Prinzhorn Dance School (self titled)

Nomadic duo Prinzhorn Dance School’s eponymous debut is one of the rawest efforts you’re likely to hear this year, its primitive rhythm-driven aura resurrecting the most unrefined facets of the post-punk era. However, its one that remains almost constantly alluring, with nods to cult legends the Fall and Wire, and a strong DIY ethos amidst the simple bass-driven melodies.

Toby Prinz and Suzi Horn share vocal and drum duties, with the latter providing that driving bass and the former the few chords of wiry guitar that are thrown into the mix, coming across like a half-speed Futureheads. The pair remain reclusive and shadowy, as in their formative days, when they would pick and choose where to send their handful of demos, before a chance sighting of a flier saw one winging its way to the world-famous EMI subsidiary, New York’s DFA. A contract followed, and their first album was recorded in cottages and barns across the English countryside, the DFA influence inevitably meaning it has been expertly produced.

Their press release rambles on about provincial demigods like Ray Davies and Morrissey, but although Prinzhorn Dance School also conjure up a picture of an England that only England knows (dilapidated leisure centres, Travelodges and rubbish libraries), its again done in a minimalist, pragmatic fashion, the simple (if lazy) comparison to Mark E Smith and the Fall again carrying more weight than those to any Kinks or Smiths song.

Prinzhorn Dance School still have enough ideas of their own to render the album worth a listen though, although whether there’s enough to stretch over sixteen tracks is open to debate. There’s less anger than in a E Smith vocal, a more vacant, eerie style preferred on top of the running-on-empty tunes.

One other important differentiation from the Fall is that the duo are very much that, a duo. Whilst the oft-egotistical Smith has hired and fired dozens of band members over the past thirty or so years, usually to the detriment of the group, the Dance School ethic is focussed very much upon a co-operative effort, something that is demonstrated in the tight collaboration of the two main instruments and the mutual vocals. These taut soundscapes, coupled with the observational lyricism, can create a bleak picture of 21^st Century Britain, closer to Blade Runner than any green and pleasant land, but nevertheless its one that draws you in, and manages to entertain you with its stripped-down pessimism.

Leeds festival 2007

Thursday

Hands blistering from our ridiculously heavy bags, the last two of us finally discover our mates, who set up camp yesterday, near the rave-in-disguise that is the Duracell tent. It’s been a pain in the arse so far, with queues for shuttle buses snaking half way around Yorkshire, festival staff giving useless directions, and the decision to put the tent where you actually get your festival wristband in a baffling location miles away from the stupidly small entrance.

Putting our gripes aside, and with our tent precariously fastened to a fence in the seeming absence of its pegs, we set about our Clear Spirit (apparently, Tolstoy isn’t actually vodka) and I eventually end up drink driving (in a dodgem, I’m not that daft).

Friday

A combination of whiplash from last night, and a load more alcohol, means that I’m carried back to our tent shortly after Jamie T’s energetic set. I can remember that Sheila goes out with her mate Stella, and that I quite enjoyed myself, but that’s about it. If you were around the NME Tent today, I was the one trying to walk at a 45 degree angle.

I also saw the Sunshine Underground, or so I’m told.

Saturday

Attempting to make up for yesterday’s lack of music, I’m at the main stage for 12 for the Pipettes. Glorious summer music will always work better in glorious summer, and thankfully that’s what we’ve got, as the do-wop trio, all hand claps and polka dots, coyly work the crowd. With perfect tunes, fashions and live voices (though their dancing becomes disjointed), it’s unfathomable why they aren’t massive.

Equally glamourous is the Long Blonde’s Kate Jackson, and they’re next up for me, again on the main stage. A few surprising omissions (there’s no Separated by Motorways or Giddy Stratospheres) don’t detract from a solid set. They’re a band that always seems better than the sum of their parts, as Jackson’s image and Dorian Cox’s guitars and worldly lyrics combine to overcome weaknesses in the rhythm section.

A few pints, then its time for Maximo Park, who appear somewhat workmanlike in a disappointing set, which is also let down by poor sound quality. All of the hits are there, and Paul Smith is his usual star-jumping self, but something’s missing (not his bowler hat though, obviously).

