Radio One 91FM

Is it possible to create music that sounds like it belongs simultaneously to a distant future and to your own childhood? Apparently, it is. Magdalena Bay have come into their own in a generational way on sophomore album Imaginal Disk, a perfect balancing act between wearing their influences on their sleeves and pushing the envelope on pop music. Hell, even to call it pushing the envelope is underselling it. They’ve cut up the envelope and made an origami discman out of the damn thing.

Mica Tenenbaum and Matthew Lewin, the duo behind the name, originally met while studying music in Miami and started a prog-rock band before eventually forming Magdalena Bay. The prog roots are evident all over the album, with extremely strong and sometimes vaguely confounding production choices and song structures that are willing to diverge heavily from any rigid verse-chorus-verse nonsense.

However, any pretension that is often associated with prog music is completely absent here. There is a healthy respect and admiration for femme-vocal pop music that spans the history of the genre, from ABBA, to Cyndi and Madonna, all the way through to Britney and Christina and even more modern icons such as Caroline Polachek. Fragile and wispy talk-sung vocals often sit next to, or even crash into blaring club synths that sound like they belong on a Daft Punk deep cut. It is an album that (rightly) prioritises fun and danceability over intellect, and yet is all the deeper and richer for it.

To paint a picture of how the influences grapple with each other and synthesise into something wholly new, you only need to look at the lead single, Death & Romance. It leans on this stumbling piano intro that sounds undeniably Fatboy Slim, but once Mica’s vocal waltzes in like something from a late 90s Kylie album and the extremely fuzzy (bordering on Kid A fuzzy) bassline comes and lays down over everything, it transforms from the sum of its parts into something greater, a greater that is equally unique, catchy and perplexing.

A true triumph of fun, movement, and oddly satisfying juxtaposition, the album is an excellent example of why any sweeping dismissal of pop music for being banal or bland is ridiculous and simply cuts you off from swathes of the most interesting music being produced today. Recommended for anyone who is big on enjoying being alive.

Donald Glover has always been clear on one thing: he prefers making movies to making music. But if you look at his streaming numbers, the public has been clear on one thing: they like Childish Gambino’s music. So how does he gracefully go about sending off this moniker that has been practically ever-present in pop music since I graduated high-school? A soundtrack album, of course.

Now while Bando Stone and the New World is indeed (supposedly) the soundtrack to an upcoming piece of visual media by Glover (with a release date of TBA), I feel I should note that I mean ‘soundtrack album’ in a nebulous sense. The kind of genre-sprawling album that reaches for a different emotional crescendo in almost every single track, and often defies categorisation into one era or one location. Think Paul Thomas Anderson, Sofia Coppola, Wong Kar-wai… I’m sure you have a favourite.

And while separated from the visuals they are supposed to be accompanying they can be jarring and incoherent, they’re also always a lot of fun to listen to. Here on Bando Stone it’s no different, and you bounce from one era of Gambino to the next at such a clip it’s hard for any of it to drag or outstay its welcome.

There’s more rapping here than he’s done in a long while, and yet, it’s also only a handful of tracks from a total of seventeen. There are pop bangers that WILL make white people turn up at parties, in the rich tradition of tracks such as 3005 and Bonfire. His soul and R&B side from Awaken, My Love gets plenty of love and the Kauai summer vibes shine through on certain tracks too.

To me, this is less the soundtrack of any actual film and more ‘the soundtrack to the film of the artist’. While it doesn’t appear coherent on the surface, if you put it within the context of the film, it makes total sense. Donald Glover runs it back one last time, and touches on all of the high points of his career as Childish Gambino. Fans of his will love it, and those not familiar will surely find a few tracks to enjoy.

How do you reconcile art you made eleven years ago with the person you are today? Abel Tasman-born bedroom pop artist Salvia Palth shows us the way on last chance to see, their eons-awaited follow up to 2013 debut melanchole.

