Bleachers ‘Take the Sadness Out of Saturday Night’ – Review

Jack Antinoff has gone about his work remarkably quietly for somebody who has contributed to the biggest and best pop albums of the past decade. Could you spot him in a police lineup? In the past his solo releases, where he goes by the name Bleachers, have seemed equally low profile if not positively innocuous. But on his third album, ‘Take the Sadness Out of Saturday Night’ Antinoff has made something that can sit more comfortably alongside the classics he’s worked on.

Through collaborating with so many successful artists, Antinoff has demonstrated the ability to understand and play to others strengths as much as his own. His trick as a producer is not in making artists sound like products of Jack Antinoff but in making them sound like truer versions of themselves. On ‘Folklore’, for example, he stripped away layers of gloss and excess, honing in on the fundamental vulnerability at the heart of Taylor Swift’s best writing. He now applies that same process to ‘Take the Sadness Out of Saturday Night’, a record that tones down and refines what a solo Jack Antinoff album can be. It builds on the sonic strides made by his other recent productions: ‘Folklore’, ‘Chemtrails Over the Country Club’, Daddy’s Home’, ‘Sling’ and ‘Solar Power’. While he was previously known for exaggerating the blocky, primary colours of pop and indulging artists most anthemic impulses, over the past eighteen months he’s started to mix those same colours together into increasingly subtle shades, which really pays off on ‘Take the Sadness Out of Saturday Night’. It’s simultaneously his most personal and generous work to date.

Late highlight, the acoustic, shuffling ‘45’, is a warm tribute to the vinyl experience, and in a more holistic way the album as a whole can be heard as a homage to the format. It’s a detail rich record that rewards close attention and repeated listens. Lyrical motifs thread songs together, vocals get drenched in slap-back echo, bass lines pan hard left in a way that mimics early stereo releases. The dynamic range is noticeably fuller than the vast majority of modern releases; on a technical level it’s one of the most sophisticated recordings I’ve heard in a long, long time. Here is a man who clearly adores music and who has done everything in his power to translate that passion carefully.  

Jack Antinoff believes in the transcendent power of a sax solo. He knows when to introduce the DX7 synth line and when to pull out. He understands that sometimes less is more and sometimes MORE is more. He’s an aficionado – which doesn’t always translate into artistic greatness – but more than that, he proves himself to be a sensitive songwriter. He tackles heady themes of nostalgia, faith, family and lost love, finding ways to ground big ideas in power chords and frisky guitar licks. Ok, he loves a cliche, but he packs his lyrics with such fire and conviction that it becomes hard to doubt his sincerity. He mixes it up as well. The quieter numbers feel fragile enough to crack on touch. The whispery melodies of ‘Strange Behaviour’ and ‘What Do I Do With All This Faith’ are barely audible; a little guitar and some subtle strings are the only binding agents. 

‘How Dare You Want More’ and ‘Stop Making this Hurt’ are two singles that scrape the sky reserved for only the most daring pop songs. The choruses are straightforward and sentimental but when it comes to Jack Antinoff, his catchiest songs are usually the smartest as well. It’s a correlation that is borne out here. They deftly walk the line between throwback 80s kitsch and contemporary cool. They end up sounding like gigantic hits from an alternative reality.The third big single, ‘Chinatown’, feels less successful. Perhaps it’s the stodgier tempo or the self-aware sense of import. Or maybe hearing Bruce Springsteen appear on a song about wanting to run away feels a little too meta for its own good. But then again it makes perfect sense that Springsteen should show up on an album this besotted with the idea of music as an inspirational force. You sense it’s not enough that Bleachers want to sit alongside Springsteen on a shelf, they want to inherit the throne itself.