It's sweltering by now, but Interpol are way too cool for any of this sunburn lark, a typically gloomy set played impeccably, their stage presence derived from the fact they barely bother to move at all, bassist Carlos D underlining his status as the coolest man in rock. Its dark, brooding stuff, and you couldn’t have it any other way.

Kings of Leon are more forthcoming, and are simply stunning. Tighter than their famed jeans, they tear through one of the longest sets of the festival with barely a pause. Proving their worth as musicians whilst still managing to entertain a massed crowd, they are one of the weekend’s undoubted highlights.

Having been split up from everyone else during KOL, I pop in on Brand New in one of the tents. After two songs they appear to me as they are on record; equal parts visceral energy and introspective shoegazing. The latter bores me horribly after the highs of the Followill lads, so our tents and the remainder of tonight’s Carling seem a better option for now.

Johnny Borrell’s Ego is headlining, so we’re off to wander aimlessly around camp sites instead.

Sunday

Crystal Castles are first today in the Dance Tent, their entertaining electro brushing away the hangovers, their frontwoman scaring us witless in the process.

Brakes’ variation of pop-punk, country, indie-rock and the tune-and-a-half that is All Night Disco Party is enjoyable enough to begin with, but when its coupled with the world’s shortest and bluntest protest song (“Cheney, Cheney, Cheney, Cheney, Cheney, Cheney, STOP BEING SUCH A DICK!”) and some pineapples, it becomes the hidden gem of my weekend.

Criticised in the past for lacking presence in smaller venues, I’m apprehensive as to how the Shins will transfer to the vast open spaces of the main stage. I need not have worried, as they produce a stellar performance, helped by the continuing sunshine. Its about this time that we began to think we may actually melt.

Bloc Party are a massive letdown; dull in the extreme. Fans blame the sound set-up, but their insipid 45-minutes is soulless and tuneless, and an awful way to prepare for what many say should be the headliners.

The best band in the world.

Arcade Fire.

As mental and multi-instrumental as we’ve come to expect, Win and Reg busting guts with their vocals as every member scampers about the stage with abandon, their myriad equipment used to full effect. The sun sets as they rise, with even weaker album tracks becoming central parts of the set, and closing track Wake Up (apt for the assembled Chili Pepper fans trying to look disinterested) is an out-of-body experience. Sell your granny to see them live.

The furious, frenetic Chk Chk Chk are our last band of the weekend, and there are far worse ways to bow out as they ensure there’s no way we’re about to tire at this late stage. Mixing their shorter, more punkish singles from last release Myth Takes with more sprawling efforts, they tear the dance tent up in a way that would put many rock bands to shame.

Once that’s over, and after more have spilled out from RHCP’s mammoth two-hour slot, the traditional/inevitable carnage ensues. Tents are torched, fences are trashed, and I start to count down the days until I next see Arcade Fire.

M.I.A. - Kala

If you name your first album after your militant father, pepper it with references to the PLO and the Tamil Tigers, and throw a thinly-veiled accusation of paedophilia towards R Kelly while you’re at it, you can’t fail to cause a stir.

Fortunately, M.I.A.’s 2005 effort Arular wasn’t just all talk. Whilst unmistakably part of grime’s short-lived excursion into the mainstream, its Asian influences, political awareness and dry humour, along with the usual urban references, marked it out as something special.

Two years on, Mathangi Arulpragasam, the British born US resident of Sri Lankan descent, returns with Kala, irked to be seen as just another project for sometime cohort Diplo. Despite the constant attribution to the Miami DJ, production duties are shared between a number of collaborators, with M.I.A. herself taking on much of the burden. Unsurprisingly, this does mean that the ever tiresome Timbaland turns up, though fortunately this lone dip in quality , Come Around, is left until last; sadly taking the edge off the stunning precursor, Paper Planes.

Few people are as entitled to sample the Clash as M.I.A., her constant two fingers to the establishment embodying the spirit of punk in a way that will surely have the always eclectic Joe Strummer looking down in admiration, and hanging said track on Straight to Hell (from the aptly titled Combat Rock) works perfectly. So too does the use of lyrics from Pixies’ Where is My Mind on $20, which takes on an even more haunting role than normal after initially pulling the rug from under your feet.