While said debut is full to the brim of fifteen-year old angst, insecurity, and a healthy dose of Phil Elverum and Mount Eerie worship, there is an overwhelming authenticity to it. An insistence, when you listen, that these are real feelings being felt. Perhaps it is understandable why multiple generations of sad teenagers have treated it as gospel, and why Salvia Palth is a name you hear whispered next to bedroom pop icons, your teen suicides and your Elvis Depressedlys.

However, when you're in your late twenties, sadness feels markedly different to how it felt when you were fifteen. It has sat with you for a decade or more, and the immediacy of it has waned. Teenage sweethearts are no longer the central source of pain in your life, for one. It would have been easy for Salvia Palth to follow up with more of the same, but it wouldn't have been authentic.

Instead, on last chance to see, everything has grown. The instrumental palette, the emotional palette, the person. Rather than being rigidly defined by a genre, or an emotion, this album is an exploration of a decade of new influences and experiences. There is still the same emotional haze, the same airy bedroom pop production, but there are instrumental hints all over that suggest a much wider pool of influences – the programmed drums on 'you wouldn't ask a fire to stop', for example, have a hint of hip-hop to them.

It is a fantastic work of growth for a New Zealand artist that has been as elusive as they are successful. It invites many fans who put the debut on a pedestal to grow with the artist, to move on from all-consuming teenage emotion, but without a hint of judgement. Hopefully it won't be our last chance to see what they have to offer.

The first thing that hits you when Vera Ellen walk on-stage is their dedication to the bit. Bob haircuts, baggy dress shirts, matching ties: all giving a beautiful sense of '90s I-Don’t-Give-A-F**k energy. The percussion is heavy, at times contrasting with Vera’s soft vocals, before complimenting them when she wails into the microphone in her signature perfectly-imperfect style. With her ferocious bite, a song like 'Broadway Junction' (the stand-out of her set, by far) becomes a piercing exercise in vulnerability. Vera opens her heart to the audience, and they gladly take it, as they bear witness to the anger building — not only in Vera’s own performance, but in every guitar strum and drum beat. The power of live music is being able to be a collective part of something like that, summed up simplistically but accurately by a fellow audience-member who whispered to me as we cheered: “Gives you goosebumps”.

With an off-kilter violin sending a dizzyingly, spellbinding effect across the crowd over sludgy bass, Reb Fountain takes the stage. She stomps her feet with aggression as her hands dance delicately in the air around her — she performs not only with her voice, her body becomes its own instrument. The lyrics wound you as much as the experiences she’s singing about may have wounded her. Her growling vocals and the haunting, swampy quality of the instruments flawlessly match the ‘witchy’ exterior of the band. When the instruments cut and only Reb’s voice hits the air, the audience goes mute. We are mere mortals compared to her and we savour every little crack in her vocals as she declares; “I carry myself like a f***ing boss”. The musicians' talent can be subtle at times, adding small yet powerful details to the overall sound, but when she compels us to “come dance in the shadows”, it builds to a murkier, dirtier, darker level; becoming an overwhelming noise backing Reb’s intoxicating request. These are the shadows you are now dancing in, and it is glorious. She leaves us with ‘Don’t You Know Who I Am’ and even the most stubborn audience-members are moving now. Reb points her finger across the crowd, her voice and eyes accusing every one of us. Going from delicate whispering to screaming into the mic, Reb’s finale ends in a monumental round of applause carrying on even after the band has completely left the stage.

Voom’s approach to their performance was a departure from the previous acts, immediately obvious from Buzz Moller’s compliment to the Dunedin weather (a quick trick to getting the crowd on your side). The music was, of course, extremely tight — especially the drumming. Scratchy, almost twangy vocals that still held a youthful aggression were encased in reverb and distortion. Most impressive was Buzz’s storytelling. Between each song, he’d give us succinct and witty tales behind its creation, sending ripples of laughter across the crowd. But when the music kicks in again, you feel as though you’re perpetually in the ending sequence of a 2010s-indie flick (in the best way possible). The guitars carry the emotional core of the songs, and the vocals pull in and out as if adrift at sea. Simply, it was a very fun set to watch — especially when Buzz sang ‘Martin Phillipps’ to the actual Martin Phillipps.

