Back in the 1990s, New Zealand band, The Bats, rose to prominence on the international stage. Like many other bands of that era, from that relatively small country, they had an outsized influence on many others. It’s hard to talk about New Zealand’s music scene and not mention Split Endz and the Finn Brothers. I think we should speak of Robert Scott in the same way when we think of the list of great NZ musicians.

I’m not here to write of his output with The Bats, but to look at his solo work. In particular, I want to go back a decade to Scott’s album, The Green House. While his solo work can sometimes be quite experimental, this one is pretty straightforward alternative indie rock/pop. Yet, it bears all the hallmarks of Scott’s talents as a songwriter – top-tapping melodies, atmospheric instrumentation and his exemplary guitar work.

The album opener, Lights Are Low, is all moody picked guitar and the haunting vocals of Hollie Fullbrook from Tiny Ruins, who, incidentally, adds her voice to five of the The Green House’s 12 tracks. It is a song that sets the scene for the rest of the album. You might be getting songs that on the surface are just great pop songs, but they’ll sink into your psyche and stick there, finding ways to affect you when you least expect it. That’s the magic of Robert Scott, right there.

It’s not all acoustic wonderment, either. Vertigo, finishing off the first quarter of the album, could easily sit among the output of current indie faves, The Reds, Pinks and Purples. Glenn Donaldson’s band is probably a good contemporary comparison, although there’s also a seam of darkness that keeps bubbling up in The Green House. The jangle pop of Scott’s other bands is put aside here, swapped out for a harder edged and layered soundscape.

Scott’s 30+ years’ experience of being in bands and writing songs really shows, as each of these songs showcases a songwriter who not only still at the top of their game but is able to wrong foot the listener with creative compositional flourishes that keep you listening. They’re the sort of musical switches that make you think, “Damn, I wasn’t expecting that!” He’s a master.

The richness of NZ’s folk scene is also present here. Following on from the beautiful instrumental, Favourite Case, comes another track which features Hollie’s contrasting voice, Now In Your Hands. It’s probably one of the most straightforward songs on the album, yet in any other hands it would be merely good. With Scott’s deftness as a writer, guitarist and singer, so it becomes great.

It’s Scott’s voice that makes this album so listenable, really. It’s understated. It’s a vehicle for this lyrics, sure, but it’s dripping with emotional intent. There’s a weight to it, even though it’s actually quite fragile and dropped down in the mix. In this way, it reminds me of Sune Rose Wagner of The Raveonettes (if he was to sing with Sharin Foo in an alt-country, folk style). If it wasn’t there you’d be wondering what was missing. This is most obvious on Hear The Hondas, which has a simple melody picked out on the guitar, the vocals carefully laid atop almost as an afterthought. And yet. Using overdubs, Scott manages to create a soothing complexity, so warm and inviting you want to bathe in it.

I think, in all honesty, what I’m describing is a New Zealand sound. Despite no accent to pick up on, I reckon I could place the origin of Scott’s music on first listen. As you come over the ridge of the guitar riff on Where The Frost Lies, for example, the drums make you stop and take in the view, as it were. Another instrumental that somehow bottles the feeling of the place in which it was made and brings it to you through the magic of audio.

And with that, you slip beneath the surface of the final track, Right From Wrong, and suddenly you’re cocooned in more of Scott’s folk splendour. Probably one of simplest tracks of the entire record, it’s the perfect way bring your listening to a close. There’s no fade out, though. It’s Robert Scott doing what Robert Scott does best – an unexpected ending as the final plucks of his guitar strings stop a bar or two earlier than a lesser musician might choose. Yet, it is of course, the perfect way to draw this listening experience to a close.

When I read this title back to myself, I think it’s backwards. That’s because The Soft Pack were once called The Muslims but got some hate and heat from that back in 2007 when they first burst on to the indie rock scene. So they changed it, releasing their debut (which contained many of these songs) as The Soft Pack.

I’m of the belief that the original name of the band was great. (That name now belongs to an all-queer black and brown punk band – their words – who hail from North Carolina.) That said, it’s their band and they can call it what they want – the important thing here is the music.

It’s clear that The Strokes played their part in the sound of The Soft Pack. I imagine This Is It being blasted out and influencing this band from San Diego. It’s got that distinctly east coast vibe rather than the sunny west coast from which they hail. It’s DIY, with thrashy drums up front and vocals low in the mix.

I first came across the band when they put out their lead single, Extinction. The video had that perfect film/art school look and feel which singer Matt Lamkin had studied, but somehow was also simple and hypnotic as Matt moved in and out of focus behind the leaves of a tree as the wind blew. It was so different to the flashy MTV-style videos that rap bands were putting out, or indie bands conjured up. That DIY aesthetic again. That song alone hooked me in.

The garage rock sound pervades throughout the album. The production isn’t great, yet it lends itself to the overall sound of the band and, I would like to think, was purposeful. Once they’d changed their name and re-recorded many of the songs, some of that essence was definitely lost. Despite the obvious low production values, the band is a tight unit. They have great riffs in the same way that early Libertines songs have them. Tracks like Call it a Day and the aforementioned Extinction showcase the catchiness of the guitar riffs, the drummer’s pounding but solid beats. The perfect backdrop to singer Matt’s punk rock crooning.