Opener Bamboo Banger is relentless, setting the pace for the rest of the album, rarely letting up through the likes of Down River or XR2. Lead single Boyz sounds as fresh as ever, and the rest of the record lives up to the hype created when it originally landed sometime in April. However, its follow up Jimmy which could attract the most attention. A Bollywood cover version with an unashamed 80s pop feel, it’s a track which brims with confidence and kitsch sub-continental charm.

Its not just M.I.A.’s Sri Lankan heritage and South London upbringing which is evident in the beats though; African tribal rhythms, Brazilian baille funk and even hints of Aboriginal wood sections all appear, forming a multicultural melting point befitting her diverse roots.

Her lyrics also again swing from the political and subversive (“I put people on the map that never seen a map”, “The war in me makes a warrior”) to the comic and peculiar, (“I like fish and mango pickle”) via an intriguing mix of both (“I’m an illegal / I don’t pay tax tax / EMA? / Yes, I’m claiming that that”), ensuring that her undoubtedly opinionated style never becomes too trite or sanctimonious.

Difficulties at Customs due to her occasionally dubious beliefs may create too much controversy for daytime radio acceptance, but when major label money is continually shunted behind the wanton homophobia and sexism of may rap ‘stars’, surely there’s room for M.I.A.?

After all, a finer album you’d be hard pressed to find this year.

The Enemy - We'll Live and Die in These Towns

The Enemy pride themselves on their working class roots, and have an unalterable belief that this makes for better music. However:

a) The idea of the glorious working class is a curiously British one. And British music is on its arse. With the best in the world being pretentious-but-lovable types from North America or Scandinavia, perhaps its time to try a different trick?

b) Half of Yorkshire is already on this class warfare bandwagon anyway, unified by their liberal references to Gregg’s or Smirnoff Ice or whatever proletarian buzzword is en vogue this week.

c) The band’s experience of true blue-collar toil is obviously as limited as their vocalist’s range, when you consider he’s only 18.

d) This is shite.

Before he got a little bit crap, Paul Weller was the Modfather, and the Jam were one of the biggest bands in Britain. Tracks like That’s Entertainment and A Town Called Malice perfectly chronicled small-town life, and were destined to become fixtures at every indie night, at every Old Skool night, and on every pub jukebox for the whole of eternity. I probably don’t need to tell you all of that, but the Enemy claim to not know who Paul Weller is.

What’s even more astounding is that despite this, they sound exactly like a very, very bad version of the Jam.

The album opens with Aggro, a typically ladrock-by-numbers tune about scraps and pubs, with not even the wit of an I Predict a Riot. It is, at least, loud, giving them the edge missing from their fellow Midlands dullards, the Twang, whilst sadly mimicking the pomp of yet more Midlands dullards, Kasabian.

Next up is the painfully catchy Away From Me, a bloody awful seen-it-all-before rant about crap towns, daytime TV and other similar social-commentary-in-crayon. “Don’t be a slave to the modern wage” is a line and a mantra so jaded you’re not entirely sure where it’s stolen from. The Jam? The Manics? Placebo?

Had Enough is only track four, but a more apt title you’d struggle to find.

Then, the title track, its horn intro sending a shudder down your spine as you struggle to contemplate the Enemy going ‘epic.’ Here, the Weller-vocals are at their most blatant, spitting a mess of clichéd sloganeering and a spirit-crushingly repetitive chorus.

You’re Not Alone raises the bar slightly, its marching rhythm section hinting there could be at least some, very raw, talent involved, and Technodanceaphobia will create far more foot-tapping than most, erm, technodance.

This Song drags things back down. It’s another idea above their station, starting like Doves’ Black and White Town, and lurching into A New England by Billy Bragg, but achieving little, and the album closes with the mawkish Happy Birthday Jane.

The biggest problem with We’ll Live and Die in These Towns and their ilk, is that if you’re sick of the mundane, the repetitive and the tedious, why would you want to add to it with an album as generic and monotonous as this?

The Best of the Year So Far. Maybe.

In no order, because it was hard enough to pick just ten to start with.