It’s understandable that this won’t be to everyone’s taste; Antinoff is a precocious personality who takes himself a touch too seriously for someone with this many cheesy impulses. He favours tradition over innovation and can occasionally be seen trying too hard to impress (opener ‘91’ is weighed down by a portentous string arrangement and lyrics by writer Zadie Smith). That combination can make ‘Take the Sadness Out of Saturday Night’ feel a little pretentious. But some of the criticisms levelled at him, and this album in particular, have been wildly unfair. He can’t help being amiable, male, talented, popular or well educated. We should be thankful that he’s used those privileges and talents to create a record as thoughtful and uplifting as this one. ‘Take the Sadness Out of Saturday Night’ deserves respect; not for Jack Antinoff, producer, or Jack Antinoff, Taylor Swift’s BFF, but Jack Antinoff, artist in his own right.

8/10

Lorde ‘Solar Power’ – Review

Instead of releasing her third album, ‘Solar Power’, as a CD, Lorde took the unusual step of creating a ‘music box’ – essentially a biodegradable cardboard box, lyric booklet, poster and a download code. The ‘music box’ is twice the price of a regular CD and although the product is designed to be environmentally friendly, it still has to be manufactured and delivered around the world, which seems counter intuitive to her aims. If this seems like a well intentioned but poorly executed product then it’s the perfect delivery method for the album itself. ‘Solar Power’ has a lot going for it and yet still feels like a missed opportunity.

The album is being billed as Lorde’s low key, low stakes comeback. ‘Now if you’re looking for a saviour, that’s not me,’ she tells us on the opening track. It wrestles with fame, well-being and happiness through a supposedly satirical lens. ‘Melodrama’ and ‘Pure Heroine’ are two of the finest albums of the past decade; both perfected such a dazzlingly inventive sound that even now the reverberations are still being felt through our biggest pop stars (Olivia Rodrigo and Billie Eilish). ‘Solar Power’ could not be considered a modernist masterpiece in that vein. It isn’t designed to be. This is a breezy, slinky, eminently listenable record that asks you to leave any baggage at the door. My first thought upon hearing it was ‘I wish it was sunny outside. I bet this sounds great on the beach.’ It’s soft air cooling your skin rather than a storm shaking your bones. Passion, in any flavour, is tempered. This is a chilled, muted, vibey thing.

It’s a mixed blessing. Antinoff has carefully replicated the slick production style of Y2K pop but Lorde’s performances are too understated and dreamy to provide the necessary counterpoint. If only she’d get angry or sad or ecstatic or something! On ‘Mood Ring’, the strongest approximation of the 00s style, Lorde floats through the melody at precisely the moments where she needs to explode and so the chorus hits no differently to the verse. It’s a perfectly pleasant song but without bite it simply fades into the background. Texturally, on the whole, the album feels too smooth and non-confrontational. The danger is that it begins to feel anonymous. 

The bigger problem is that ‘Solar Power’ is  missing the wow factor we would expect from an artist on Lorde’s level. She has cited S Club 7, Natalie Imbruliga and Natasha Beddingfield as inspirations for the album and its definitely possible to hear the influence of the latter, if not the former. But that does beg the question: where is Lorde’s ‘Unwritten?’ Where is her ‘Torn’? Where is her ‘Reach?’ The lack of discernible hits is disappointing. The title track is most memorable but its overbearing similarity to Primal Scream’s ‘Loaded’ and George Michael’s ‘Freedom’ is difficult to get beyond. And there are definitely ‘Man of the Wood’ or ‘Joanne’ vibes to other nearly but not quite tunes like ‘California’  ‘Mood Ring’ and ‘Secrets from a Girl’; songs with hooks that just don’t feel sharp enough, choruses that don’t feel big enough, and performances that don’t feel passionate enough. Undercooked pop songs trigger an uncanny, unsettling feeling – ‘Solar Power’ is soaked in it.

But there is a sense, particularly on side B, that Lorde isn’t interested in fulfilling the criteria of the billboard chart, top 40 radio or ‘today’s hits’ playlists. As it warms up, the album settles into a groovy, confident flow where Lorde sounds like she’s singing for nobody but herself. ‘The Man with an Ace,’ Dominos’, ‘Big Star’ and ‘Leader of a New Regime’ are short, tuneful ditties that emphasise a honeyed guitar tone, pretty harmonies and her sense of self discovery. Lorde is a careful and sensitive writer, even if she misses the mark too often here (if you have to explain that it’s satire then it’s really not very good satire) and on these songs she reminds us of this.