The Soft Pack weren’t necessarily doing anything new or innovative. Yet, somehow, they avoided being completely derivative. On My Time is a good example. It punches out at you from the get-go so you can’t duck and avoid it (not that you’d want to). It’s like the band aimed to obscure their musical abilities while at the same time demonstrate they could write and play simple, brilliant songs.

The shimmering noise of Religion is a band doing things on their own terms – Mark E. Smith would’ve hated them for following his lead in that respect, especially on tracks like American, but as someone who loves The Fall, there are few comparisons to make here beyond hypnotic, rhythmic guitars and occasional vocal barks.

The Soft Pack managed two albums before they ceased to be. This early incarnation of their sound was, perhaps, their best. Unencumbered by media expectations, their desire to make noisy guitar-based music in a garage with their mates was what mattered most. And for that, we can be thankful.

I suppose, with so much new music constantly being released, being late to discover a band can happen. Though, the two decades since this album’s release might be starting to be unfashionably late to the party. However, when it comes to discovering hidden gems that deserve wider attention, as is the raison d’être of Unspun Heroes, time doesn’t really matter. It’s much more about that moment where you hear something and want to share it with the world. This was the case the first time I heard an album that came out in 2003.

Ten Songs by Assistant.

Almost exactly 21 years ago, a young band from Brighton put out their first album. And while the name may not win awards for inventiveness, they made music that would have broken through had it been recorded 10-15 years previously. In 2003, the world was listening to indie rock, with Muse, The White Stripes, Radiohead and their ilk, as well as the likes of Jay-Z and Outkast. It wasn’t listening to jangly indie pop that draws influences from Stereolab, Felt, and Galaxie 500. Certainly not en masse.

A real shame, for us and for Assistant.

Fast forward to 2024, however, and things are about to change (as you’ll see).

I heard of the band only a few months ago, via social media. I’d seen a Tweet about jangly pop and, because listening to lots of music is good to do, particularly when it’s new to you, I gave their debut LP a spin on Bandcamp. Now, I am a fan of the writer, John Wyndham, so the opening song has the right title for me. However, it was the second track, Freaks, that absolutely caught my ear. That catchy bass hook! The noisy guitar that comes to the front of the mix! The vocalist who doesn’t try too hard to ‘sing’ the song. It felt like I was in the best years of my youth rather than the later years of middle age. It’s right up my rue, as they say en France.

Yes, it’s jangly indie, but it has an edge to it that, to my mind, puts it in that sort of early nineties musical neighbourhood. There’s that DIY element to the songs, which gives them a real personality that polished production might rub away. No-one need ever know, is a straight up pop hit, despite its rather downcast lyrics. In fact, all the songs have that sort of pop feel to them, like a lot of songs by The Smiths always did. And while I don’t think there is any more of a comparison here, the songwriting definitely feels like it owes a tip of the hat to Stephen Morrissey, as well as Damon Albarn, and Crispin Hunt.

The album has many surprises hidden in plain sight. I’ve already mentioned the bass hooks that are given a lot of room to shine on every track, as they should be. But I wasn’t prepared for the boogie-woogie piano riff halfway through Bomber, for example, yet it feels like the song simply wouldn’t work without it. Because of that, this has quickly become one of my favourite tracks.

Across Ten Songs, you’re left with the feeling you’ve heard a band’s sound mature across an album rather than a career. As the album winds into its closing numbers, so the vibe becomes much more chilled. This definitely gives you an idea of where the band ultimately headed, especially with songs they recorded in 2020. You’ll get more introspective jangle pop on closing song, Reasoned,than edgy indie, although Get Away has that Hot Hot Heat vibe, and Losing My Mind soundslike it’s been made in some NYC-Manchester hybrid rather than a British seaside resort.

Brighton has always delivered musically. The scene in the city of Brighton and Hove is hot right now – my (current and ever-changing) picks are Porridge Radio, Opus Kink, KEG, DITZ and Dream Wife, but let’s not forget Blood Red Shoes, Electrelane, 14 Iced Bears… (Oh, the list is too long I’ll have to make a playlist.) Whatever. The point is, I think Assistant deserves a spot on that list.

Ten Songs is the perfect place to start.

The following has been written by Jonathan, the vocalist for Assistant. We met in a Brighton coffee shop to chat about life, music, the late 90s… and about how life can change when you let go of the things that might have once held you back.

23 years ago, I appealed, via a Brighton forum on a distant version of the internet, for people “with no musical talent”. I had just moved to Brighton and wanted to form a band. I had written a song, so it seemed like a good idea. My Assistant bandmates, Pete and Anne-Sophie both replied and, for the last twenty-odd years, whenever life has allowed us, we’ve written songs together or with each other in mind – more recently taking it in turns to share the load, iron the songs out, record them, embellish and improve them. 

From time to time I write in Brighton, scrabbling at my guitar while my toddlers busy themselves around my feet. Over in Oxford, Pete writes songs daily, and for Pete they flow out steadily, a kind of diary-keeping. He keeps most for himself and will occasionally say ‘this is for Assistant’, and once he’s done that a few times the odd alchemy of making a collection of songs begins, with left-field ambushes from Anne-Sophie, who chips in with her own surprising, inscrutable demos.