Arcade Fire – Neon Bible

Currently tearing up festivals the length of the UK, Win & Co. proved Funeral wasn’t a one-off with this.

El-P – I’ll Sleep When You’re Dead

Proving there’s still life in hip-hop with the help of some alt-rock royalty.

Field Music – Tones of Town

Short, sharp brilliance; a metaphor for their career, if rumours of a split are true.

The Shins – Wincing the Night Away

Zack Braff’s shunt into the mainstream consciousness didn’t faze.

Blonde Redhead – 23

New York stalwarts create something special on their 7^th outing.

Justice – Cross

DANCE IS BACK!

Grinderman – Grinderman

Old man Nick Cave shows the youngsters how to rock. Or RAWK! Or something.

Panda Bear – Person Pitch

If the Beach Boys hired a choir and went even more mental, it’d sound like this.

Feist – The Reminder

A gorgeous record which reinforces Broken Social Scene’s supergroup status.

Of Montreal – Hissing Fauna, Are You the Destoyer?

Last but not least, the best Canadian band which isn’t actually Canadian.

I could be wrong, like.

Los Campesinos : Sticking Fingers Into Sockets (EP)

Los Campesinos begin the second track on their new EP by weighing up how to find “the perfect match between pretentious and pop.”

Somewhere, they discovered the magic formula for just that. Name checks to Meanwhile, Back In Communist Russia hint at their substance and an admirable grounding in alternative music, but they remain poles apart from the monologue-favouring Oxford post-rockers. Sticking Fingers into Sockets is sheer pop perfection.

The vocals can often remind you of Jamie T and his fellow LDN mob, but against the joyously twee sound of Camera Obscura and The Boy Least Likely To, with the childlike energy of Arcitecture in Helsinki; layered mentalism, but seemingly effortless.

In an age where ‘pop’ is a dirty word, associated only with mini-skirts and ITV, glorious summertime music, such as that of the Pipettes, has sadly often fallen by the wayside. It’ll be a huge shame if this Cardiff Uni seven-piece also end up in the Should Have Been Massive file, but on this evidence, that really shouldn’t be a danger.

We’ll have to wait to see if they can realise this potential across a full-length LP, but during that wait, you could do worse than to entertain yourself with You! Me! Dancing! Its the single of the year.

The Twang - Love It When I Feel Like This

It’s ironic that just as Tony Blair shuffles out of Downing Street, eulogy and insult ringing equally in his ears, the Twang’s debut album hits the shelves. Blair swept into power in 1997, riding a well-manipulated wave of ‘Cool Britannia’, Noel Gallagher and a subsequently quite miffed Damon Albarn dragged along for the photo-shoots and the step into a brave new era.

A decade on, false dawns and broken promises have led to Jarvis Cocker lamenting that ‘cunts are still running the world’, no self-respecting rock star would be seen dead hugging Call Me Dave Cameron, and the Twang are finally sounding the death knell for Britpop.

It was hard to see how much further the ‘indie revival’ could stumble, but when the Twang are seen as The Next Big Thing, we should all surely know its time to pack up and move on. The world does not need another Ocean Colour Scene.

Even the title, though, does not bode well for the Twang’s ladrock credentials, Love It When I Feel I Like This suggesting a Ronan Keating b-side more than a swaggering, posturing nod to the days when we all wanted to live like common people.

Opener Ice Cream Sundae rhymes ‘sundae’ with ‘fun day’ (seriously) before diving into a typically Be Here Now-era Oasis ditty about having it my own way or some such. Vocals sound like a bad Brummie impression of Ian Brown. With a sore throat.

Wide Awake keeps you anything but, except for the unstoppable guffaws upon hearing them sing about ‘milfs’ who are ‘filth.’ The mainly soliloquy The Neighbour is an awful deluge of blandness, except when they swear a bit cos they’re all hard ‘n’ that. Its often the case throughout the LP that the only thing setting the Twang out from Magic favourites like the Feeling is their contrived foul mouths. Their lyrics consistant in their awfulness, ‘cat sat mat’ rhyming structures not even worthy of the ‘sixth form poetry’ insult. ‘Funny’ with ‘money’, ‘home’ with ‘alone’, it goes on and on, and there’s no saving grave musically, as it remains insipid and tiresome; say what you will about Oasis, and I usually do, but their early 90s catalogue at least includes some memorable tunes. Twang efforts like Push Away the Ghosts achieve no such thing, which is nigh-on impossible when you’re stealing half of the bassline from Gary Numan’s infectious Cars. Loosely Dancing continues the 90s feel, but only in reminding you of Five.

