Isn't it great when faith gets restored? Whether through born-again religion or Björn Again, following the latest swathing plethora of gender-blurring hairdos over superfluous feminine electro, the stalwarts of my monotonous adolescent Windows Media (before Braeburn, my MacBook was born over in California somewhere and my iTunes conversion was effectuated) are set to return to reclaim that side of my brain supposedly reserved for that little ole' reaction called emotion. Ever since my dear old mother spun slightly dare I say it MOR Manic Street Preachers records to death like ancient knitting wheels ('This Is My Truth, Tell Me Yours', 'Everything Must Go'), their brutally honest, brutally brutal works have inspired nigh on every "song" I've ever written. And, wait for it, actually caressed internal pain and torment. Cliché: tick. Billed as The Holy Bible Mk.II revolving exclusively around lyrics draped over shards of lined paper left by the ever-mysterious, supposed resident of everywhere from India to Lanzarote Richie Edwards, it's nowhere near the confrontational cacophony that ruptured spleens back in '93. Electric drums, frenetically slick guitars and even a guest vocal appearance from the snarling Wire, the Godfather of gender insignificance. It's an inspiring listen and the vocal ambiguity of the best Bible this side of Christianity is truly present and accounted for. Visceral, sneering and reveling in its own stench, the Red Dragon can fly proudly out of those M4 car windows once more. If it makes its way into supermarkets this side of the Severn Bridge, that is...
Into later adolescence, around the era of Stereodistas, snotty teenage angst-punk sat up front with many a sweaty night passed in gritty pits and dingy dives perspiring more calories than Frank Black can chosh his way through in 24 hours to the likes of Billy Talent and Blood Brothers, Portland trio The Thermals were the epitome of youthful disregard and utter teenage content. Their seminal ode to the inherent flaws of religion, 'The Body, The Blood, The Machine', truly was our musical biblical point of contact. Their camp-punk has returned this year with 'Now We Can See', a record which sees Weezer's Rivers Cuomo's enviable knack for a lo-fi guitar hook smeared all over 'The Blue Album', that punches above the weight of Pitchfork combined with witticisms rarely witnessed committed to plastic t'other side of the pond. Lead single 'Now We Can See' is as infectious as swine flu and can be found below.
Then, two years ago in a mosquito-infested field somewhere over in Suffolk, having wasted every last meal token on extortionate warm Fosters whilst the dulcet strummings of Damien Rice somehow wafted over a thirteen-mile radius, a beautiful storm was brewing inside. A storm of glitter, euphoria, promiscuity and hair extensions. It was of course Patrick Wolf in support of then soon-to-be-unleashed previous outing, The Magic Position. Before my bleary-eyed awakening at Latitude '07, contact with the Wolf had only been established through the medium of a 7" of The Libertine due to the irony of a certain Mr. Doherty Esq. winding up constantly in the clink. I never liked The Likely Lads. And I didn't really like Patrick either. But then, like a butterfly emerging from a moldy cocoon emerged the most enigmatic individual Britain has churned out since Bowie. Toting ukuleles and fiddles it was perfection. And overshadowed the grandiose of the perpetually overrated Arcade Fire who drew out the final string strokes of the weekend. Whether or not his Bandstocks venture will pay off (with 8 days left he's a fair way off his target... yet the album's already done so fingers off buzzers) is yet to be seen. However what he has produced is genre-bending in the true sense of the word, blissfully reclaiming Irish jigs contemporarily shunned by The Corrs and combining it with electro shocks Little Boots would sell her Tenori-on for. It's a superlative effort and if Dizzee's 'Bonkers' lands him a second consecutive Number One, if there's any justice in amongst the tatters of the music industry, Wolf ought be howling from the chart summit when he lets 'Hard Times' loose in the coming weeks.
Stereodistas-Rebirth