As our songs come together, we begin to swap ideas for album titles, sleeve designs, concepts. Pete’s songs are pure of expression. My songs come less easily and are generally autobiography which is then clothed in a disguise of vagueness. I’m not always sure I know what I want my songs to be doing, so they often exist in many variations for months and even years, until I find a variant that I’m happy with. Pete is decisive and sure of touch. I am much less so, my clumsy fingers conjuring many flimsy takes, so Pete will often send me emails with subject lines like ‘new album?’, wondering if we’re done.

However, I like to sit on the songs for so long that I almost forget where they come from. I forget how to play them. And then I start to reassemble them, swapping stuff out, changing something here, there. Eventually, at some point, they are finished. But since we reformed properly, in 2020, we have tended towards doing almost nothing with our songs at this point. They go up on Bandcamp, very quietly, where they sit undiscovered. Once I sent an email to the host of my favourite radio show – Josh Meadows – who cheerfully played us four times. I learned absolutely nothing from this. Months passed.

Since 2020 we have made three albums this way; collated by post, assembled slowly. The songs have become increasingly personal and important to us. And I think of each of these Assistant albums (one is unreleased) as finished, whole, totally real. Our own art. But it’s not often I will mention them to anyone. A few friends know and are supportive – but they are not really fans of the music. So the songs just sit there. 

–

Perhaps we are an imaginary band? I like to think of us that way. I can see us low-down on the bill supporting Felt or The Servants in a London Polytechnic in 1987. Or we might have squeezed a song onto a compilation album alongside an early Electric Soft Parade demo or a Young Knives b-side. We played some really great gigs in Brighton and London in the early 2000s, in fact, but we were quite drunk and they’re harder to remember than I’d like.

At Christmas this year, I suddenly thought: “I’ll tell everyone about our band”. So I created a Twitter account and began sharing songs that we’d written alongside some little reviews of records I liked and videos from YouTube. This is where things started getting a bit weird. With remarkable speed, people began listening! Not only did they listen, but they told me they liked the songs, and even began referencing back my very favourite artists too. My imaginary band was flickering into life, and it made me very happy.

Pete and Anne-So were completely disbelieving. “Who are these people????” Anne-Sophie would say. “We are becoming a cult band”.

We are probably still way too small to be a cult band, but then… but then I am suddenly filled with a giddy conviction that we are indeed going to become a cult band. “We’re the new Blue Orchids”, I tell myself, as I click on our Bandcamp stats to see that, somehow, we got 30,40,60, even 100 plays that day. It is not much, really, but it is really really really exciting. I squint and try to imagine our audience.

The lesson, I suspect, is that lots of people out there really love pop music, and feel the same way about it as I do – they chase that delightful moment of discovery, that instance of recognition when you hear a song and think “oh, I get what they’re trying to do here”. As a few people tune in, I’m getting that mirrored back to me after years of celebrating the weird little songs that crept into my life. Music is so great – the rush which heralds the discovery of a great new song is a feeling almost completely unchanged from all the way back then – back when I was sat in my bedroom in 1994 staring at a wall of Blur posters. A new song to love is like receiving a kiss.

And I discover, too, that some people are just incredibly nice. They will be insanely generous with their time and energy, going out of their way to share the things you share, to recommend you, even get you played on the radio. People have gone out of their way, which I did not expect at all. This small thing which is happening to Assistant is so wildly great and totally unexpected, so tremendously nice. And in the meantime, all of a sudden, I am discovering wonderful bands left right and centre, and exchanging messages with them as if I too am in a band – a real one, not an imaginary one. It’s flipping great.

The work of art you make has so much more value than you think it does, especially if it is made with love. I think in retrospect it’s probably for the best that I am not (or was not) ambitious about having an audience, as it has allowed me to enjoy making art without needing to improve, or break out, or face the horror of criticism, either. But now I am telling people, and will do so until they tell me to stop.

If you make stuff, I really, really recommend telling people about your art, even if, like me, you have to do it through a veil of very British irony and embarrassment. You deserve the thrill of having your work noticed. I wish I had done it earlier.

UPDATE: Since this piece was written Assistant have signed a record deal and are releasing their two most recent LPs through Subjangle on the 21st April.

There have been more than a few occasions where I’m had to admit I had things wrong, that I’d had preconceptions that had held me back. And many times I’ve been proven wrong in my assumptions. I’m happy to admit it. This is one of those times.

And, whoa, how happy I am to be proved wrong.

In my defence, I’m a person who will give any music its due. Sometimes, I have to be doing something else when I listen to an album I don’t know, to let it infuse itself into my brain like a melodic marinade. This is one such time. I’ve had this album playing while I’ve been doing other things. But each time I’m stopped in my tracks by it.

This could be called Americana, country-folk, or whatever label you care to drop on a style of music. However, like a lot of these labels, it falls short when it comes to Drink Ring Jesus by Stephen Simmons. Listening to this album is like a searing knife through flesh it cuts into a part of me that I can’t begin to describe. The eponymously named opening track literally brought tears to my eyes when I first heard it, and that hasn’t diminished through the several plays I’ve gone through since I first pressed play on Stephen’s Bandcamp page.