If the album starts bad, by the time you reach closers like Two Lovers and Got Me Sussed, time appears to have stopped. Reap What You Sow is about a party or something. I think. Moving your body and all that. Not that you would move anything to any of this. If you want to party like its 1996, this may be your bag, but that’s only if all of the parties you attended in 1996 were mind-numbing affairs filled with over-reaching Brummies.

Two old ones. Whey, I know Field Music was as well.

Malcolm Middleton - A Brighter Beat

Falkirk’s Malcolm Middleton is a foul-mouthed miserabilist who likes the odd drink; when not perpetuating tired national stereotypes, he makes rather good music.

A Brighter Beat is Middleton’s first album since he stopped being the bass-playing half of Arab Strap, and his third in all, following the overlooked (and stupidly titled) 5.14 Fluoxytine Seagull Alcohol John Nicotine and critically lauded Into The Woods. Like its predecessor, it begins with an unsuitably glorious statement of depressive intent.

“We’re all going to die.”

Where Into the Woods began with the pessimistic: “you’re going to break my heart / I know it,” this time out Middleton starts on a jazz-tinged forage into mortality, declaring the one thing he wants in the afterlife is his trusty duvet. That’s only if eternal life exists, though, ‘cos he’s not convinced.

Despite We’re All Going To Die’s initial morbid tone, Middleton’s usual acerbic wit and deft touch remain, with a refrain so addictive you’ll find yourself unintentionally threatening murder on the bus (whilst lamenting that your tuneless wailing isn’t compensated by the lulling tones of his backing singers, who regularly juxtapose beautifully with his world-weary growl).

The rest of the album continues in similar style, although Middleton’s focus shifts back to his traditional themes of love and boredom, his dark humour shining through as he complains that he’s four cigarettes away from having to leave the house. Fuck It, I Love You’s honesty and stoicism makes it another of the refreshingly real love songs Middleton has long excelled at, even if it isn’t quite good enough to overcome the cardinal sin of lyricism, that of rhyming ‘phone’ with ‘home’ and ‘alone.’ This album also returns to a more traditional, folky style, shunning the subtle electronic traits of Into The Woods. Whilst this could be seen as a step backwards, it does make it more easily classifiable, and, equally, accessible. He doesn’t swear as much this time, either, but becoming more Mam-friendly hasn’t been to the detriment of his deeply personal, poignant style, aptly illustrated by the title of one of the highlights, Death Love Depression Love Death.

The only departure from his unrequited-love-and-having-nowt-to-do formula comes on closing track Superhero Songwriters, a sideways swipe at the soapbox utopianism of many of Middleton’s singer-songwriter contemporaries. He isn’t interested in saving the world, as he’s resigned himself to it being crap.

When it sounds this good, who are we to argue?

Fall Out Boy - Infinity on High

Throughout the history of humanity, we have been presented with many problems and unanswered questions. How do you stop being left with the powdery bit in the bottom of a Pot Noodle? Is a Jaffa Cake a biscuit? Why do old people get on a bus and not tell the driver where they want to go, but how much they’re going to pay?

And take the continued popularity of emo forefathers Fall Out Boy. I don’t care where you take it, just take it somewhere. Please.

‘Eagerly awaited’ new album Infinity on High mainly succeeds in managing to expose ‘emo’ as the myth it is. There’s barely a single sincere emotion evident anywhere beneath the saccharine knob-twiddling, further proof that their armies of oh-so-in-touch-with-my-feelings pseudo-American fans are little more than clothes-horses, liable to drown in tears if ever presented with the heartstring-snapping work of the likes of Elliott Smith or Conor Oberst. Or, for that matter, Leonard Cohen, given how much Fall Out Boy defecate all over the timeless Hallelujah on this fourth album (which will probably also mean Jeff Buckley is now spinning in his grave at roughly the same speed as Ian Curtis after their criminal Love Will Tear Us Apart cover).

