Seems lazy to give props to this track with a mere blog post, when Paul Morley managed to devote an entire BOOK to it, but obviously everything about it sitting in a room with Alvin Lucier while – in its techno dreams – it sweeps down an autobahn with Kraftwerk has, erm, already been said. For some reason.
In its real-life context, ‘Can’t Get You Out Of My Head’ was the sleek, pulsating sonic seduction that made it actually matter that Kylie had come back. The slight ‘Spinning Around’ made us say, “Isn’t it nice to have Kylie back in pop?”, but this one prompted a “Thank God.”
Junior says: Nothing, but a broad grin spreads across her face. “Do you know who this is?” I ask. “Kylie!” She’s come through her pop education.
Best bit: Where it breaks down and the synths go a bit ‘Love Action’.
While we’re celebrating UK chart success stories, Camera Obscura have had five 45s tear up the hit parade to peak between 100 and 200 – truly the shape of Pixie Lott’s career to come. ‘Lloyd…’ is the second, er, biggest of the lot, a Number 124 smash in 2006. Back then, Junior reviewed it twice: once as a random choice from the 7″ pile, then as our Number 4 pick of the year. Neither piece features on this version of the blog, so I’m free to plagiarise myself.
The first time, I admitted I could never remember this warm rush of indie-country-pop so instead blathered on about “answer” records – you know, this to Lloyd Cole & The Commotions’ fluttering meanie, Frankie to Eamon, Lydia Murdoch to Michael Jackson. But clearly these Scots also-rans worm their way into your head with galloping guitar and madly slurred vocals, and perhaps the fact it was so difficult to get a tight grip on in the first place is what keeps it so fresh.
Junior says: “It’s good and bad,” raising one thumb aloft with the other pointed down. “What’s good?” She mimes playing the organ. “And what’s bad?” “I don’t know.” “Ha!”
Best bit: The chord change from middle eight to final verse, of course.
While we’re celebrating UK chart success stories, Camera Obscura have had five 45s tear up the hit parade to peak
between 100 and 200 – truly the shape of Pixie Lott’s career to come. ‘Lloyd…’ is the second, er, biggest of the
lot, a Number 124 smash in 2006. Back then, Junior reviewed it twice: once as a random choice from the 7″ pile, then
as our Number 4 pick of the year. Neither piece features on this version of the blog, so I’m free to plagiarise
myself.
The first time, I admitted I could never remember this warm rush of indie-country-pop so instead blathered on about
“answer” records – you know, this to Lloyd Cole & The Commotions’ yelping beauty, Frankie to Eamon, Lydia Murdoch to
Michael Jackson. But clearly these Scots also-rans worm their way into your head with galloping guitar and madly
slurred vocals, and perhaps the fact it was so difficult to get a tight grip on in the first place is what keeps it
so fresh.
Junior says: “It’s good and bad,” raising one thumb aloft with the other pointed down. “What’s good?” She mimes
playing the organ. “And what’s bad?” “I don’t know.” “Ha!”
Best bit: The chord change from middle eight to final verse, of course.
So who’s to blame for Annie’s peculiar lack of chart success? Is it her? Is it us, the diehard pop fans who only bought one copy of each record? Or is it a shady cabal of music industry insiders, a manipulative coven with a vested interest in undermining Scandinavian pop; perhaps executives who were once hungry A&R people who saw their Number 1 dreams for their acts come to naught at the dread hand of ABBA in the 70s? It looks pretty clear from here.
Because how can pop music this flimsy, this breathy, this shaky on its pins not win the hearts of a nation? It’s better than ‘Fight For This Love’.
Junior says: “I’ve heard this before,” which puts her a step ahead of 60-odd million people in this country. “It sounds like robots.” And just to prove she’s down with Annie, she quietly joins in with the chorus.
Best bit: The first airing for that pumping Motown beat. It sounds like Annie’s heart bashing its way out of her ribcage.
No pop record has featured this much hiccuping since the imperial phase of Michael Jackson. From the ‘Eye Of The Tiger’ intro to the closing melismatic wail, Beyoncé tics and jerks through a female empowerment anthem that’s more obviously confrontational than ‘Independent Women’ and is – to me, at least, whose view COUNTS HERE – all the better for it. We could never be ready for this much jelly. How can you handle it when it slips through your fingers?
Junior says: “It’s good,” which admittedly lacks real consideration, but perhaps makes up for it with honesty. No more on the ball is her question “Are we having pudding?” when I say B’s singing about jelly.
Best bit: The “wooooo”, obviously, as we slide from intro to dirty funk.
Christ almighty, this is taking eons. I didn’t really mean to cover the decade in real-time; it’s something to do with taking on too many commitments – you know, work, children…
Anyway, with no space for false promises to speed up the countdown, we move on to Robyn and her chart-topping slice of electro-pop-heartbreak. This has its roots in early 90s house and its cardiac beats with impassioned vocals, when dance synths had some body before trance piped them through a shrill-woofer. Robyn’s performance is effervescent, and ever-so-real, while Kleerup lays off his customary cheese for a few symphonic minutes to allow her the perfect, dignified setting. She has a knack of making the banal sound crucial – take her ‘Dream On’ collaboration with Christian Falk, which would seem trite in another voice – but here subject matter and delivery collide.
