Wendy_Roby has written the following articles:
The first round-up of the year isn't quite the barren affair it might have been. Although there was a nice learning curve sort of switcheroo when I had to email bands and labels myself - rather than the usual GO ON THEN, IMPRESS ME WITH YOUR PRESS RELEASE that usually happens. This was my first life lesson of the year, everyone, and it was a helpful one. »
I have chosen 100 singles I really do implore you to get your sticky mits on. If I had had to put them in order I would have had a breadvan, so I am sure you will excuse the absence of cheap - and vaguely pointless - countdowning. »
I just want you all to know that this week’s column was written in a massive sulk - because though I am back from my holiday in person, my head is still at the coast. Also, I am cold. And coming down with something. God, there’s nothing worse than other people’s not-even-terribly-debilitating-ailments, is there? Apart from wrong-headed RATM campaigns, of course. Remember readers, they were GROWN MEN when they wrote those lyrics. How very dread and embarrassing it all is.»
Another bottleneck of pre-Christmas indie haste, which means (boo) no preamble but (yay) at least four things worth mentioning in your letter to the fat bloke in red. He doesn't exist, you know. »
After last week’s lovelorn thought bog, this time around we turn our attention to the idea of imperfection. And why it is that naïve records with darling little rough edges have a charm all their own. »
Two of this week’s best singles are available for free on the internet. Don’t never say I don’t do nothing for you, readers. »
After the torrent of superlatives doled out to Animal Collective last time, I will admit to toddler-high expectations for this week’s singles. I thought it could only be a hopeless, pleather jacket shop-bought sort of rockness and disappointment; a glass of warm Lambrini served in Styrofoam compared to last week’s vintage bubbles in cut glass. [OH SHUT UP, WENDY.] But it turns out there are a few surprises, one of which * exclusively * reveals THE COLD HARD TRUTH about the XX. Oh yes, it do. »
Sometimes, a song comes along that is so wonderful, even mentioning the competition seems wrong somehow; almost topsy-turvy. Guess what? This is one of those weeks. »
This week there is more on the thorny issue of bribery, more food-based analogising, a self-re-assessment after falling foul of some marketing gimmickry AND the mesmerically wondrous music (and face) of Annie Clark. »
You shall be glad to hear there is no unnecessary preamblage from me today. We are just going to dive in like greedy sorts. »
Some wise old stick once warned how power corrupts. And though my own influence over (dread term) "The Industry" is flimsy as a cornershop carrier bag, I had a tiny taste of power this week. »
As a neat way to top and tail the Summer, this week I am back at the coastal caravan with my unfaithful old internot. This means three things; one, that I cannot check facts and therefore have to take the press releases at face value (which I am sure the music PRs will adore), two, that I cannot watch the videothings and make judgements upon which are fearfully offensive and which are not (this also means – woo! - the music must speak for itself, man), and three, that I Spy a cast-iron opportunity for making up some stuff that I can pretend I read but sadly cannot check for truthiness because ohdearmemydongleisbroken. Do see if you can spot the lies, damn lies and fiddled statistics, in the following reviews. »
After being unable to pick a favourite last week, this week I have five. Which are variously Yeti Lane, First Aid Kit, Drums of Death, Toro Y Moi and my new favourite favourites, Everything Everything. You will have to excuse the superlatives, but I honestly cannot help myself.»
Everyone – and I mean everyone is releasing a single this week. So many, that I wanted to use a thoroughly unfair culling method that involved a blindfold, a pointy stick and some glue - or worse, inadvertently lose half my pile down the back of the bin (whoopstheregomyfingers, can't listen to them now, ohdear). Luckily, someone appealed to my better instincts and I did what I am paid to do. Which was to listen to the darned things; ALL FORTY THREE OF THEM. »
After the rampant filth and manic superlatives of last week’s reviews, this time round there is a fair amount of boot-cooling going on. Good job really, as I am not sure my nerves can stand all the giddy.»