‘Solar Power’ is not ‘Melodrama’ – that’s not the problem. Its just that it doesn’t really convince as the kind of album it wants to be either. It feels a little smudged and unfocused. Too clever for its own good, a little smug and out of touch with the wider world. I had no expectation that Lorde would, should or could make a ‘lockdown’ or covid album but, equally, August ‘21 doesn’t feel like the most fitting time to put out a record that luxuriates in a kind of detached bliss (as much as it ostensibly attempts to send it up). Lorde has framed ‘Solar Power’ as satire, irony, but honestly she sounds like she’s having too good a time in her role for that to truly convince. Of course It’s easy to get caught up in what this album is not, rather than what it is. Lorde has delivered so much in the past that our expectations have perhaps been heightened to unrealistic levels. ‘Solar Power’ is flawed and misjudged but in the right light it looks like a well earned, rejuvenating sojourn somewhere breezy and warm. Batteries will be recharged. Lorde will be back.

6.5/10

Dave ‘We’re All Alone in this Together’ – Review

Dave has always had a cinematic vision. Anyone who watched his Brits performance, or saw him act In Top Boy, or heard his contributions to the Planet Earth soundtrack, will know that to be true. So it makes sense that his new album, ‘We’re All Alone in this Together’, is framed as a kind of movie. It begins with countdown pips and the crackle of an old film projector warming up. The title track that follows sets the mood with silky strings, choir and marching drums; it has the broad sweep of an epic. Here Dave establishes the album’s innocence to experience narrative, encompassing the superficiality of fame, the limitations of individual success and the corruption of institutions meant to protect the poorest in society. Dave, betrayed by an ascending row of authority figures – and saved by the love of his family and friends – both depicts, and is complicit in, the moral collapse of the society around him. ‘Imagine a world that’s flawed and full of evil, where dictators and leaders are persecuting your people, the bodies of the innocent are piling to the steeples…’ 

The album functions as an expose of modern life in the city; it feels almost Blakean in its portrayal of London and the imbalance of power.  However, unlike Blake, Dave doesn’t imagine a better alternative – an Arcadian dream or beatific vision. His reality is just despairing. He is wrapped in misery and predisposed to harden towards the people he loves. ‘Clash’ may brag about the extravagant rewards that success brings – Rolexes, rare Jordans, crocodile bags, Aston Martins – but Dave undercuts his own bravado with a merciless eye, digging below the shallowness of celebrity to excavate the hidden costs of success. ‘What’s the point of being rich when your family ain’t?’ He asks right at the start of the album. The final track is called, somewhat dramatically, ‘Surviver’s Guilt.’

The world that Dave describes is short of heroes or villains but rather oppressors and victims, both driven by the crunching machinery of the modern world, which flattens the very people it should be nourishing. He’s become adept at tracing cause and effect. On the heartfelt centrepiece ‘Three Rivers’, he weaves together stories of persecution, both historical and contemporaneous. He starts by painting in broad strokes – the journeys of the Windrush generation, unjustified deportation, divided families, the Yugoslav wars – before zooming in on the subsequent consequences: gambling, domestic abuse, drink, bunking school. ‘When you’re at Heaven’s gates, what you telling the Lord?’ He asks pointedly. 

At times ‘We’re All in this Alone, Together’ can feel overwhelmingly bleak. The sparse production – frequently little more than a beat and melancholic piano phrase – gives the album a claustrophobic atmosphere, particularly on the longer tracks where the walls increasingly feel like they’re closing in on you. There is a sense of paranoia; the impression that we are all in thrall to unmoving forces beyond our control. A darkness has set over London. Relationships are doomed, sacrifices are overlooked, people are neglected, exhausted and anxious. The music mirrors all that.

