Category Archives: New Release Reviews

New Release Reviews

Beth Orton – The Ground Above

Beth Orton first began to surface around thirty years ago, the charismatically detached voice that had featured a little on electronic dance tracks began to plough her own folktronica field with the release of debut album ‘Trailer Park.’ It was a graceful thing of acoustically decorated beauty, full of agelessly memorable songs instantly marking Beth out as an artist capable of pushing folk into bold new 21st century territories. I caught her live for the first time around then playing the Cambridge Folk Festival and it was immediately clear, observing the largely cross-legged crowd with the question “is it a folk thing?” that she did not belong in anyone’s club. As the subsequent albums and passing years have proved definitively, Orton is not in deference to a style aesthetic or servicing any musical eras and attitudes, she solely fuelling her art and the process of creativity. This, of course, has made Beth impossible to pigeonhole, it is a rare occurrence that a new album comes out from this writer that meets the pre-conceptions attached to it. If she were to ever produce a record worthy of the folktronica tag again, you can be certain it would arrive at the moment it was least expected. But the key detail to all the musical surfing Beth is free to explore is this, whenever she puts out new music it is always something worth digging into. Her peers and inspirations are not merely introspective singer-songwriters, instead she has the art project cache of a Tom Waits or David Byrne, forever tuned in and alert to the real-life stimulations and feelings that feed into her music, no matter what mode or texture the end product possesses.

That said, ‘The Ground Above’ dramatically stands out as a Beth Orton album like no other. If you are looking for that fanfare worthy lead track like ‘Stolen Car’ it is not here. Keeping an ear out for an americana inflected pot-boiler like ‘Concrete Sky’ will see you coming up short. For starters, the suite of eight songs is more like an ensemble creation than anything this artist has in her back catalogue. These pieces, especially at the front end of the record, are closer to meditations or celestial hymns than songs with locked in frameworks. That is not to say that they lack melody or even a rhythmical back bone, but there is a looseness to the vibes captured from these sessions that implies a group of musicians feeling and reacting as they recorded. A circle of trusted conspirators succeeded in turning the studio into a living organism, like a kind of communal breathing. Multi‑instrumentalists Shahzad Ismaily and Sam Beste (Vernon Spring) sketching out shifting emotional weather, drummers Chris Vatalaro and Tom Skinner pushing and pulling the momentum like tides, bassist Tom Herbert anchoring the undertow. Guitars from Dave Okumu, Grey McMurry, and Adrian Utley flicker in and out of frame, while Paul Butler’s presence lends a subtly glowing architecture. Within this constellation, Orton rises as producer, songwriter, singer, and bandleader with a clarity of intent. The music feels taller, more spacious even as Beth has learned to trust the air around and allow it to carry her voice towards a raw, open, vulnerable but honest place.

One of the most revealing insights Orton has offered ahead of this release is that all the songs “are looking through the prism of the years from many directions at once, I’m working with the unconscious, something like lucid dreaming.” This is overwhelmingly evoked during the eight minute plus title track, a piece in which Beth’s voice sounds absolutely choked amidst the stimuli and flashes of memory that engulf her. “Love is the only certainty there is” she sings, and in so doing she hits the mainline of lifeblood that is pulling her through. This music celebrates the kind of love that hits so hard it knocks us off course into new pastures, whilst never kidding itself that these lightning bolts are not closely accompanied by equal amounts of grief, hurt, and pain. As such it is the currency of universal truth Beth is dealing in here, “ecstatic as a mothers love, tearing through the sky to the ground above,” and these sonic landscapes absolutely burn thanks to the natural root ingredients. If it were not for the stuttering, trippy beats and waves of electronic ambience that bookend the piece, it could almost be described as free jazz and even though it is not that, there are enough sonic reference points throughout the album to make the connection. Each song progresses so satisfyingly that they surely were sequenced this way intentionally, a shining example of an album that needs playing in the correct running order. Without this, the joyous release felt on closer ‘Otherside’ would be lost, the sense of journey and passage nailed down as Beth sings of finally weeping while birdsong ushers in a new dawn. The sense of survival and desire to squeeze all the good out of life that we can lay our hands on is tangible here, on the other side of a night filled with the unsettling merging of thoughts and memories both lived and inexplicably inherited. It spins itself into a rousing finale that has our singer projecting out to the sky too, the crack in her voice now the product of strength rather than the punctures heard at the outset. After multiple plays, I am already recalibrating my Beth Orton chronology in readiness to acknowledge this as her greatest album. It clearly argues that she makes her best music not when shackled by the idea of recording a hit, but actually when free to paint the truest picture possible, from an unlimited musical palate, of the life and energy rotating all around her.