This week, we have another tie, because I have gone equally silly in the head over both Maps and Fuck Buttons. Really – honestly - the rest of this week’s releases can go hang. It is sort of like being at a party with loads of ace faces but the only ones what exist for me are Maps & Fuck Buttons. So I am going to keep them all to myself in the kitchen and shan't let any of the other records have any punch. »
I went to a wedding this weekend to see one of my best boypals marry the love of his life. And it was one of the most heart-warming things I ever did see. So while it is unlikely that any record will be able to wipe the smile off my wetasaflannel, romantic face, one which has Nick Grimshaw as a supporter will have a flipping good try. »
I didn’t realise quite how angry I was until I started writing up this week’s singles. But it appears I am really quite furious if shouty caps are anything to go by. For which, of course, massive apollies- I have calmed down now. »
A tirade concerning a wonked-up, pretentious concept called Unity of Vision? On a Tuesday? Oh, go on then. »
This week I am upset. With myself, with stoopid Dinosaur Pile Up and their stoopid song with its stoopid riffs that I am stoopidly keen on. »
Always on the look out for rare and bespoke ways in which to test out the sevens, this week I attempted Trial By Bicycle. So if you want to know which singles had me grinning despite slipping gears and arduous uphill mini-marathons, you have come to the right place. »
I love it when this happens. For this week is a genuinely mixed-up, schizophrenic bag of sevens that has something to recommend almost every genre you can think of. In the end I am plumping for the ambition and modernity of the caffeinated, fuck-up funk of Debruit, because he is new. But quite honestly there are at least three standout winners here.»
This week is a proper mixed bag, though I am afraid to say there shall be no upset apple carts as far as Speech Debelle is concerned. So if anyone wants to start a backlash, please do so as far away from me as you possibly can. »
This week I have been clearing out my parents’ house, involving days of shoebox rifling and the finding of various teen-pash accoutrements - not least a gigantic wall poster of Jan Michael Vincent. All this looking back is neatly relevant though, as some bright spark is attempting to squeeze pennies out of those still not in possession of The Stone Roses back catalogue. AND we have a brand new band who wish to resurrect Baggy. Dust off your Kickers, everyone. »
Now that I am back from my coastal paradise, I only have alarms for company. So while last week the view outside my window was of flat, open fields in which bunny rabbits hopped, now I can see roundabouts and hear the siren from our local prison establishment, to remind me that there are madmen and kiddie fiddlers just minutes from my door. Sirens are relevant though, as this week’s top single sounds very much like one. »
A re-cap and re-rub of all the sevens we've voted Single of the Week so far this year. Then I had to work out which ones I liked best, threw a strop, and settled for this Top 28.»
Alright, I admit it. I have cheated this week, enlisting a particularly excitable friend of mine whose favourite musician is ‘Paul McCartneys’. His name is Jem, he is four – sorry, I stand corrected – four and a half years old, and he is helping his Aunty Wendy while I attempt to instruct him in the finer points of alt-hip-hop in the process. He thinks it is crashingly hilarious that anyone should be named ‘Beans’ but has not helped on all the records, because there were some Stickle Bricks which needed playing with. You know how it is. »
I have suffered this week at the coast, everyone. Not just the indignity of a wetsuit when I was too lily-livered to venture into the sea unwrapped, but also some of the most brain-meltingly awful lyrics one has ever had the displeasure of wading through. One of the culprits – not one of this week’s picks, they shall remain un-named - actually had the temerity to include the line ‘Burn, burn, burn / Burn baby, burn like a…’. Naturally I were all like ‘Burn like what, hot new musical things? I really must know, I must, I MUST’ – you know, expecting a couplet of such refreshing and original magnificence the clever cells would get knocked clean out of my head. Instead, what I got was ‘Burn, baby, burn like a fire burns’ - at which point threw the CD like a small and graceless Frisbee, into the waves. Very satisfying, I can tell you. »
This week we are transmitting not-quite-live from North Norfolk, where across the plains of the caravan park I can hear the strains of Fleetwood Mac trying to make themselves heard through a tinny radio. I have also been fortunate enough to catch a very spirited rendition of ‘Wind Beneath My Wings’ from a fellow camper (on the bog), while I was merrily dodging medieval verrucan foot complaints (doing the shower block dance). So while I want to just sit here and greedily lap up the given names of each house-on-wheels (‘Miami’, ‘Pageant’, ‘Senator’ and my favourite and best ‘Pastiche’) I have instead dutifully donned my headphones for FloMo, Johnny Foreigner and lovely lovely lovely La Roux. Yes, I said 'lovely' in the same sentence as the words ‘La’ and ‘Roux’ – you will just have to deal with it. »
This week I am choosing to ignore obvious comparisons with prior hits, building a Tech House from double dutch and am introduced to some cats who can do harmonies a tiny bit like James Mercer. For sure it is a mixed bag, but one which hopefully offers a sweet treat for everyone. »