If the mood can sometimes feel heavy, then Dave’s lightness of touch as a writer is what gives his songs air. The wordplay throughout is dazzling. ‘Law of Attractions’, the album’s convincing pivot towards moonlit r&b, finds him contemplating commitment. ‘I put your name on a necklace, that’s a chain reaction… you’re gonna break a bone if you fall out of love with me, I need a bullet proof vest for all of the shots that you’re drinking for me.’ Almost every line contains a pun, metaphor or intertextual reference. On an album with a compelling but somber message, these moments of wit feel like necessary respite. It’s the little things that seamlessly click, like rhyming ‘Lamborghini’ with ‘fettuccini’ or the amusing references to his favourite Man U players. When Dave’s contemporaries appear on the seven minute ‘In the Fire’ – Fredo, Meekz, Ghetts and Giggs – he makes them look both more flippant AND less entertaining. Dave isn’t the fiercest or fastest rapper, his voice isn’t the most distinctive, his flow can be steady to a fault, but his control of words, and the ways in which he’s able to convey complex ideas in engaging ways through them, is bettered by none.

There are some welcome moments of musical levity. ‘System’ and ‘Lazzurus’ betray an Afro-beat influence and convey Dave’s ear for a hook. And even here, where he’s enjoying his extravagant lifestyle and the girls it attracts, he’s got one eye on ‘political corruption’ and social rejection. Only the inescapable rhythm rescues him, temporarily, from heartache. These poppier moments, along with the equally light-footed ‘Law of attractions’, are placed together during the album’s middle stretch, a sequencing decision that leaves the album’s final third feeling relentlessly wordy and musically sparse in comparison. ‘Heart Attack’ is nearly ten minutes in length and a lot of that is Dave freestyling acapella. ‘Both Sides of a Smile’ is nearly as long, and just as melancholic. The aforementioned ‘Surviver’s Guilt’ ends the album on an understated note – tentatively hopeful in comparison to what proceeds it, but still pessimistic about the possibility of progress.

Voicemails have been used as a framing device on rap albums for years, most successfully on Kendrick Lamar’s ‘Good Kid, Maad City’. Here they are used throughout and serve to remind us that Dave, like many of us, is grounded by the love and advice offered by family and friends. The album ends with one such nugget of wisdom from actor and close friend Daniel Kaluuya. ‘You’re taught to die for what you stand for, you feel me? But I realise I’m here to live for what I stand for ‘cos I wanna see it, bro, I wanna enjoy it. Hustle o’clock Bruv, shine on em.’ On an album that occasionally makes you feel drenched by tides of power beyond your individual control, it’s a small reminder of the need to poke your head above the waves and enjoy the air once in a while. For all the despair and darkness here, Dave is reminded to live and to shine. And he does.

9/10

Review Roundup

Clairo ‘Sling’

Clairo’s debut, ‘Immunity’, exemplified a style of airy bedroom pop so wonderfully that she may have exhausted the style by perfecting it. ‘Sling’ presents a surprising, and not at all tentative, pivot away from that sound towards something even more intimate and gentle. Here Clairo embraces a 1970s Singer-songwriter aesthetic that mostly compliments her breathy vocals and understated songwriting. The chamber pop arrangements are sumptuous; Jack Antinoff, more known for brash pop maximalism, has produced an immaculate sounding tribute to the great albums by Joni Mitchell, Carole King and James Taylor. As of yet, Clairo’s writing can’t quite keep pace. Her lyrics are wide eyed and disarming but twist and turn too often to cement any firm perspective. Lead single ‘Blouse’ is one of the few songs that conveys a clear and incisive point of view. But ‘Sling’ really becomes wallpaper in the delivery. Clairo’s performances are too studied and distant; it makes it difficult to emotionally latch on to these cryptic songs. Ultimately the album blends into the background. The exception is ‘Harbour’ where a piercing recollection of rejection conveys felt devastation – ‘keeping me close while you hold me out and say “I don’t love you that way.”’

