo. My tutor’s lazy ticks and reluctant praise seemed pivotal in Oxford, but now they leave me cold.

 I become aware that my course is based on replication and analysis, while Cosmo creates. The 2500 recycled words a student churns out each week on Chaucer or Sartre or Locke are fine, but no undergrad will ever consecrate a week of his or her life to my work unless, like Cosmo, I actually create something.