Hugs and Kisses #33: Be Your Own Pet, El Perro Del Mar, Black Kids


El Perro Del Mar: Her name is Sarah Assbring.

Hugs and Kisses


The Continued Outbursts of Everett True

THIS WEEK: Everett reviews some more records

You'll have to excuse me. Been up all evening doing Plan B accounts. Not much of an occupation, and one guaranteed to cause anxiety, sleepless nights, insatiable cravings for cheesy snacks. . . not too dissimilar to being a parent. Man. Those figures. Wow. Wow. It's so fun being a publisher, I can't tell you. So anyway, had this plan at the back of my mind to turn you onto Tasmanian indie, or possibly talk up some favourites of Stephen Pastel that he'd been kind enough to share with me. . .but no. I have mountains of CDs on my desk, and I'm a fraction scared that one of these days my two-and-a-half year old son will take it into his mind to start toppling them all over, so yes, it's that time of the week again. It's time for singles reviewed, with all due deference to prematurely jaded rock musician students, without recourse to press releases.

be your own PET, "Super Soaked" + "Food Fight! + "Black Hole" + "The Kelly Affair" (XL)

When I first encountered Yeah Yeah Yeahs, I thought they were a neat idea: I devoted 15 pages of my former magazine Careless Talk Costs Lives to their escapades, got into a slap-fest with their manager, made Karen O out to be a drifting aimless stoner, watched acquaintances being dragged out of Brooklyn bars by their hair, all when they were but an EP old. So yeah, yeah, whatever. It don't mean that about 20 years after the event I'm gonna release four 'limited edition' seven-inch singles that pay tribute to the fact they were once my favourite band. Plus, all these songs sound stupidly sped-up (OK, that might be my age) and strangely analogous to former post-Riot Grrrl space age Scots teamsters Bis without the spangly leggings. I ain't denying that I'm jealous they have way more hair than me, and that they probably enjoy sex more than me. I'm just saying that I can do without them in my life again, despite the fact I have a real weakness for the sort of art-rock they purvey.

Turner Cody, First Light (forthcoming Boy Scout Recordings album)

Hey, so I lied about the singles part. So sue me. I have a fondness for Mr Cody that is partly driven by his bluesy boogie-woogie and partly because I saw him support (and play bass with) Herman Düne at one of my Three Favourite Shows Of Last Year Official at Brighton's Old Ship Hotel, which is like all those parts of England you might imagine still exist but have mostly ceased to do so for about five decades now (lights glancing off balustrades, decrepit balconies littered with beer glasses, staircases leading to nowhere). He's warming, and cheerful, and sounds like he covets his friends, and probably sports a non-threatening beard, and pronounces "Mos-cow" like it's some sort of bovine feast, and probably gets called "antifolk" by regular folk who have no idea of the torment involved. He's basically classic old-time classic rock but without the usual connotations or worry. I will be playing this album again. And again. And again.



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