Danny Neill

You can buy the album on CD here: https://amzn.to/4vtQTds

Beth Orton by Kasia Wozniak
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New Release Reviews

Tift Merritt – Sugar

Country music is having a big moment these days, if anything it can plausibly be claimed this is the biggest era since the 1950s where the genre has become a major presence in the mainstream. And I am all for it, even though the real big hitters of our time seem to have a pop sheen so pronounced and polished that the actual country element of the music is reduced to some tassels, cowboy boots, and a brief push on the fiddle. But things getting watered down to suit mass consumption tastes are nothing new in the music world and I always rationalise, at least it opens the door a bit for the real talent to get heard; and when it comes to the real deal, Tift Merritt is exactly that. I first encountered her at a festival around 2005, by which time she was already a couple of albums into what became a distinguished recording career. She burst onto the stage, a fireball of energy and smiles, grabbing the audience by the ears and dousing them with her original country songs that immediately proved this most long running and storied of American music styles had a lot of mileage left in it yet. Tift rocked the festival crowd that day with the simple trick of just being very, very good at performing instantly loveable songs. And yes, Merritt was obviously serious about her art. I began collecting her music that day and these records remain some of the regular go to titles in my collection. If your life is hitting the heights so ecstatically you want to shake it like a tambourine, Tift can step up with the goods just as, at the other end of the scale, should you want to spend some time travelling alone, this songwriter has the writing depth to help us get by.  

Despite all this though, even with the most naturally gifted artists there are still periods where real life takes over and creative conditions shift into another realm, and so this new release ‘Sugar’ is actually a return to recording after a near ten-year gap. Merritt has continued to write in her radiant country‑soul vernacular, but she has also been living the wider life of becoming a mother, serving as a Practitioner‑in‑Residence at Duke University, helping reimagine The Gables as a collaborative arts space in Raleigh, advocating fiercely for musicians’ rights through the Artists Rights Alliance, and simply doing the slow, essential work of being a human being guided by her own instincts. Those years have opened new dimensions in her storytelling, refining her sense of what songs can hold and what they can offer. “Before I made this record, I was looking at the world and thinking, ‘I don’t know what to do except try to put some love out there.’ And for me, singing is the most honest, immediate way to offer love,” Merritt says. “My work has always been about trying to understand what it means to be human at that point in time. But that response has to make room for the personal and the joyful too, we can’t face everything with doom and gloom alone.”

That is a statement which cuts to the core of what makes Tift Merritt’s music so essential, she is honest in her reflections and reactions to real life but never loses sight of her natural desire to lift the spirits through music too. Take as a good example this new album’s ‘Someone To Watch The Band With Me,’ a rousing track in which Tift rages against the easy attainability of everything apart from basic human connection; as she strips all the modern ephemera and gets direct to the point, that basic desire scorches the surface as the chorus hits. Recording ‘Sugar’ in Nashville’s Gold Pacific Studios and putting the emphasis on capturing in the moment verve was exactly the right approach for music that thrives on feeling. ‘Look What Love Just Did’ is another stand out, soulful horns and a heavy sunset key steering the singer’s determination not to lose her wonder at the magic love can summon in a flash. There is a sense of urgency in these beliefs too, something that spills over in bright opener ‘Finest Feelings’ although the flipside of new love is addressed too, devastatingly so as Tift turns her insides out trying to release the hurt felt in ‘Generous.’ The confusion of the modern world appears in songs like ‘Mad Mad World’ and ‘Last Ditch Ultimatum’ (in which Jesus shuts heaven’s doors in frustration at the human race) but by the time we close on ‘Philosopher’s Song’ Tift is searching, with hope and purpose, for “any kindness I can find” again. Should there be any music fans out there unfamiliar with the magic of Merritt, ripe for a discovery that they can believe in today, then this woman’s work is a wonderful place to settle. Tift Merritt returning with songs as alive and vital as this is the kind of sugar we should all delight in.

Danny Neill

You can order a copy of the album here: https://amzn.to/3SrXeHJ

Tift Merritt by Ebru Yildiz
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New Release Reviews

Blue Earth Sound – The St. Louis Sessions EP

The EP remains an important format, that half-way house between an LP and a single, enabling recording musicians to get spontaneously realised cuts into the ears of listeners speedily, rather than waiting on the grander ambitions of an album project. That is exactly the scenario we are presented with here, the end result of some informal sessions that yielded potent produce. It is front loaded with a brace of heavy hitters, firstly ‘Chartreuse’ which is a stunning melange of influence, texture, tone and ideas. The slow shuffle beat brings a trip-hop foundation to the atmosphere, accompanying a deep bass backbone that not only holds the threads together but tantalises with the possibilities that this caught in-the-moment piece offers. With the addition of horns and understated keys, it transforms into a thing of late-night beauty in tandem with a sense of darkening and post-storm humidity. This is identifiably a jazz sound but one that has its dial tuned in to the vibrations of the modern city landscape. Next up ‘Japanese Green’ builds on a meaty groove thrashed out with firmly hit keyboard chords, all of which provide a landscape for some fine brass lines moving into watery keys that send wild explosions of oxygen straight to the surface.

