Connan Mockasin, Bombay Bicycle Club, Toddla T
NME’s Mike Williams reviews this week’s singles
Cold Specks – Holland
Pastabating – according to NME’s Alan Woodhouse – is the cycle of carb-loading and cry-wanking favoured by high-stamina single males. Gentlemen, here is the soundtrack to your teary “soul-searching”. Don’t be tricked by the hipster name (she used to be called Basket Of Figs and HotelGhost, FFS) and sultry foghorn voice; this is teenage gospel that should be tossed onto the shit tip with last night’s spaghetti.
Connan Mockasin – Faking Jazz Together
Connan Mockasin would never soundtrack a dirty hand spin, though. He looks like Sandy off Flipper. Ironic, really, when “faking jazz together” is clearly a euphemism for a circle-jerk session. Is it a coincidence his brilliant album is called ‘Forever Dolphin Love’? Or that his eerie falsetto sounds like the cries of a porpoise with a penetrated blowhole? Take it out, Sandy, dirty boy. I’m off for a lie down.
Django Django – Waveforms
Hello, I’m back. All this womp womping was making it difficult to concentrate on the dream I was having involving Django Reinhardt, a stuttering physics teacher and an east London foursome goofing on Mr Oizo, Polyphonic Spree and The Beach Boys. If you like your art pop delivered by a bunch of merry andrews from Dalston, this is required listening.
Bombay Bicycle Club – Lights Out Words Gone
I’ll defer this one to the great Mark E Smith: “I’ve always tried to dress smart. It’s important. Primark sells some alright stuff at a fair price. You don’t want to be walking around like an urban scarecrow. Nobody takes a scruff seriously.” Great tune. Shit clothes. Sort it out, lads.
Toddla T – Streets So Warm
Let’s have a quick break from all this strenuous reviewing to consider a serious question. Does Toddla T own a bong, and if so, can I have a go on it? In fact, give me some Night Nurse while you’re at it and let’s make this a party. I say party, I mean paranoid haze of 8-bit doom wobbles and politically conscious lyrics about the world and stuff. Only Sheffield’s finest could brew that up and end up with a bosh classic on his hands. Give that man a medal (and a bong).
Casiokids – Det haster!
The gangly-limbed, pearly-toothed Norwegians are back, and thank fuck they’ve lost none of their swish poppy charm. Not a million miles away from their previous calling card ‘Fot I Hose’ (probably the best single of 2009, in case you were wondering), this is relentless, joyous and teetering on the right side of Vaudevillian. A bit like pastabating, in fact.