And it doesn’t relinquish its hold on you. Before you’re even able to get yourself together, Simmons pushes on. If there was a knife, you’d feel its twist as Time To Pay plays out. I couldn’t wait to get the feelings this record has created in me on to digital paper, such is the effect I’ve felt by this set of tracks, first released in 2006.

A single guitar, a voice and occasional harmonica. It’s stripped back in instrumentation, but it’s loaded with emotion. If I didn’t know better, I’d be worried for Simmons’ own life, but he is actually playing a character who, possibly, is sat on his front porch in rural Tennessee and pondering the decisions that got him here. Seeking solace from Jesus and The Devil and finding himself bereft and exhausted. As he sings on You Give Us:

“Sometimes I get so sick of this life
Sometimes I think I must be losing my mind
Sometimes I wonder why I even still try”

Somehow, Simmons has imparted these feelings of introspection into the recording. It’s like vapours pouring from a vial, it’s music you inhale until you embody it. I know it sounds unlikely – and I would have agreed with you had I not heard it myself. This is an album that you forced to invest in, it’s that compelling a listen. I defy you to not do be haunted by this.

Lyrically, it flits between sinister and uplifting. Sometimes, there are moments where the two worlds cross over. The opening lines of the chorus on Devil’s Work Is Never Done is one such time, but the melody Simmons conjures up drives it home as if the words were delivered by a nail gun:

“It looks so easy sounds so damn simple
You think these souls fall right outta the sky?
Jesus back off, this one’s mine”

I mean, come on!

This album could have fallen into clichés very easily. Somehow, Simmons avoids them even while the themes sit up front, riding shotgun. The words he chooses, the chords he plucks; these are the things that prevent this from being pastiche and ensure the album continues to have that emotional effect on you throughout. I can picture the tribute Elvis bawling as Simmons’ sings Cryin’ Elvis. Brought to life by his voice, held by the framework of composition and thoughtful fingerpicking on the guitar.

The album is littered with clever lines. It’s hard not to quote them endlessly. Lines like, “I sipped on a quart of sloth / Fell behind and got lost” which pops up in the second half of Dante’s Blues No.7. And there are plenty more to discover.

Even as the album slows and begins its descent towards its end, the quality continues to ascend. It brought to mind another recent album that floored me on first listen and continues to reward, Evensongs by Andrew Rumsey. It’s interesting to me that both have religious connotations, but wear them like a tattoo that can be glimpsed. You can pull up the sleeve and bear witness, but even if you prefer to ignore them it doesn’t diminish the experience these songs bring. You’re part of the congregation listening to Simmons’ blend of sermon and confessional, just by pressing play.

I’ll leave you with another lyric, this time from the final song, Long Way To Go.

“And I heard somebody say
You gotta walk that lonesome valley
On your own just to prove your worth”

Well, actually, you can have Stephen Simmons accompany you. And that’s as close to perfect as you’ll get on any day of the week.

For international audiences, Ettab (occasionally written as Etab) seems relatively unknown. However, in the Arabic-speaking world, this Saudi singer is a huge star. A legend? Maybe best described as an icon, in fact. And rightly so.

Ettab was born in 1947 as Tarouf Abdulkhair Adam Muhammad al-Talal Hawsawi, in Riyadh, but was exiled for her activism and support for women’s rights in the music world, spending the majority of her time in Egypt until her death in 2007.

I suppose it’s not unfair to call this album pop music. Recorded in 1992, in Lebanon, by producer brothers, Mahmoud and Ahmed Moussa for their Re-Lax label, it serves as a great collection of songs for discovering an artist who delivered over 15 albums in her lifetime. Catchy melodies and string-laden music – alongside some amazing synth work – is set against Ettab’s exceptional voice, which is both rich and playful.

There is a distinct North African vibe, or chaabi (which is used to describe a genre of ‘folk’ music from that region), alongside the more specific Algerian/European fusion known as raï. This provides the music with the more modern elements of several Western musical styles alongside the obvious Arabian influences, especially noticeable on Track 4 Khalas Min Hobek.

It’s this mix that gives the album a timeless sound – and yet, it could also have been produced some thirty years previous to its actual release date, such are the visuals it creates in the listener’s mind, mostly on its opening two tracks, Min fina Ya Hal Tara and Ya El Koweit. However, for me, it’s the penultimate track, Ma Aâla El Aâchik, that captures what this album is all about. The album was reissued in 2023 by French label, Elmir Records, which is devoted to ensuring that the musical heritage of North Africa and the Middle East is conserved.

A vinyl pressing, of which only 500 copies were made, is still available via their Bandcamp page at the time of writing. Listen to Ettab’s album in the embedded player below, or via your preferred streaming service.

New Cross in south-east London is synonymous with ground-breaking mid-noughties indie bands. One that slipped under many radars is named after a social club that existed in the area, although some may consider to be Peckham (but let’s not split hairs, they’re in the same-ish area). Back in the day, the New Cross area was known as Hatcham (which, incidentally, means a ‘clearing in the wood in Old English)… and so, we have Hatcham Social.