This brand new Blue Earth Sound release was born from a period of momentum and widening horizons for James Weir, who launched the project in 2025 with ‘Cicero Nights.’ That was a debut coloured by late‑night Chicago wanderings, a renewed relationship with the piano, and a circle of collaborators who helped him pivot from his earlier post‑punk and synth‑leaning work into a more atmospheric and reflective mode. That record emerged from basement writing sessions in Humboldt Park and took on its character through sessions with players like drummer Patch Romanowski, trumpeter Will Miller, and engineer Dave Vettraino, establishing Weir’s blend of cinematic jazz, soul inflections, and gently psychedelic textures. As the album gained support from the big-name broadcasters Weir found himself travelling more, and a visit to St. Louis became the catalyst for the next chapter. A casual stopover with drummer and long‑time collaborator Austin LeMoine initially, it turned into a run of informal, living‑room sessions in LeMoine’s newly built home studio, where Weir arrived with loose demos and an openness to letting the music take shape in real time. Local horn players Jawaad Spaan and Josiah Burton joined the fold, and the group landed on a balance of improvisation and later sculpted production, capturing the spark of those spontaneous gatherings.

‘The St. Louis Sessions’ is a document of that loosely evolved creative moment, it actually plays like a natural extension of the world ‘Cicero Nights’ opened but now in new rooms, with new players and the sense of possibility that comes from stepping outside one’s home turf. It is a five-track release that makes its point convincingly in a short space of time and leaves the listener hungry for a directors cut. That said though, there is plenty for us to dig into, especially those aforementioned licks on the second track, there are break sections in here that a hip-hop producer could really make hay with. ‘Danny Boy Voicemail’ does exactly what the title tells us, although who Danny is exactly, I cannot say, before ‘Fresh Air’ equally makes good on its given name. This one is built around a bass line that nearly occupies the space of lead instrument, the ambience of the brass and electronic layers around it rise in the way that morning light breathes across a rain-washed street. Finally, ‘Missouri Midnight’ sets a natural piano figure in motion, giving the ensemble room to answer with a spacious, reflective grace. As extensions of jazz-based excursions go, this does a fine job of building on past foundations and pointing the way to paths yet walked. Keep an ear out for future dispatches.

Danny Neill

Get yourself a copy of the EP via this link: https://amzn.to/4fTjjZB

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New Release Reviews

Oral Habit – A Broken Chord

Isn’t it the truth that sometimes you do not know you are missing something until it comes right back staring you in the face? And so it was with this band, specifically my chance encounter with their song ‘Thin Trippin.’ It instantly summoned sonic senses that were once stimulated on a daily basis, the only thing is those days were over three decades ago. That grazing indie guitar sound, the playing that leans into groove as much as it plays for electric guitar posturing and the uninhibited way they are putting the song across thinking if folks were to mistake it for a pop tune, they could not care less. It has such strong echoes of the early nineties, of a time when UK bands in particular had a purity of intent, they were channelling the debris of the twentieth century cultural life lying around them, those sixties garage records shoved away in family lofts, late night TV cult film re-runs, the abandoned guitars and vintage organs which synthesised electro pop had tried, and failed ultimately, to make redundant, then building a reactionary sound of their own. Which is not to say that Oral Habit are revivalists of the original revivalists, but they are plugging right into those very appealing influences, all slowly abandoned as Britpop shifted the emphasis once again, and even better, they now have a far greater palate to work from. So Oral Habit are a band that also reference grunge, they trip out on psych, they push too hard with feverish college rock abandon, and they wrap their whole essence around a hard kicking rock melange of original songs that emphatically shout they are their own, unique force.

Oral Habit themselves come from a place that makes perfect sense of that unruly spark. The core trio of Charlie Hales alongside his brother Felix and bassist Tippi Lewis, operate with the kind of restless, sleeves‑rolled‑up determination that has always powered the best DIY scenes. Their sound seems born out of pushing whatever battered gear is within reach until it either sings or collapses, the sort of setup where overheated valves, misbehaving pedals and half‑broken amps become part of the aesthetic rather than obstacles to be tidied away. Charlie had been sketching out ideas alone long before the band officially coalesced in 2023, but once the three of them locked in, they quickly found themselves orbiting a wider network of like‑minded psych‑garage outfits scattered across the country; the kind of bands who have had their brains rewired by years of Osees and King Gizzard tours. They have already forged tight bonds with London’s Hot Face and caught the ear of Manchester’s Sour Grapes collective, whose catalogue of fuzz‑leaning misfits places Oral Habit firmly among their own. Most intriguingly, they have connected with the Krautpop! label now settled in Falmouth, a home for the more lysergic corners of the UK underground and a natural landing place for a group whose instincts lean towards the wild, the wired and the wonderfully unrefined.