Junior says: “And-ah-it-ah-hurts-ah-with-ah-every-ah-heart-ah-beat.” Even Robyn can be mimicked. Junior loves the song, asks for it to be repeated, then asks again the next day. The clarity of Robyn’s vocal is what gives it its appeal, at least for her.
Best bit: The flutter of dying synths before that breathy chorus.
Snappy beat group bop with whistling and dippy singalong chorus – there’s no way this won’t score high with the kids. And that must be its intention (at least targeting the indie twee kids); after all, Peter, Bjorn And John don’t devote themselves to pop hits the rest of the time and, apart from the rare uptempo Concretes number, Victoria Bergsman is more comfortable wrapping her helium Bjork purr around Scandi C&W. ‘Young Folks’ has a shelf-life, but while it’s stacked upfront it does its job with infectiousness.
Junior says: “Where’s that piano that you play with the metal wire?” She wants to accompany the gang on stylophone. The instrument’s not handy though so she and middle sis bounce off the walls instead, bellowing “We don’t care about the om force!” I tell them the real title, but, um, they don’t care.
Best bit: Big, lingering chords introduced for the final chorus, set up for a crescendo that sneaks away.
People have been asking me what’s happened to Jukebox Junior. Well, the chap who is the boss of the boss of the chap who I do a fair bit of work for asked me the other day if I “still do that blog”. And it’s that sort of popular demand that leads me back here. When public clamour reaches such a feverish degree, you can only have the good grace to pull your finger out and stop hiding behind excuses like “but I’m getting paid to write that other stuff”, “you try finding spare time with half a dozen daughters hanging onto your leg” and “Christ, I’m lazy”.
So, I’ve had quite enough time to order my thoughts on ‘A-Punk’, perhaps the straightest indie-pop track on Vampire Weekend’s debut, but a zippy song so fresh it seems richer as the years pass. Yep, that’s as far as those thoughts go.
Junior says: “Ay-ay-ay-ay,” of course, and dances like a buffoon. VW are all about looking awkward, after all.
Best bit: Full throttle into the second verse.
People have been asking me what’s happened to Jukebox Junior. Well, the chap who is the boss of the boss of the chap
who I do a fair bit of work for asked me the other day if I “still do that blog”. And it’s that sort of popular
demand that leads me back here. When public clamour reaches such a feverish degree, you can only have the good grace
to pull your finger out and stop hiding behind excuses like “but I’m getting paid to write that other stuff”, “you
try finding spare time with half a dozen daughters hanging onto your leg” and “Christ, I’m lazy”.
So, I’ve had quite enough time to order my thoughts on ‘A-Punk’, perhaps the straightest indie-pop track on Vampire
Weekend’s debut, but a zippy song so fresh it seems richer as the years pass. Yep, that’s as far as those thoughts go.
Junior says: “Ay-ay-ay-ay,” obviously, and dances like a buffoon. VW are all about looking awkward, after all.
It’s a Heart song, isn’t it? All power chords and stark emotion and, er, a phoned-in rap from Jay-Z. He and the Wilson sisters were like this. They’d bring the overwrought, he’d spit the rhymes. Then he ditched Nancy for his girl B and it was all just AOR/hip hop history. Rihanna of course conveys feeling with the natural poise of an office block, but ‘Umbrella’ benefits from her robotic delivery, keeping its secrets, peeling layers off slowly.
Junior says: “Ella-ella-ey-ey-ey” rather a lot. In fact, she says it pretty much every time she’s confronted by an umbrella of any hue, musical or rainworthy. It’s entered the lexicon.
Best bit: The thumping great beat in Rihanna’s first line.
The one surefooted monster among Hail To The Thief’s dreary missteps, ‘There There’ finds time to play at Bjork’s ‘Human Behaviour’ before letting rip with fiery guitars and palpable thrills. It reminds me of painting my old flat. So does that Zwan album. Decorating in 2003 was all about suspiciously lumpen, sneakily enjoyable rock.
Junior says: “When’s the good bit?” I’d built Thom and Jonny’s axe-clash up a bit. She also suffered a potential lethal blow to her nascent understanding of mathematics, when reading ‘2 + 2 = 5’ on the CD cover.
What a damn shame. The Noughties were made for Aaliyah, weren’t they? The slinky R&B diva bending chromium beats to her will. Instead, Timbaland had to resort to making a just-about-convincing coldhearted Maneater out of Nelly Furtado. Here’s what happened back in March 2007 when we covered ‘Try Again’ for the 2000 countdown on the old blog:
“Robot pop. Not an ounce of humanity in it unless you’re counting Aaliyah’s soulless croon. Timbaland is the techno Dr Frankenstein and ‘Try Again’ is a wired-up, machine-spliced monster. Magnificent. Junior didn’t listen to one icily syncopated note, but can say “Aaliyah”.”
And now?
Junior says: “Aaliyah,” with a little more clarity. She’s sorry to hear about her early demise – we let that one slip, but four-year-olds are pretty sang-froid – mainly because she enjoys the dancing in the video (Jukebox Junior is well multimedia in 2010).
Best bit: It goes nowhere except, well, the outer reaches of the solar system. It’s consistently at its best.
Jukebox Junior 