Their debut was released in 2009, and it’s this that we steer your ears towards. The brilliantly titled, You Dig The Tunnel, I’ll Hide The Soil, is a collection of 11 songs, each a catchy indie bounce – the album was produced by Tim Burgess of The Charlatans (UK), and it shows – with its twinkly synths and rhythmic guitar.

Fronted by one of the Kidd brothers, Toby, and driven by the sticks of former Klaxons drummer and other brother, Finn, they sound quite laid back yet sanguine. You can hear aspects of other bands of their era in the mix, but they are very much their own band. It could be pop, but it’s too noisy for that; it could be indie rock, but it’s got some smarts in the lyrics and the treble in the guitar sound shifts it out of that genre. They describe themselves as Art Pop, so I guess we’ll have to go with that.

There is a knowingness that lifts it above many of their contemporaries, particularly on songs such as Murder in the Dark, and I Cannot Cure My Pure Evil (which to my ears could be a cover of an obscure demo from The Cure). There are so many references you can pull from this band. Clearly, somewhere along the line they listened to The Smiths, for example, but chose not to emulate them in song structure or lyrically content, and so avoid being a pastiche of their influences. Aspects of Orange Juice and Talking Heads flicker in amongst the whoa-ohs of So So Happy Making, too. They’ve taken all the best bits of the best bits of indie pop and melded them into something new.

The album was released by Fierce Panda, a label known for bringing some of the best indie bands to the world, from Ash to Supergrass (okay, also Coldplay and Keane, but we all make mistakes). Artwork was created by Faris Badwan, lead vocalist of The Horrors. Yes, Hatcham Social are in good company. On release it was critically acclaimed, gaining solid reviews and a lot of support from the music media (except from The Guardian, whose reviewer was peeved there were no sing-along-a-chorus moments).

And yet… and yet, the band never really broke through in the way that other such as The XX, Florence and the Machine, Thao and the Get Down Stay Down, and other luminaries of the indie scene. It’s hard to say why, considering the calibre of the songs on this debut. However, at Unspun HQ still believe this album is very much worthy of wider attention, which makes Hatcham Social’s debut an Unspun Hero.

It was never released on vinyl in the UK – although a US release with a different track listing did come out on TBD Records who licensed it for UK release. It remains to be seen if Fierce Panda (or TBD Records) will consider doing a limited edition vinyl release, so perhaps someone else will? In 2022, Hatcham Social released a career-spanning retrospective on Fierce Panda called We Are The Weirdos. Still together, we can hope they’ll continue to release new music at some point in the near future. You can enjoy listening to their debut via their Bandcamp page, or on other streaming services of your choice.

I loved Twin Peaks when it came out, watching it religiously (alongside Northern Exposure – which could be a blog post in its own right) throughout my early twenties. Not only did the plot keep me enthralled, but the music did, too. That widescreen sound, full of synth and guitar layers that mirrored the writing, all designed to pull you in deep to try and make sense of what you were watching and listening to.

This is what I think of when I think of The Luxembourg Signal’s second album, Blue Field. Building from the remains of the band, Aberdeen (from California, not Scotland), The Luxembourg Signal not only continue with the place-name-as-band-name theme, but also the melodic and indie dream pop jangle with guitar fuzz overtones. There’s a lot going on. (It even has a song called Laura Palmer.) It’s all texture and mood on this album, melodic and expansive.

However, while they started with a more shoegaze sound their music has evolved with Blue Field, their second album, which was released in 2017. Opening track, There’s Nothing More Beautiful Than A Well-Made Machine sets the scene, although as the album goes on so do the nods to Ride and Slowdive deepen, particularly on tracks such as the aforementioned Laura Palmer, and short instrumental Slow Delayed Heart. This, though, is not a negative. In fact, that ‘shoegaze’ word is no longer (thankfully) seen as derogatory. This is atmospheric indie pop at its best. Think of artists like Cloth and Kathryn Joseph as much as those 90’s stalwarts.

The title track is something to savour, as this seven-piece band creates the sort of song that wouldn’t go amiss soundtracking your journey to a summer festival, or the early morning hours after you’ve broken up with your long-term partner. It’s one for many different occasions, which is surely nothing but a good sign. Bop around to it, or wallow: it’s still the kind of album that burrows into your ear and hooks itself into your consciousness. Partly this is the vocal talent of Beth Arzy, partly the angular guitar riffs and glistening arpeggios of Johnny Joyner and Kelly Davies.

There is that filmic quality, always present. It’s this that truly defines the album, and much of The Luxembourg Signal’s output before and since. The fact that their sound could be from 30 years ago or 30 years into the future says a lot. Futuristic Retro as a genre anyone? And while the tempo doesn’t shift much, you still get a sense of momentum building to a climax. By the time you get to the final song, What You’re Asking For, you might feel both cleansed and pure – and like you’ve watched an unsettling TV crime series and need the perfect cup of sweet tea to reset your nerves.  

A bit like watching Twin Peaks.

Of course, though, like each and every Unspun Hero, Blue Field deserves your attention. Listen to the album at The Luxembourg Signal’s Bandcamp page.

On a recent trip to Middlesbrough, on Unspun Heroes business, so I was played an album that is about to come out on vinyl. (Yes, an Unspun Hero can be something that is fresh and new and not-quite-released on a plastic disc.) I sat back with a cup of tea and a biscuit and listened. The background hum of the office I was in just faded away and I was sucked into the music so deeply I could have sworn I’d been dreaming.

