Sundiver is the daylight chapter that follows Boston Manor’s 2022 introspective concept album Datura. The second half of the story continues with the same poetic, immersive style but offers a brighter and more substantial experience across the 11 tracks.
Marie Ulven had not even stepped onstage and her fans were in raptures. Such was the level of excitement for her second night in Glasgow that sing-a-longs to Chappel Roan and Sabrina Carpenter were ringing out almost as soon as support act Nieve Ella had departed.
I’ve been a regular attender of the Supersonic Festival for about 15 years and much has changed in that time. When I first rocked up to see Swans, Stinky Wizzleteat, PCM and other sonic treats, the event was a bit of a white boys’ club, both in terms of the artists and the audience, despite being put together and curated by a couple of women.
Laurie Anderson is what Leonardo da Vinci would have hailed as una donna universale: inspired by science and technology, she's wide-ranging artist, a writer, film-maker, and explorer. She has a remarkable gift for story-telling, and her latest offering, an imaginative account of the woman aviator Amelia Earhart’s last voyage, taps into many of the creative currents that distinguish her.
When the first solo album by Tangerines Dream’s Peter Baumann was released in the US in 1977, its promotion was striking. Press advertising (pictured below left) said “he possesses the infinite vision that has made his group one of the most important contributors to mystagogic lore.”
Lee “Scratch” Perry, Reggae’s dub emperor and all-round sound magician died in 2021, after a 60-odd year career that is rumoured to have produced something in the realm of 2,000 albums and numerous additional tracks. So, perhaps it isn’t such a surprise that there have been a rash of releases in the last couple of years claiming to be Scratch’s last recordings.
After the client has settled on the analyst’s couch, the lights are dimmed. Music sets the mood. A wordless vocal is accompanied by chimes. Cool saxophone breezes in. Sparse piano lines ripple like heat haze. Drums are understated, yet oddly insistent. The atmosphere is mysterious. Increasingly enflamed.
Some performers are born to perform. It seems obvious, but it’s not a given in the music world. Some just want to make sound, some want to compose, not all are in it to connect directly to an audience. Rob Gallagher, however, is all about that connection, and he’s never stopped doing it. It was there in his band Galliano’s genial funk from 1988 through 1997: his London beat poetry always felt like it was addressing you direct, and the band came to live above all on the live stage where he could speak to the crowd.
There’s a specific vocabulary that attends the arrival of a new Nick Cave album in the 21st century. Words like redemptive, cathartic, stark, unsparing are a crucial part of his music’s terroir. They’re as inescapable as the figure of death, and that’s something that looms large too, in the art and in the life.
The sun coming out for our festival-organised boat shuttle down the Thames was relief indeed, as we ditched the wellies and reached for the Crocs on our way into the arena.
Saturday afternoon was a melee of young folk, festering in the mire of their GCSE exam results – something the organisers are obviously battling with, given the amount of drug searches, water hand outs and well-oiled system of pulling kids out of the mosh pit.