Blake’s vocals are, predictably, beautiful; Blake’s production is, predictably, meticulous; and it’s all, predictably, quite predictable.
Come for the singalong hooks of “El Scorcho”, “Pink Triangle”, and “Falling for You”, stay for Rivers Cuomo’s tales of loves lost and loves unrequited.
Romping rock and roll sounded like a breeze for Marc Bolan, and when you add some vintage Visconti wizardry into the mix, you can’t really go wrong.
Uncompromising, and very brutal indeed. Some listeners will struggle to see it through to the end, whereas others will feel oddly comforted by its harshness.
Each note of every individual performance is captured and presented perfectly, with the ragged spirit of the band left intact. It’s scruffy yet masterful.
The record transcends hip-hop, a buttery fusion of rap, soul, synth-pop, jazz, and a whole lot more. There’s even a reggae section that hits the spot.
The record listens like rock music’s answer to an ice-cold six-pack of decentish lager. It’s unrefined, but a cheap and cheerful good time.
Ellie Rowsell’s drift between spoken-word musings and operatic soarings is alive and well, and the band as a whole is as simpatico as ever - if not moreso.
The early 1970s was a golden era for singer-songwriters, but this stands alongside the best. The beauty of Mitchell’s songwriting lies in its simplicity.