I hadn’t. What I’d experienced was Tom Blackwell’s latest album. And what a stunning collection it is.

This is an album of musical minimalism that somehow appears to be fuller than expected. Guitar and harmonica, it’s easy to immediately think of Dylan. Yet, I think it’s fair to state that Tom is producing music that is on par with those early Zimmerman acoustic songs, but perhaps with more of a Donovan folksy feel, shot through with notes of Americana to give each of the songs their own unique flavour.

His biography has a line in it that sums Tom’s musicality so perfectly, it deserves repeating: “Blackwell sings his songs as if he is living them.”

Indeed.

And as a listener you feel as if you’re living them alongside him. Oh, these must be a delight to hear live (although, as they’re a one-take recording with just a microphone, captured at his home, I suppose you actually are). Remarkable tunes, each and every one of them.

They’re almost a decade old, which means Tom has sat with these gems inside and alongside him, and it’s this that creates such a depth not only to the songwriting but to the playing. He says they’re a collection of love songs to a café in Pimlico, London, where he used to find himself after walking for hours. He suggest listening to them late at night, which I think it probably right. With a whiskey sour, perhaps, and friends. I think you’ll find yourselves stunned into silence, perhaps the occasional murmur of appreciation leaking from mouths at the end of each track.

Buying a copy of this to play late at night in my own home was an easy decision. I’d made it the moment I came back to myself in that office in Middlesbrough. I urge you to give this a listen, and I think you’ll come to the same conclusion. There are only 200 copies of this available on vinyl – well, 199 at least – and I doubt they’ll hang around for long, except in your own record collection and in the memories of those who are lucky enough to have heard Tom Blackwell. Listen and buy via Tom’s Bandcamp.

Kingston upon Hull, famous for having its own communications company and being almost completely destroyed in the blitz –only for Thatcher to do her best to better that 40 years later. Politics, aside, it’s an area of the UK that’s definitely had its detractors, yet in 2017 it was (rightly) made the UK City of Culture.

Almost a decade before, culture was alive and well in this part of Yorkshire, doing just as well as the neighbouring cities of Leeds, Sheffield and Bradford in terms of quality art and music. Perhaps better. Better because of Fonda 500.

You’ll likely know their songs, as they’ve graced plenty of TV shows such as Skins and Teachers, and the Colin Farrell film, Intermission. They’ve got a cult following, that’s for sure. Je M’Apelle Stereo is their sixth album, but the one that brought them to wider attention for those wanting something fresher and weirder from their art rock bands.

Fonda 500 deliver in spades on this album.

They really should be global superstars, yet it’s their Britishness and idiosyncratic way of making music that compels them to retain a cult status. Although once signed to Truck Records, this album they went out on their own label, bringing their mix of Beach Boys-esque vocal harmonies, catchy indie rock à la  We Are Scientists (although I can also detect a slab of Monster Magnet-ism in there, and some Super Furries), and their use of weird and novelty instruments (including beatboxing and 8-bit Casio sounds) to the 14 songs, each feeling slightly different to the one that came before.

The big song here is Jenny #1, yet there are many, many more gems to be unearthed, including The Sounds Sound Warmer When The Sound Is Shared, Silver Sounds, Electronique Bee 101 and Super Dots & Lights, which all show the range and experimentation the band brings to every critically-acclaimed recording. They’re also an energetic live band, which you can always catch even if they’ve not been releasing music.

They’re as exciting as a spacehopper on your birthday in the 70s, the release of a new Argos catalogue in the 80s, or cheese on toast for breakfast (and just as bonkers). Yet, somehow, they still make great indie pop songs. And they’d sound great released on vinyl, which is a format this album has never been put out on.

Don’t believe me? Have a listen.

When I think of bands that are quintessentially English, I think of The Wave Pictures. Yet, they also have an edge that sounds like they could be from the US; there’s a distinct Violent Femmes sound to their music, and that is demonstrated on Instant Coffee Baby in spades.

It’s unusual, too, to be talking about a band’s seventh album. We’re usually showcasing their debut or second album. Yet, here we are. This was the album that broke the band beyond the fringes of Herman Düne fans; this is the album that cemented their cult status.

If you grew up outside of the big cities, there’s a sense of the sublime and ridiculous that is woven into the tapestry of rural life. Lead singer, Dave Tattersall, has surely collected all of these weird and wonderful pieces of the human psyche and poured it into the 13 songs that make up Instant Coffee Baby. It’s both a love letter to Loughborough, and a warning to anyone thinking of settling there.

The Guardian weren’t fans, suggesting that “If off-key vocals, low production values and lyrics about tinned peaches and sculptures of marmalade enchant you, Instant Coffee Baby won’t leave your stereo for weeks.” Then again, they completely garble the lyrics they quote, so you can’t take their word for it – or 150 words of it, because that’s all they could feel inspired to write.

Yes, it’s lo-fi. It’s meant to be. Yes, it’s quirky and slightly adolescent, it’s meant to be. It’s philosophical and takes on deeper meaning, if you’re willing to take time to uncover the secrets hidden in plain sight. Like the anti-folk movement that The Wave Pictures sit within, and also slightly outside, it’s probably like the first time you heard The Smiths and either loved them or hated them. There are no grey areas with The Wave Pictures, either.