Above all this is a debut album that sets out as many ideas as it can pack into eleven songs lasting just thirty minutes. Do not let the quickfire nature fool you into spotting a drought on ideas, if anything it is the exact opposite. Oral Habit are flying off on so many tangents they almost keep tripping themselves up as they go crash landing into the next song. It is restless, the opening title track setting out its A-B-C positioning, an avalanche of noise hammering the nail of their ethos into our heads before we explode into the ‘Surface Breaker’ riffage, two minutes of speed shifting, crunching gear changes that challenge the listener to keep up. No one is going to hold them still long enough to pin a label on them either, just as you catch yourself thinking that ‘Faux Fidelity’ has darker gothic shades you are fired into a spin of flanging fuzz guitars. Then we are parachuted into the kind of swampy grunge thrashing that Steve Albini would surely have been happy to put his name to. But they can do hooks as well, in fact the album is overflowing with them, it is just that they never settle in the same place for long. The psych pop connections are pretty real too, there is even a flash during ‘Chekhov’ that recalls Status Quo before they got comfortable in denim, but here again the track ends in a far different realm, heavy rock riffing in its purest mode, like all the unnecessary bits have been taken out. ‘Mystery Gash’ pulls a tantalising facility for tasty major/minor melodic writing out of the bag, hidden depths that are also uncovered on the becalmed organ led closer ‘Crooner & Moon.’ So, for all the whiplash turns and stylistic pile‑ups, there is a real craft at work here, a sense that Oral Habit already understand the value of instinct, immediacy and leaving the edges jagged. This is a debut bursting with potential, announcing a group with the nerve, imagination, and sheer appetite to make their own corner of the guitar‑rock universe feel alive again.

Danny Neill

You can download the album via this link: https://amzn.to/3Q0qip7

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New Release Reviews

Joan As Police Woman – Real Life Evolution

It was the summer of 2006 when I chanced upon Joan Wasser for the first time, performing in her Joan As Police Woman guise, at a venue called the Spitz near central London’s Spitalfields Market. I had no idea who she was, I had not attended the intimate club size room to see her, I think I was there on a press duty covering the support act but stuck around to see the main event. If my memory is correct Joan was playing a weekly residency there for a month. That name was a curiosity obviously, maybe this was going to be a stand-up comedy routine? But as she hit the stage with her trio, playing mostly from the piano stool although occasionally strapping on a guitar, it very quickly dawned on me that I was in the presence of an artist playing a set that I would be, and now actually am, talking about decades later. She had a real command on stage that night, an undeniable authority even extending to breaking a song off midway through to invite people talking at the bar to leave. In a music environment that suddenly seemed to be producing acres of fey introspective singer-songwriter types, over indulgently turning their dreary diary entries into equally dreary ballads, here was someone with a direct line to the core of the human experience, turning that connection into impossibly well-crafted songs that plugged straight into our emotive senses. That night Joan was performing songs from her debut album ‘Real Life,’ a record that sounded like an instant classic to these ears at the time and has not diminished in the slightest over the past twenty years, its quality remains true.

As well as being impressed by the material that night I was equally mesmerized by the musician herself. She clearly had a dexterity beyond your average troubadour; the piano work especially had the touch of a classical performer whereas the guitar songs shone a light on Joan’s harder edges. The same kind of contrasts were apparent in her voice as well, it could be as tender, pure of tone and heartfelt as a Karen Carpenter recital but again, you sensed a more streetwise cutting edge pulsing just below the surface. Joan was obviously a performer of a higher stripe, the kind who gets inside the music she is performing and equally, not the type who would find any artistic merit in dialling in a photocopy performance. Which brings me onto the motivation and welcome rewards that come from this new release, a full ten track re-recording and vivid re-imagining of the songs from ‘Real Life.’ Whilst this is technically an anniversary, there is nothing nostalgic about this project. Joan is reviving the material in this way because she wants to stay connected to it, like Dylan has been doing for decades, she wants to keep her best music alive and free from stagnation to both her audience as well as herself by breathing fresh air and exposing new light to the original templates. Add to that the inevitable changes an artist goes through having lived through another twenty summers, the wisdom and maturity realised, and instantly this work becomes as valid and worthy of immersion as anything in her impressive catalogue.  

It sounds like the songs were felt their way towards depending on Joan’s personal attachments to them in 2026. Nothing is radically re-worked for the sake of it, in fact there are certain tracks that stick respectfully close to their original form, although others feel like they were totally destroyed before being rebuilt from scratch. It is an approach Joan has discussed ahead of this release, stating that if she ever felt bored with older material she would “reinvent them until the joy came back, not as an act of revision, but of rediscovery. Songs live beyond their creators. Like us, they settle into themselves over time, finding their own equilibrium. That spirit is the pulse of this new album.” There is a totally fresh cast of collaborators for this project too, Iggy Pop being one of the headline names who infuses ‘Save Me’ with his own identifiable signature so effectively it now plays like a lurching, dirty rock beast. Then there is Krystal Warren who helps transform ‘Save Me’ into the slinkiest of soft-soul grooves, a radical departure from the original Anhoni collaboration. Also ‘We Don’t Own It,’ which I recall Joan saying back in 2006 was written in memory of Elliott Smith, now moves away from the hushed guitar ballad of before into a breezy slow reggae realm built on understated electronica.

