Post-electoral shenanigans notwithstanding, quite a day in prospect; another run at the six and a half hours of the Jack Rose tribute album (I’m writing next month’s Wild Mercury Sound magazine column about it, in theory), then Joanna Newsom at the Festival Hall tonight.
One of those weeks where the distractions of putting a magazine together and, right now, England vs Pakistan, have conspired to limit blogging activity. Michael Yardy: I am dumbstruck.
In the two or three years since Ariel Pink put out an album, it seems that a lot of undergroundish American music has fallen under the thrall of his curious discography. From hypnagogic pop to chillwave, and all faintly daft genres in between, Pink’s music has become a kind of touchstone for bands who specialise in distressed, strung-out lo-fi renderings of the mainstream music of their youth or beyond (focusing on the ‘80s, as a rule).
A packed Borderline gets suitably rowdy later on, when Port O’Brien turn in a surprisingly rocking set. For the moment, though, the crowd’s hushed. Walking in on Laura Gibson, mid-song, you could have heard the proverbial pin drop. People are hanging on her every word, their muted quiet close to something like reverence.