Again, I refer you to Violent Femmes.

This is the brilliance of the group. They sound like they’re shambolic (to Guardian reviewers in 2008) yet there is an accomplished set of musicians and songwriters here. Catchy songs, humorous lyrics supported by backing vocals that are surely accompanied by knowing winks and wry smiles as they were delivered. If you played it to your parents they’d probably tap their feet and bop their heads, yet be confounded by the masterful tongue-in-cheek lyrical content, particularly those of the title track.

Those lyrics are as good as a certain Sheffield band’s early work, too. It’s just a folksy part of the world they sing about.

This set of songs sounds as fresh today, 15 years on. Those bouncy guitar solos, the proficient drums that belie expectations, the slight croon of David’s voice as he sings about a typical night out in Loughborough and the girl from Baker’s Oven holding back the hair of a puking friend. Despite some of the lyrics, this is a happy album. It’s hard not to want to dance to it. Or singalong with David – who you feel would be happy to duet with you at a gig.

It was reissued by Moshi Moshi only a few years ago. Yet, as with all great cult albums, it sold out and, when it does appear, continues to attract high prices in the secondhand market. One can only hope they’ll reissue it again.

Of course, the band are now approaching their 20^th album and playing live regularly. They’re as brilliantly bonkers as ever, yet have retained that sense of exquisite songwriting and composition that makes Instant Coffee Baby an instant classic.

I love it.

Found sounds, experimental noises and a husky female voice that sounds like it’s been flavoured by decades of cigarettes and brandy over plucked acoustic and electric guitars. Intimate recordings are the cornerstone of Katie Kim’s debut album, Twelve. It’s a style that’s served her well, and which she has honed to beyond perfection on her fourth and latest LP, Hour of the Ox.

It’s Twelve we’re here to celebrate, though. As a whole, it’s a celebration itself across the ten tracks. It’s like Katie has found a cauldron in which to pour all the best elements of other amazing women in the music business, such as PJ Harvey, Soccer Mommy and Hope Sandoval, stirred it up with a sprinkling of her Gaelic roots and making it very much her own through her use of loops and unstructured structure. It makes her music into something both ethereal and yet as solid as a claw hammer thrown over and over against an anvil.

Taking that description you’d think this album was difficult, but it’s anything but. Yes, it has moments that are distinctly non-indie-folk (if that’s even the best way to describe this album); however, overall it’s bright and warm, but perhaps in the same way the house in Handsel and Gretel is warm and bright. There’s an uncurrent of something almost indescribable that adds excitement and a sense that you’re not in control of how it pulls you in.

The album was the result of over 50 other songs being wiped from her hard drive. Perhaps that’s why it has that bubbling frustration threaded through it? Maybe that’s why this sounds like a performer at the height of her game so early on in her career? It really doesn’t matter, because whatever it is it doesn’t diminish the extraordinary nature of this album, the depths and layers that you’ll pick out on the third, fifth or fifteenth listen.

And you will listen to it that many times, because you’ll wonder how it escaped your attention for so long – and you’ll want to share the experience of hearing the adept playing and composition throughout this album – such as that slide guitar far back in the mix – with others. You can hear Twelve on Katie’s Bandcamp page. Or stream it here. And then enjoy the rest of her stunning discography.

In May 1986 the charts looked like this:

At 10 the vocal genius of Whitney Houston’s “The Greatest Love of All”. This wasn’t cool.

No. 9 was Queen “It’s a kind of magic”. Not cool.

At 8 the highest climber was Marvin Gaye’s “I Heard it Through the Grapevine” re-released on the back of Nick Kamen’s iconic appearance in his boxers (they became cool) for Levi’s. This was a very cool record.

Position 7 was Five Star and “Can’t Wait Another Minute”. This collection of five brothers and sisters showed loads of promise but sat stubbornly the wrong side of cool (too much choreography for me).

At 6 was George Michael with “Different Corner”. This was the start of George’s solo career and was way cooler than everyone thought it would be; a song that has stood the test of time.

No. 5 was Janet Jackson with her first single “What Have You Done For Me Lately?”. Not my bag at all.

At 4 we saw Patti Labelle and Michael McDonald singing to each other (one in NYC and one at the coast). Patti looking supreme and sounding amazing, Michael looking like your uncle Nigel but sounding pretty good. This kind of duet didn’t float my boat and was definitely one for my Nan.

No. 3 was slap-bass maestro Mark King and his Level 42 with “Lessons of Love”. I can’t really say anything bad about Level 42 – they were (maybe still are) a good band. The Chinese Way was a belting single. There was a hint of the soul-boy string vest about them but that’s not a bad thing.

At 2 was a song I had completely erased from my memory – Madonna’s “Live to Tell”. I’ve just watched the video again and even though that was only five minutes ago, I still can’t remember it. At this point Madonna could have released a recording of her gently snoring and it would break the top 5.

And, after a slow climb, Austrian musical genius Falco. Described as the Austrian godfather of white rap by some, his track, Amadeus, was number 1 everywhere. Pretty cool I think.