6/10

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Pom Pom Squad ‘Death of a Cheerleader’

‘Death of a Cheerleader’ is the debut album by Mia Berrin’s Brooklyn based project Pom Pom Squad. Produced by Illuminati Hotties Sarah Tudzin (who knows her way around an ear worm if anyone does), the album has its fair share of sugary, Pop-Punk nuggets. ‘Head Cheerleader’ and ‘Crying’ are not the first songs to find common ground between The Shangri-Las and The Ramones but they make the formula feel fresh. But ‘Death of a Cheerleader’ as a whole changes gears so quickly and so frequently that it ultimately feels a bit of a mess. It begins and ends with a minute of ambient feedback, and I’m not convinced that the album benefits from the brief blasts of noise rock or the gooey cover of ‘Crimaon and Clover’. But at their best, Pom Pom Squad have a lot to offer.

6.5/10

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Jungle ‘Loving in Stereo’

London duo Jungle, made up of Josh Lloyd-Watson and Tom McFarland, have been rolling out third album ‘Loving in Stereo’ for what feels like forever. Five singles have proceeded the album’s release which makes the final product inevitably feel underwhelming. Nonetheless, hearing it in full somewhat makes sense of things. Jungle have always flirted at the edges of Disco but ‘Loving in Stereo’ feels like the first time they’ve gone all in. It has a conviction that their other albums lacked. But conviction alone is not enough to carry an audience to the dancefloor, and ‘Loving in Stereo’ still feels too tepid and tasteful to truly convince as a fully fledged floor filler. Where is the carefree abandon that comes with the best dance music? Jungle never totally cut loose. ‘Bonnie Bill’ and ‘Lifting You’ have the air of music that’s meticulously studied without being lived in. The appropriately titled ‘Fire’ is the only track that feels like it might catch a light but in the context of the album this short snippet of meaningful groove feels like an outlier. 

5.5/10

Joy Orbison ‘Still Slipping Vol 1’ – Review

Somehow, Joy Orbison’s early run of innovative singles, ‘Hymph Mango’, ‘The Shrew Cushioned the Blow’ and ‘Ellipsis’ began eleven years ago. Those tracks sounded so futuristic to me then that it’s now hard to think of them in the past tense. It’s also hard to think of another producer whose reputation rests on so little. In the years since that extraordinary breakthrough, Joy Orbison has only sporadically released new material; it was fair to give up hope that we would ever get an album. But here it is. Not that ‘Still Slipping Vol 1’ is being called an album, rather its a “mixtape”, a distinction that allows for playful exploration and lowered expectations. But this collection of diverse dance tracks has a coherence that belies the tag. Voice notes from the producer’s family members appear throughout, giving structure to what can be a stylistically unpredictable record. 

Orbison juxtaposes his familiar blend of dub-step and deep house with forays into Garage, Electronica and Grime. He pulls it off sublimely. The album is made for the nighttime; there is a darkness throughout but songs like ‘Better’ and ‘Swag’ pierce through like headlights on the M6. Orbison’s skill is in splitting the difference between the dancefloor and the solitary journey home. This music doesn’t wallow – it abstractedly absorbs and reflects your sadness. The beats are deep and crisp but slightly off, like split ends pouring down a neck. They crackle against the almost ambient synths. Towards the end things get even more fractured; ‘S Gets Jaded’ is a disquieting corrosion of assembled sounds. The beat splutters out altogether on the stunning closer ‘Born Slipping.’

At the end of ‘Sparko’ we hear a recording of someone saying “the second you just change the language to ‘mixtape,’ nobody cares.” It’s fair to say that people are going to care about this one. It’s hard to imagine the likes of James Blake and Jamie XX ascending to mainstream success without someone like Joy Orbison laying the groundwork. All things being equal, ‘Born Slipping Vol 1’ will allow the spotlight to fall back on the master.

8/10