The Struggle Continues by Looptroop was a door opening for me. For the first time, hip hop felt like something more than just a genre, a new favourite carrying weight, direction, and meaning. The Struggle Continues and Fort Europa became a window into a broader view of the world, where the words cut through the noise and actually meant something. Raw, conscious, and uncompromising, with huge dynamics, infectious groove, and rhythm. A kind of boom bap paoow that didn’t just ask to be heard, it demanded to be listened to. Highly recommend this pride of Västerås.
LOOPTROOP - THE STRUGGLE CONTINUES
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Thin Lizzy - Thin Lizzy
The Friendly Ranger At Clontarf Castle streams out of the speakers and flows seamlessly into Honesty Is No Excuse, and I am completely stunned. I am sitting there, wedged into an Eighties sofa, surrounded by cushions, cheap wine, Marinella and fingers sticky with cheese puffs.“Can you play that again?” I say to Tommy. Tommy was from the small town of Habo, just outside Jönköping, and was into tennis, Thin Lizzy and Van Halen. We had met earlier that same year in Kristianstad, where we were doing our military service. The year was 1984. It was Friday night and we were excited after a long train journey back from our posting. Herreys were at the top of the Swedish charts, grating on our eardrums like a Eurovision-winning Swedish entry – three brothers dressed in dance-band outfits with brightly coloured tops. It definitely wasn't our thing. Our world wasn't filled with the gossip press's front pages or the covers of OKEJ magazine. I knew Thin Lizzy well enough, but I had never heard this first LP in its entirety before. The few songs and fragments I had picked up were minimal, mostly overheard on the radio. My focus was more towards post-punk, Pink Floyd and my musical god David Bowie. By then, my LP collection had already grown to a half-metre-high stack of records in this genre. I met Tommy again several years later. We talked about music, and he told me that he had developed an allergy to hops. A fate worse than death, he said – he loved beer... The LP is a blend of Irish folk rock with clear Celtic influences. Here you can hear Lynott's early songwriting, extraordinarily poetic and musically outstanding. Lynott also wrote poetry, which he published in book form alongside his music. Eric Bell was the band's sole guitarist, bringing his own tone and colours to the music. The absence of simple power chords is striking. Instead, it is all about creating atmosphere and nuance around Bell and Lynott's lyrics. I know I've said this before and taken some wallops for it, but I consider the first three LPs to be the most interesting. Precisely because of this combination, where the vocals almost seem to converse with the drums and guitar, in something akin to call and response. In my subjective opinion, there isn't a single second of a dip in this LP. Everything grabs your attention. Five out of five all the way through is my verdict. Perhaps that is precisely why it has now, these days, been reissued as a 50th Anniversary Edition. Share the music!
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Svart Ridå – APONIA
When the Curtain Goes Up, Svart Ridå, this three-stage rocket. Dressed like old men in white shirts, black trousers and shoes, and black ties, like The Blues Brothers. Perhaps completely off the wall to some people, but I think I get it. They are absolutely taking the piss out of patriarchy, touché and they do it so bloody well. “Take me seriously, for fuck’s sake, look how I conform,” while in reality it is one big: “Fuck you, I’ll do whatever I want.” On the outside, they stand there at Way Out West in their uniform, almost rigid appearance in stark contrast to their explosive and physical performance on stage. Svart Ridå absolutely stand out, and they have more than deserved all the positive attention they have received recently. And the way they play. Only three of them in the band, yet they sound like many more. They wear out the skins on the drum kit and shred the strings on bass and guitar, without it ever feeling forced or contrived. This is pure, unadulterated rock: guitar noise, improvisation, swinging arms, headbanging and powerful emotional outbursts delivered straight from the spine. I realise I’m stating the obvious when I say that this is a band who own the stage. The music is raw and played with incredible authority and confidence, on a level with the biggest bands of the 1990s. Like a reincarnation from a bygone era, they suddenly appear. The openings are heavy as lead, dystopian, frightening, direct, fearless, full of bloody-minded determination only to unfold into beautiful melancholy and deeply emotional storytelling the very next moment. There is Nirvana’s fragility, distortion and sudden explosion, attitude and attack, only to land moments later in that distinctly Swedish melancholy and emotional depth. We are thrown from the extremes of punk, down into dreamy Slowdive, through The Hives and Jeff Beck, before finally being lulled to sleep by Kent. Their performance and expression are so strong that they never need to shout for your attention. Instead, you suddenly find yourself standing there, swaying in a trance, mouth open and eyes fixed. They clang, they wail, they roar in unison, just like the very best. So come on, lads, come and have a look. All you bands full of blokes trying so bloody hard. Svart Ridå have already cracked it long before their death and before the curtain has even come down. And as for why I skipped half of my Way Out West headliner, Gorillaz: the LP APONIA is 100 per cent brilliant, just buy it. But as a live act, Svart Ridå make you tremble.
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David Bowie – Reality
David Bowie – Reality. Unlike last week’s LP, Silverhead, I remember exactly when I bought this record, Reality by David Bowie. It came after Heathen (2002), and Bowie was then going through a period of resurrection and a more down-to-earth phase. There may well be people out there who disagree with me, but to me this felt more like back to the roots, an art performance, and more like the period of 1976–77. A period which, in my opinion, is one of his very best, with Station to Station, Low and Heroes. This long period in between, starting in 1993 and lasting until 2002, felt to me as if I had lost my great hero from my younger years. From my 80s teenage years, with my Kermit-green DIY speakers, a Lenco 75 turntable and a 35-watt Marantz 1040 amplifier. When the spark was lit again for me, it was with Heathen. A little anecdote is that Bowie was actually in Gothenburg that year to promote Heathen. I still have the LP, but I never got it signed. The queue was long, stretching all the way down and past the Sjöfartsmuseum. So, on 15 September 2003, when Reality was released in Europe, I had it marked in my calendar. I bought the CD at Bengans in Gothenburg, too, and it landed straight in the glove compartment of my Golf. It wasn’t available as an LP, you see. About 20 days later, I became a father for the first time. My first daughter, eager and curious about the world, was born six weeks prematurely. She was due around Christmas Eve, but right then my life took a new turn. Bowie and I travelled back and forth to the neonatal unit. My entire focus was on my daughter, with Bowie soothing me into some kind of harmony. Reality received its share of criticism. Bowie had stopped trying to be the man who changed music and had instead become very good at simply being David Bowie. Everyone agreed that the album was well made. Many thought it was intelligent; some found it vague, with strange lyrics, a little pretentious, leaving the listener with a whole lot of questions. And that, in my opinion, is the most interesting thing about it. Like Low, it makes you think as you listen. The album demands your attention. Something new appears each time. It doesn’t get “worn out” by being played on repeat. It can quietly and happily sit there in the CD player of my white Volkswagen Golf, back and forth from work to the hospital, home again, and round and round. Reality is Bowie as a more mature version of himself: guitar-driven, dark, melodic and down-to-earth, with electronic veils and a distinct sense of reflection.
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