Why am I giving you a Bruno Brookes-style rundown? Well, I wanted to paint a picture of the background against which one of my favourite albums of all time “Boat to Bolivia” by Martin Stephenson & the Daintees was released. This backdrop of over-produced tunes (excluding Marvin Gaye and George Michael, of course) was a distinct contrast to Boat to Bolivia (admittedly outside the top ten there were a few brilliant and more indie tunes including The Cure, Suzanne Vega, It’s Immaterial, the B52s, and Doctor and the Medics) and was simple and beautiful.

This period saw me listening to a lot of Lloyd Cole and the beginnings of the C86 bands, and of course, The Housemartins (still the best gig I ever went to I think, although Blur at ULU in 1990 comes close). Then, in the middle of all that, Martin Stephenson released Boat to Bolivia and me and my mate Pete were hooked. It was the record that was played each lunchtime and break in the sixth form. It was the record that mirrored, or charted, my first proper relationship. It was the record (and this was probably more important than I realised at the time) that made me feel cool-ish. It was the record that started the conversation with the people at Uni that became my best friends, the record that my wife and I listened to the most (actually maybe that was Donovan but this was a close second).

It’s the record I go back to when I need a hug.

Martin is from the North East, born in Durham and celebrated for his NE folk roots (to which he has returned) and this can be heard throughout the album. My brother was at Sunderland University and I fell in love with the coast up there.

Martin was set free by punk. In an interview with Folking he says:

“I was born in a rough environment but I was always a deer. I wasn’t a wolf but I thought I was a wolf because I was running with the wolves but one day at the watering hole I caught a glimpse of my reflection and I saw Bambi there. When I was fifteen Punk came along and even to my guru Punk was shite but to me it was like being reborn. I thought at that time you had to be a genius to play music but Punk gave you the confidence to have a go and be primitive so I started as a guitarist.  I was a punk guitarist from fifteen to seventeen or eighteen but punk started to move on into New Wave and then I started to educate myself. I bought a classical guitar book, a jazz guitar book, a folk guitar book and I would usually get through the first ten or eleven pages and get bored and go and put the kettle on. It was the journey from giving up on a classical exercise to putting the kettle on where I would meet conceptual art. I became a songwriter and I‘d have little bits of jazz, blues, country – jack of all, master of none – I just used what I had. I was a guitar fan and a bit of a poet and it just started merging. I’d probably been taught how to channel as well so every time I wrote a song I was bringing it through the crown chakra, I wasn’t getting in the way. I felt that I didn’t have the craftsmanship to get in the way but that was giving me a head start with the songs.”

This blend of influences is what hooked me in. Plus, the fact that he wasn’t a popstar. This was the fag-end of the New Romantics and the height of the pretentiousness of Morrisey and The Smiths. Martin felt like the antidote to both.

For me the thing that runs through the album like “BLACKPOOL” through a stick of rock is Love. Unashamedly. I’m not going to go through each song in detail. But I’ll tell you how it made me feel. In an era of heightened masculinity, it was unusual to talk and sing about feelings, about sexuality, about aging, about nostalgically prone alcoholics, about slow loving. The album balanced my life (rugby playing on one side, poetry writing on the other), it helped me express my form of masculinity. Martin also looked great. Pre-baggy and post-Smiths, finding a sartorial direction was challenging. Bros had emerged and added Grolsch bottle tops to their Docs, the tail-end of Goth was very much still evident and neither felt like me. Martin’s look did. In short, the album reached a hand out to me when I needed it most. Those mid teen years are tough and it’s easy to get a little lost.

Martin Stephenson became a talismanic figure to me and my mates, a symbol of new masculinity as much as music. But the music was great. “Coleen” still makes me weep a little today, as does the “Little Red Bottle” in a different way. The great washing of “Running Waters” was like a baptism. Washing away the old me and revealing the new. I utterly love this album from the marrow of my bones.

The album has travelled through time with me. Like my best friend. Always there when I needed it. Sometimes forgotten and then re-discovered.  I found out about 5 years ago that Martin (now living in the Highlands of Scotland) was recording again. I googled, found him on Facebook and we chatted. What a lovely and wholly humble man he is. We met up before a gig in Birmingham (and what a gig). We arrived on time (The Hare and Hounds in Kings Heath). The door was shut but I could hear someone coming down the stairs. It was Martin and the band off for a curry. He was just about to perform, after a veg dopiaza. Hats off and kudos. He was ace, friendly, warm. His love for his art, his band, his kids, and his friends is tangible and warm. They say never to meet your heroes as you’ll be disappointed. Well in this case I wasn’t. I don’t think life has always been easy, but he is still smiling and still writing and recording great music.

The album can be hard to find now, but well worth searching out. It’s one of those albums that flows, that’s been put together to listen to from front to back rather than on shuffle. The vinyl is rare, and I love nothing more than putting it on and sitting and listening through. It’s a time machine, an emotional crutch, a best friend, a mentor, and a reason to be cheerful.

Thanks Martin.  You’re a diamond. Faceted, sparkling and a one-off.

Give Boat To Bolivia a listen via Martin’s Bandcamp, embedded below.

Martin re-recorded the entire album in 2016, which is available via Bandcamp, too.