The album begins with Thriller (thankfully not yet another cover), with its woeful spoken-word pop at their critics, followed up with all of the usual ‘pained’ vocals and heavy-handed attempts at an FM chorus that we’ve heard too many times before. It also features Jay-Z. Seriously. It’s rare that such a contrived plummet into posturing postmodernism succeeds (remember Grindie? Exactly).

For instance, the Clash could get away (just) with such unashamed pillaging of the black music scene, mixing their true punk ethos with the soul and catchiness of reggae on seminal tracks like White Man in Hammersmith Palais.

Fall Out Boy, though, are not the Clash.

Nor are they NSYNC, which makes lead single This Ain’t A Scene, Its An Arms Race even harder to understand. Somewhere behind the shiny production is a godawful attempt at irony which sees the band becoming a caricature of themselves, a boyband for the 21^st Century, with more in common with Take That’s overblown comeback than anything remotely interesting. We can only pray that curtains never make a Barlow-esque return.

Various pieces of charmless emo shtick inevitably follow, and it’s hard to make out any notable tune or differentiate between one shallow mess and the next, your ears only picking up when assaulted with clumsy, egotistic atrocities like, “I’m alright in bed but I’m better with a pen.” You can only assume from this that they once used a Biro as a makeshift screw-driver or to help a nice little bunny rabbit with a broken leg, because they certainly didn’t use it to write lines like ‘you’re a canary, I’m a coal mine.’ Conversely, they must have gone through an entire Parker warehouse to scribble down the amount of self-pitying they come up with.

“I could learn to pity fools as I’m the worst of them all.”

No argument here. They also tell us that they saw God cry. If you were an all-seeing, all-knowing deity, you probably wouldn’t be wasting your time fannying around with Fall Out Boy, would you?

Field Music - Tones of Town

One of the striking consistencies during the emergence of the North East music scene a few years ago was the focus upon the instant and the frenetic. Maximo Park, the Futureheads, even the tenuously-Mackem Franz Ferdinand focussed on poppy post-punk, a trend continued via the emergence of the dubiously punctuated Kubichek! and DARTZ!

Lurking in their raucous shadow were Field Music, more interested in creating heart-warming hooks and soaring, melodic pop than in call-and-response choruses or NME pigeonholes, whilst having to contend with all-too-regular accusations of blandness and ‘Heads cronyism. Although it was true that they never seemed at their best in cavernous surroundings like Newcastle Academy, and especially so in some rain-sodden field filled with drunken festival types, in more intimate settings they remained tight and never less than charming. Fortunately it was this side that made it across on their eponymous debut LP.

And it’s an even greater slice of multi-layered near-perfect pop that the Brewis brothers and Andrew Moore have managed to transfer to the Wearside-produced Tones of Town. Toying piano loops cascade seamlessly with harmonic vocals, taut rhythms and strutting beats across eleven tracks of joyous retro-chic which evokes The Beatles, The Beach Boys, and, whisper it, Phil Collins, although its doubtful the ex-Genesis MOR-master would ever take to the beat-boxing adorning the Modest Mouse-esque Sit Tight.

Usually, a band clocking in an entire album at little over half an hour would be hailed for energetically ‘rattling through’ their songs, but such a cliché would not give Tones of Town’s antithesis to vacuous three-chord tunes the credit that it deserves. Despite the short running length, Field Music still manage to cram in enough ideas, and well thought-out ones at that, to fill many band’s careers, each listen revealing more previously undiscovered nuances amid the waves of commendably-produced musicianship. The confidence evident in almost every second of Tones of Town proves Field Music’s true arrival to the North East music scene is finally here, their second coming cementing their place as Sunderland indie poster-boys and suggesting that in future, they may be rewarded with a review not mentioning the ‘F’ word.

Justice - †

Apparently pronounced as Cross, or Dagger, to prevent it falling into the !!! trap of Brilliant But Impossible To Google music, this is the first album from the French duo still riding the wave of last year’s crossover smash We Are Your Friends.

