PICK OF THE WEEK
'Phoenix Entertainment' is not, as I'd initially hoped, the latest brainchild of wheelchair-bound Bolton impresario Brian Potter. The first taste of the eyebrow-arching French boffins' forthcoming album Bankrupt!, it's based around a swooshing, far eastern-flavoured 80s synth hook. Melodically massive and shinier than Mr Sheen's bellend, it's built in a lab to get crowds bouncing and grins spreading across booze-flushed faces.
Not to be confused with Iggy Pop, Azealia Banks, Hank Azaria or Ziggy Greaves from Grange Hill, Iggy Azalea is an Australian-born, preposto-arsed rapstress who's been hotly tipped for the past year but is only now unleashing her debut single. It tells the touching rags-to-bitches tale of moving from Sydney to Miami in her teens to "work work work on my sheeeit". There are sweeping strings and bratty spat-out lyrics like, "Valley girls giving blow-jobs for Louboutins/ Whatcha call that? Head over heels?" The video has 3m YouTube views already. Your move, Lucy Spraggan.
Backyard Skulls (Atlantic)
We all have skeletons in our closet but who, apart from Fred West, has skulls in their backyard? Perma-touring Scottish doom-mongers Fwightened Wabbit do, it seems. This slice of impassioned indie-rock sounds like Snow Patrol and Biffy Clyro having angry sex down a well. Hey, a boy can dream.
It Had Better Be Tonight (Reprise)
I've had a soft spot for Mickey Bubbles since that kiss'n'tell where an ex-model named Tiffany (obvs) "exclusively revealed" how the toddler-faced Canadian crooner slobbed in bed all day, getting stoned, rutting and ordering cake on room service. Sort of like a human version of those Wagyu beef cows that lie on hay getting massaged and mooing. Sadly, this pointless cover of Henry Mancini's lounge standard is suitable only for 'zany' Euro hatchback ads starring smug men with annoying hair.
How Can I Tell You (Lucky Seven)
This jaunty father-to-child advice affair crams in a few too many lyrics, so it scans clunkily, like an amateur poem or Ed Sheeran song. It's the third single off their album Oui, Oui, Si, Si, Ja, Ja, Da, Da, which I imagine was named by Jim Trott off The Vicar Of Dibley (target demographic reference).
The Bell (Domino)
With fluttery percussion, twangy Morricone guitar and psychedelic Hammond swirls, it's like Conor O'Brien is writing a soundtrack for a film that hasn't yet been made. Called The Bell. Starring Jason Statham as a maverick campanologist being pursued by a pack of killer vicars. Guy Ritchie, if you're reading, consider this a pitch. You Mockney mug.
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