Joan has taken care to highlight the pedigree of the other key participants too. She credits “from my current touring trio, Will Graefe brings his emotionally masterful guitar work and Jeremy Gustin his remarkable rhythmic sensibility. Parker Kindred’s inventive drum creations were the spark behind other [tracks]. Thomas Bartlett unlocked a new dimension of the title track and added Rhodes bass throughout. This album gave me the chance to reunite, decades on, with upright bassist Tony Scherr, guitarist Oren Bloedow, and funk bassist Danny Blume, musicians whose artistry has only deepened with time.” That title track, along with the gloriously open and vulnerable ‘Anyone,’ formed the strongest pillars of the original album and so they remain today. Indicative of how close to perfection Joan arrived first time around, these are the two songs that bare the closest resemblances to their originals. I hold the 2006 version of ‘Real Life’ in such high regard that I was actually a little nervous as it approached here, newly repositioned as the closing number. I did not need to worry, it is a little more lived in now but by the time we get to the line about never including a name in a song before, the goosebumps still rise up vigorously. And why does that happen? Because this is real life and so am I. And because ‘Real Life’ was, and remains in its modern rendition, an incredible album.

Danny Neill

You can buy a physical copy of the album here: https://amzn.to/4eCx2mh

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New Release Reviews

Raffy Bushman – New Life

Jazz’s critics often overlook the simple truth that when the wide ranging, often maligned, genre locks into a groove, it can be as rhythmically charged and dance‑inducing as anything on a club system. That pulse has been there from the earliest swing bands through the breakbeat gold of Blue Note and the fusion era, right up to today’s easy dialogue between jazz and hip‑hop. Raffy Bushman’s solo debut taps directly into that lineage. Across its seven tracks, moments of introspection sit inside an undeniable forward drive, the whole record coated in an infectious rhythmic sheen. The centrepiece, ‘Renaissance,’ is the clearest example. A springy double‑bass line sets the foundation before Bushman’s piano is at first coordinated with the bass riff but quickly pushes the tune into a rolling surge of ideas. When the trio suddenly drops away, he unspools a lattice of interlocking keyboard figures which are almost Bach like in their intricate, looping patterns that toy with time and tug the ear in multiple directions at once. The band then snaps back together for a final, exhilarating climb. This is music that balances complexity with immediacy, full of heat and precision, and delivered with the confidence of a trio who can play it structured and yet still sound loose, in the moment and totally responsive to each other.

Raffy Bushman’s path to his first solo album reads like a long, looping circuit finally hitting the home straight. He emerged in the UK jazz underground as a pianist with a sharp ear for the places where jazz and hip‑hop meet, building early projects around that rhythmic dialogue. As his ambitions widened, so did his ensembles: string‑laden classical‑jazz hybrids, chamber‑sized experiments, and collaborations that pushed him deeper into arranging and orchestration. Those years broadened his palette without ever pulling him away from the instinct that drives all his work, namely taking familiar forms and bending them into something newly alive. Today he is back at the piano trio format that first defined him, carrying the weight and clarity of everything learned since. With Matt Davies and Alec Hewes anchoring the rhythm section, he folds his arranging experience into a leaner setting, creating seven pieces that move fluidly between tender audio lyricism, tight, bouncing grooves and bursts of harmonic colour. The album plays through like a summing‑up of the journey so far; a musician whose roots in hip‑hop, jazz, classical and gospel have fused into a voice that is indisputably his own, and a trio sound buffed and polished by years spent exploring every corner of his musical identity.

The album’s lead single,‘The Leopard,’ arrives late in the running order but acts as one of its clearest statements of intent. Built on a deceptively simple three‑note riffing piano figure, it grows into a full‑bodied groove that lifts off with real force. Bushman tips his hat to the film that inspired the song title, echoing its themes of clinging to tradition, yet he twists that idea by blending bebop phrasing with a lightly Latin, swung backbeat. As he explains, “the foundation of the composition is the left-hand repeated figure, which I had on a loop in my head for about a year before starting to add the other elements. I like how this figure blends with the very slow legato melody – this piece is all about textures.” That interplay between repetition and colour gives the track its charge as we hear a simple motif transforming into something vivid and propulsive. The album is bookended by ‘Two Peopleʼ and ‘New Life,ʼ both of which offer serenity and a reflectiveness to the conversation, which are highly understandable when learning of the new relationship developments and impending fatherhood anticipation that was inspiring Raffy while this album came together. “’Two People’ was written for my partner,” he explains, “who encouraged me to record my solo pieces, whilst ‘New Life’ gave me the opportunity to step out of the strict stylistic aesthetic I normally work within, and just express myself, and how I feel about becoming a father.” Considering all these real life, circumstantial, musical and background elements that hit a timely synchronicity for the birth of this album, we can safely say that it instantly stands as one of the pivotal moments in a serious jazz artists career. Furthermore, ‘New Life’ has a timelessness and classicism about it that will ensure it endures far beyond the year of its creation.