The apparent religious connotations of † seem to give the possible crucifix explanation more weight, especially when featuring tracks titled Genesis, Let There Be Light and Waters of Nazareth. You could, of course, be overly analytical, and see † as the long-heralded ‘resurrection’ of dance music. Because that’s what it is.

That’s no more evident than in aptly-named lead single, D.A.N.C.E., which continues the spiritual peace-and-love message, its playful Motown style vocal imploring us to forget the world’s troubles and get onto the dancefloor, possibly wearing one of the inevitable spin-off t-shirts from its video. Such cheerful nature means the music remains organic and soulful, eschewing the basic Futureheads-go-synth sound of the New Rave bandwagon with more beats then you can shake a glowstick at.

DVNO is a surefire single with a dance-craze friendly handclap, and One Minute To Midnight conjures up romanticised views of the 80s, proving retro-chic is back. Again. The two-part Phantom gives a harder edge to proceedings, while Stress samples music video pioneers Devo, somewhat ironic given the pair’s secretive, shadowy nature, and Valentine features their own remix of Me Against the Music by LA layabout and sometime pop princess Britney Spears, a move toward genre-bending continued with the vocals of Ed Banger cohort Uffie on The Party.

When coupled with the debut from their monkey mates at Simian and the excellent Idealism, it appears that critics were too quick to proclaim the death of electro. The superstar DJ may thankfully have gone, but the tunes are back, and Justice are taking them overground.

Dizzee Rascal - Maths & English

Dylan Mills has always treaded the fine line between gun-toting gangsterism and the equally nauseating hip-hop-with-heart of the likes of Miss Dynamite, the streets’ self-appointed moral saviour. Looking over the tracklist to third album Maths and English, you can’t help but worry he’s lurched head-first into misogyny; Suk My Dick and Pussyole aren’t exactly titles likely to earn favour with the WI.

In truth, we get more of the same. Dizzee rescues himself from being pigeonholed alongside his stale US peers with typically British grime and an honest portrayal of the feelings on the streets of Bethnal Green, as urban UK falls apart. Critics of the record have damned what they deem to be Dizzee’s ‘Americanisation’ of his style, once so quintessentially modern Britain, with Maths & English’s US guest rappers and the supposed rise of egotism, but even on Showtime, he was telling us about having his name not only on ‘the flyer’ but on his ‘trainers.’ Somehow, be it through his charm or his scattered references to Eastenders and such, he gets away with it, although the occasional awful rhyming couplet grate far more. Multicultural unease post July 7^th, gun crime and inner-city deprivation are all also touched upon, although the sideswipes at faux-ghetto wannabe gangsters don’t really work when accompanied by Lily Allen, the Queen of Mockney, even if it is spot on in sentiment and in lyric.

The Arctic Monkeys’ Alex Turner also pops up with a guest vocal, his instantly recognisable but limited voice jarring uncomfortably with Mills’ on Temptation. Suk My Dick is actually surprisingly, perhaps shamefully, catchy, though fortunately aimed at his detractors, rather than the female population, and the edge is removed slightly as he continues his inappropriate sampling history with Yankee Doodle Went to Town. Ode to summertime, Da Feelin’ will bounce from many a soundsystem and clapped-out Astra, its adage that “I don’t believe in fate / life is what you make it / make it great” following his previous encouragement to the streets it will air in. Stand out track is Excuse Me Please, a plea for peace peppered with a somewhat juxtaposed‘fuck it’, over an effectively simplistic rhythm section.

However, you get the feeling its a few tracks too long, with the undoubted highs stretched too far. The repetition of certain phrases and nods to the predecessor appear conceptual rather than jaded or lazy, but musically he hasn’t changed things too much. “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it” of course carries weight in this industry, but eventually you may have to.

For now, with M.I.A.’s sophomore also on the horizon, the golden children of brithop are still showing their tired American counterparts how it’s done, but you have to wonder how much longer that will last.

Now then, now then

Settle in, settle down.

What the bloody hell am I doing here then?

Cake. First thing that came to my head. I like cake. I may or may not be talking about the new super drug from Czechoslovakia.