Fingers and toes all but entirely gelid, the Balearic component of Oxford's Blessing Force Scene
Chad Valley is aurally idyllic tonight, his tropiphoric wistfulness alleviating minor frostbite and enlivening flaccid limbs, if only vaguely. Portuguese Solid Summer drops around six months prematurely, although when its chillwave leitmotif keys chisel their way into the inner recesses, scouring the dankest corners of your cerebral matter, there they'll reside in all probability until Primavera Sound at least... Anything recalls Friendly Fires' Ed MacFarlane swirling about to Wham in an ecstasy-induced frenzy in Ibiza, whilst Up and Down is James Yuill injected until bloated with emotive vocoder. Highlight Ensoniq Funk sounds akin to the
saccharine synth charm of Bergen's Lanzarote, drizzled in scolding Barratt's Fruit Salad and despite being a more apt accompaniment to scummy fruit punch than oesophagus-melting ginger wine, sounds fairly exuberant come Hell or high water.
The retrospection-stained scuffle of
The Concretes' eponymous LP of 2003 set the Stockholm troupe apart as nymph-like sirens of distant, almost ecclesiastical snow-splattered remoteness. Today, bathing in the relative grandiosity of latest record WYWH, they look a little more like an ATP audience, as bearded skulls gaze downwards, fixated, upon lavish pedalboards; Oh My Love ebbs over the front few rows, lapping apathetically up around the poles propping up The Fleece like glacial water splashing about off Scandinavian coastline, whilst Crack In The Paint is lethargically heartbreaking, swirling Hammond organs bounding off of bottomed-out Fender stabs and Precision Bass prods like bowling balls reverberating around Butlins' Space Bowl. I Wish We'd Never Met is the greatest slab of despondence never to have graced Richard Curtis soundtrack, before Say Something New evokes gleefully melancholic moments passed. Pulsating bass lines and searing guitars then shift to the fore, as the slo-mo disco stomp of Good Evening splinters atriums and venticles all around. Were a disco ball hung, drawn and quartered, its dismembering set to the chord of Am, it may sound a little along these lines. What We've Become is disconcertingly risque, lyrics of necking Whisky and listening to Paul Simon sounding ultimately alluring, as alluring as inebriated never-have-I-ever with Boy George, Patrick Wolf, and Cheryl Cole, whilst the cryptic WYWH is beautifully bereft of requited fondness. Tonight's highlight however is provided by the gloriously effete All Day, an unassuming waltz through everything naff of 1980, decked in dirt-cheap jingle harmonies, Jazzmaster treble shimmy, and perhaps the most innately essential chorus of this annum. Amidst the current chillwave climate, The Concretes remain as heart-warmingly effective as ever...