Danny Neill

The album is available via this link: https://amzn.to/4vyHbGm

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New Release Reviews

Bity Booker – There’s No Song About A Stone

It is always a delight in the business of music discovery, record hunting and general audio thrill seeking, to come across an artist who you assume will be of a familiar type only for them to far exceed your presumptions. Not only that, but also equally beguiling is when there is something quite mysterious about them. They do not conform in the way so many of their peers do, despite using the exact same tools and even occupying the same space, there is still that essence of the unknown. Bity Booker in 2026 has been, for me, one of those unexpected encounters. Yes, Bity (pronounced Bee-Tee) is an acoustic guitar playing singer who writes and plays her own material, a very well populated field of expression you must agree, but she stands apart because there is an element of magic to her work that is quite hard to pin down. So, right there is the wonderful thing, because so many times the greatest music casts a spell and often it is not a mixture you can dissect down to the ingredients that make it work. And thanks to the positive impact, there is no need to do that anyway, that is where the wonderment lies. The music of Bity Booker is the sound of another realm and from the moment you cross over there are no explanations necessary, you are simply mesmerized.

We begin with ‘The Owl Song’ which sets the scene for the individualist approach that dominates throughout. It is something of a call and response duet with the feathered friend in the title, offering the kind of delicate, whimsical beauty deployed by Joanna Newsom, which is as close to a comparison I can make although fundamentally, Bity plays wholly her own style. This strange brew is there on ‘A Tear,’ a song that immediately places the tunefully picked acoustic guitar and a sprightly, subtly chilling, voice in line with the natural world, moulding the environment to human connections, drawing the lines between how we feel joy and pain in tandem with our planet. Those same teardrops are also falling on ‘Dewdrops,’ echoing into a vast valley as if tumbling through open air and landing in widening circles of space, but this is not a sorrowful experience, more like a natural serenity. There is an elegantly gliding quality to the whole work and a connection to flying animals is present throughout, songs are based on the crow and parrots (with a neat reference to them originally escaping from Jimi Hendrix’s cage) although the standout for me has to be the graceful ‘Love Is Like A Swallow In The Spring.’ It all adds up to a mightily mature work on what Bity herself calls “my first ‘non-debut album.’ I call it a ‘non-debut album’ because I have long been making music in different forms, from death metal to alternative folk, so it feels strange calling it a ‘debut album’. It is the product of years of songwriting and performing solo.” 

‘There’s No Song About A Stone’ arrives as an independent release, issued in a run of just 250 blue‑marbled LPs alongside CD and digital formats, but its cottage industry design feels entirely in keeping with the way Booker moves through her craft. She admits to taking her time with music in a way that makes her happy, working outside commercial rhythms, outside expectations, letting songs form at their own pace. She thinks of her creations as things shaped by time, dreams, thoughts, rain, wind and you can hear that philosophy in the recordings themselves. These tapes feel alive; birds flicker at the edges, people pass by, London hums in the background, all of it part of the room she recorded in, all of it folded into the spell. So here is a gathering of some of Bity’s favourite songs, a mix of pieces road‑tested at gigs and others never aired before, but what binds them is the sense of an artist following her own internal weather. It stands apart from the regular singer‑songwriter crowd thanks to its ethereal detachment, its deep connection to the natural world, its refusal to sand down the oddities that make it breathe. Booker is flying her freak flag with pride, and the result is a record that will stand out wherever it is heard; this is the sound of someone fully unleashing their creative essence into the world and trusting it to find its way. Should the stars align favourably, this singer and these songs will do just that.

Danny Neill

You can get yourself a physical or downloaded edition of the album here: https://bitybooker.bandcamp.com/album/there-s-no-song-about-a-stone

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New Release Reviews

Visible Cloaks – Paradessence

The more head scratching you do when first exposed to some albums, the better they turn out in the long run. That is definitely the case with the work of Visible Cloaks, a forward thinking duo who have just released their first full length album in nine years. They obviously come from other planets, I am not even going to attempt to question that, and their calling card has the word ‘experimental’ splashed across it in bold, large lettering. And yes, they have solar systems of ambience in their sonic kit bag, if you want to predict what music beamed in from outer space is going to sound like, I put my money on it being something like this. The forms and structures we associate with songs or indeed most pieces of music are nowhere to be found, these audio offerings are not bound by anything so restrictive as time signatures, beginnings, middles or closing passages. It is hard to define just what they are doing, the whole 14-track suite flies past our hearing senses in less than 45 minutes and you are surprised that amount of time has passed, in much the same way as we cannot see our planet spin, so too the music of Visible Cloaks comes and goes without any tangible hint of motion whatsoever.

