Fuck Brexit. We have a new pop star to fall in love with.
The stakes feel higher now. Society is collapsing around us. I hope to never live to see the results but I have a nasty feeling I will. And soon. It’s all noise, all hubbub, all screaming, all detritus. Yanya sings like she’s stuck inside an end-loop of Black Mirror. Everything is closed, circular yet unpredictable. Guitars chip away at the edges of your consciousness. paranoia seeps through.
I watched three episodes of Black Mirror recently, and thought, “Wow. Charlie Brooker is going to kill himself one day soon”. I really hope he doesn’t, though.
I find it uncomfortable enough living with my own lack of understanding, let alone yours. Several years back, a friend wrote this and it has stuck with me:
“Not sure if this was the third or fourth time I’ve seen The Legend! live but am sure I’ve never seen ET less mannered, more unhinged & free. For some reason it felt like the stakes were higher. I’m fairly sure this wasn’t just a figment of my imagination or a product of the beer he downed before the third set. (Ringo P Stacey)
No one understands my past.
You want approximations, descriptions? OK.
Remind me to send you my patented cut-out-and-keep guide to reviewing music.
“Dang she’s pretty,” comments one Guardian reader picking up on one of the undeniably least interesting aspects of both the music and video.
- Why the fuck does YouTube keep trying to force me to listen to Sharon Van Etten?
You want comparisons, reference points? OK.
- ANY FEMALE ARTIST WHO IS CONSIDERED VAGUELY LEFT-FIELD AND PLAYS GUITAR BECAUSE GOD KNOWS THERE ARE ONLY TWO OF THEM
I remember encountering this song a few years ago, and it scaring the shit out of me.
This is the music I used to watch, age 20.