But I come back to those words ‘experimental’ and ‘ambient,’ for the beauty in this record is less with these aspects, instead the beating heart is the multitude of moments that feel warm and familiar. I might even lean into the word nostalgic, for there are times here that the early days of electronica, when the plugged in vibrations were still audibly having their dials turned by human hands, are vividly recalled. And as the stars begin to explode into glorious meteor showers, so too the music suddenly enters the realms of the familiar. The track ‘Slippage’ for example, is about halfway through when the sound of something metallic rattling around an empty tin bucket falls away to reveal firstly, an ever-widening expanse of deep space but then secondly, some rousing melody played on electric keys with more than a sideways hint of the bagpipes to them. Later on, the track ‘Shapes’ introduces some delicate acoustic piano notes to the mix alongside distant horn sounds evoking memories of early twentieth century, northern industrial England. Quite unexpected for sure, but still one of the many elements that hold your attention as our journey into the stars becomes ever more probable by the day.

The path to ‘Paradessence’ traces back through a decade of sonic world‑making by Spencer Doran and Ryan Carlile, whose work as Visible Cloaks has always hovered at the intersection of digital craft and imagined ecologies. From the prismatic surfaces of ‘Reassemblage’ to the luminous collaboration with Yoshio Ojima and Satsuki Shibano (who also appear here), the duo has treated electronic composition as a form of speculative architecture. Doran’s curatorial and soundtrack projects expanded that vision outward, revealing a deepening interest in how music can hold memory, landscape, and futurity at once. On ‘Paradessence,’ those threads converge into pieces that seem to breathe and reorganise themselves, as if the album were modelling its own evolving habitat. This sensation hits a pitch by the time we reach ‘Intarsia’ (featuring Ioana Selaru), wherein the scraping violin textures and sudden bursts of simultaneously familiar and alien voice sounds all merge to suggest that something is banging on the walls of another dimension. And maybe that is exactly what happened? Closing track ‘System’ may have the soothing presence of familiar sounding keys and wind instruments, but it also suggests that we need to explore new ways of playing them from this point on. I could not find any dictionary definition of the word ‘paradessence’ but just like the music this album contains, it still somehow makes sense. So, just as unfamiliarity must not be mistaken for confliction, so too must we have faith in the evidence placed in front of us today, that the Visible Cloaks are opening us up to a quite wonderous place.

Danny Neill

You can buy a physical copy of the album via this link: https://amzn.to/49puZ25

Visible Cloaks by Jonathan Sielaff
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New Release Reviews

Meiko Kaji – Otoko Onna Kokoro No Aika

Wewantsounds’ ongoing excavation of Meiko Kaji’s early‑’70s catalogue continues to reveal just how much more there is to her legacy than the cult‑cinema mythology. Best known internationally for Lady Snowblood and the Stray Cat Rock films, Kaji was also a striking vocalist, capable of turning pop melodrama and noir‑shaded groove into something that was easily identifiable as her own. ‘Otoko Onna Kokoro No Aika,’ originally released in 1974, captures her at a moment when Japanese pop, enka, and cinematic orchestration were colliding in vivid, stylish ways. This is evident right from the outset with ‘Akashia No Ame Ga Yamu Toki‘ boasting a string arrangement straight out of the mid-twentieth century widescreen, panoramic manual as well as a lead vocal that soars above the backdrop with grace, tension, and satisfying release. It is in every way a scene setter for the musically rich journey that follows.

It is revelatory how much the western production tropes of the period had bled into the music of the east. On ‘Meiko No Yume Wa Yoru Hiraku’ there is a keyboard part laced with a harpsichord texture and a gypsy violin part, not to mention a general sense that the music is primed to leap in any direction, echoing the anything goes attitude of the sixties psychedelic era. It is not a throwback in any sense though, ‘Ginza No Cho’ has the muddier soundboard more familiar to funk soundtracks which would have been ultra contemporary at the time although, once again, there is a little bit of fuzz guitar decorating the instrumental breaks. That said, it is the sensitive, yearning ballad ‘Onno Kokoro No Uta’ that is an early highlight. This is one where the vocal is a tour de force in sweet melodic serenity. This makes sense after I have just done a quick translation into English of the song title, also riffed on with the lamenting album name, it reads as “songs of a woman’s heart.” This vulnerability and tenderness is emphasised on further tracks featuring lush strings, flute, and mournful trumpet accompaniments, all of which add to the satisfying listening experience to these English ears denied the benefit of language comprehension. The music is so vivid and explicit though, it almost does not matter.

‘Tokyo Nagare Mono,’ the theme from Suzuki’s ‘Tokyo Drifter,’ features sharp edged fuzz guitar but it quickly sidesteps, via arresting harmonica, into a unique kind of spaghetti western melange, this music is pretty wild in its own way. It is not all about getting hip with the sonics though, there are some pretty fine, very well composed arrangements here which grab the attention not with dynamism but inviting, deceptively complex, melodic pathways. And for all the interest that awaits in the threads of the music, it is that Meiko Kaji vocal performance that remains the star of the show. Ultimately, far more than a tie‑in to her film work, this album plays like a self‑contained suite of Showa‑era torch songs and atmospheric funk, delivered with the same controlled intensity she brought to the screen. Kaji approaches each track as a performance, blending her instincts as a singer with the detail and engagement of a storyteller, moving from the smoky sway of the funkier sections to some sleek seventies reimagining of older material. The result is a record that strikes a perfect balance between tradition and forward thinking, a reminder that Kaji’s artistic range extended far beyond the roles that made her famous.

Danny Neill

You can buy the new re-issue CD via this link: https://amzn.to/4e3JFXc

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New Release Reviews

Little Barrie – Gravity Freeze

I have always thought of Barrie Cadogan as a Jeff Beck or Ronnie Wood kind of figure in the modern music world. Appearing to be more comfortable as the engine room of the electric guitar rather than the front stage focus, he nevertheless has a facility for conjuring blues and psych inflected magic from his instrument whenever on the stage. Barrie’s is the magnetic demeanour of a magician on hot coals delicately casting spells through his axe, so your attention is naturally drawn to him regardless. That is definitely something that can be said of those two comparisons at the top, but it does not end there, because Barrie is in similarly high demand to his iconic peers of earlier generations. So much so that it has pushed back the release of a latest effort from this three-piece configuration under his own name, a set up long favoured because it allows a settling into the machinations of a band rather than be the sole focus. But the air traffic first had to clear itself of stints with The The, Liam Gallagher, Liam Gallagher & John Squire, The Black Keys, and that is without even look at his studio commitments, before the return of Little Barrie had clearance to land.

Little Barrie’s ‘Gravity Freeze’ marks the band’s first album under their own name since the loss of drummer Virgil Howe, whose death in 2017 left Barrie Cadogan and Lewis Wharton unsure whether the project could continue. I remember seeing them when Virgil was still around and he was a big presence, often doing the lion’s share of onstage announcement a-la a front man while Barrie tuned up. After regrouping through therapeutic collaborations with longtime friend Malcolm Catto, yielding two joint albums, the pair began shaping new Little Barrie material that carried forward their earlier momentum while opening up fresh territory. True to the DIY ethos they had honed with Howe, the songs took shape in a makeshift Dalston rehearsal space before being fully realised at Rat Salad Studios with engineer and co‑producer Rupert Lyddon, a trusted creative ally from past projects. Drummer Tony Coote, whose jazz‑inflected feel and natural swing aligned perfectly with the band’s fuzz‑driven groove, completed the lineup, helping bring ‘Gravity Freeze’ to life with a renewed sense of purpose and continuity.

So, it has been a while but sometimes an enforced brake leads to an eventual return fizzing with punch and solid intent, fuelled by the frustrations of the time that is running away from us. That is certainly where we begin, the propulsive descending bassline on ‘More Bad Miles Of Road’ signalling the arrival of an album that has no inhibitions about leaning into the strengths of the musicians. It even gives a warm nod to the classic psych-rock power trio with a deliberate Jimi Hendrix sonic reference as the number fades. Wearing your influences so proudly can submerge some acts but it is what you do with these affections that counts; Barrie moulds them into his own evolving sound with style, in tandem with an increasing originality over the years. A love of fuzz penetrates ‘It Isn’t Soul’ before ‘December’ hits us with a groove that most definitely is. ‘Luggin’ Hurt’ is a seven-minute freak out in the under-ploughed field The Stone Roses explored on their second album. Side two moves through a palette of smouldering blues, loose shuffles, and driving, in‑the‑room grooves, all threaded with the band’s renewed focus on rhythm and live energy. Cadogan leans into the blues roots that have always shaped his playing, while the groovier cuts tap into a post‑Can sense of percussive momentum. As he puts it, rhythm has always inspired him as much as guitar work, and one of the key grooves here began as a messy loop he wanted to turn into something hypnotic, almost dance‑leaning, yet still swampy and simmering. Best of all, you finish with a sense that Barrie Cadogan has so much more to come with this project, all it needs is for the multitude of other acts who love to eat from his table to give him the time.

Danny Neill

The vinyl edition of ‘Gravity Freeze’ is available via the link: https://amzn.to/3PxxOHI

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