Each act delivered something different: Vera’s raw edginess, Reb’s wistful art ballads, and Voom’s tight indie-indie anthems. Yet there is one thing that ties them all together, a golden thread of vulnerability through performance, lyrics, and sound. You cannot come out of this show having not been deeply touched by their music.

This piece was written as part of a wider review of the Voom, Reb Fountain and Vera Ellen tour by the SRN (Student Radio Network) and originally published on UndertheRadar.

After my friend and I got rejected for a photo by new Vice Chancellor Grant Robertson, we headed to Union Hall to catch the openers for the Home Brew gig. I was going in blind, not hearing of the hip hop collective or any of their songs that they have released in the past two decades. He encouraged me that I would enjoy their stuff due to my love of jazz infused hip-hop. The first openers, Max Dad E, RyeChi, and DJ Shan did not disappoint. A group of MCs on stage with sweat towels and a DJ mixing with real vinyl brung an underground 90s era hip hop show, especially with their Wu-Tang Clan style beats. The range of production did vary though, with boom-bap, drill, trap, and west coast G-funk. The hooks, flows and stage presence were all great, even when they included the miracle spiritual double time flow that ruined the vibe for me. An overall good start to a promising night.

Big Sima then showed up on stage and oozed charisma. He had great crowd control (We all yelled “F**k the Government” and “F**k the Prime Minister.”) Sima’s songs often had the rags to riches approach to rap which I respect, but the big soulful hooks feel very played out and boring to my ear at this point. Sima also liked to use the triplet flow for these songs which went against the feel of the production and felt clunky. The guest singer he had was singing his heart out but I was not feeling it. Once the tempo picked up with the more trap style beats I was more engaged. My friend compared him to Shapeshifter and I felt he had a Royce Da 5’9” vibe. Overall, a decent set that just kept my anticipation and attention for the main act.

Before I start talking about Home Brew, I want to talk about bias in rap. Rap is full of bias. From the conception of the genre in the late 70s to the 90s in the “golden era”, hip-hop was only thought of as being a coastal genre, East or West. This was until OutKast won best new artist at the Source Awards with the iconic acceptance speech “The South got something to say”. Many people did not think women could rap until Queen Latifah and even then held out on saying any women were top 5 until Lauryn Hill swept the Grammys in 1999 with a classic album. White people often made corny rap, and it is still upsetting that Vanilla Ice is the first rapper to go number 1 on the charts. However, in 1999 Eminem came onto the scene and released three great albums in a row to prove it was not a fluke. I suffer from these biases myself. I did not want to listen to someone from England rap until I heard Skepta and Little Simz. Even as a queer person, I was hesitant to hear queer content in rap until Kevin Abstract and Tyler, The Creator. I say all this to say, I did not want to listen to a rapper from New Zealand until I heard Home Brew.

Instantly from the moment I saw Tom Scott on stage I knew why Home Brew was the headline act. Never before had I seen such a charismatic performer that had every member in the audience hanging on his every word. The crowd was fully engaged singing back each hook to Tom and the remarkable live band that gives the sound so much personality and depth. The live band consisting of drums, synths, electric guitar and bass gave such an energetic vibe that complimented Tom’s stage presence. A favourite moment of mine was when Tom sat down and just let the guitar player wail. It was soulful and beautiful. Lyrically, Tom is sharp, introspective and often melancholic, even all at once like with one of my favourites: “Drinking in the Morning” where he says “I’ve been mourning” and the crowd sings along. The music often conveyed the chill jazzy qualities of an early Mac Miller, along with a lyrical transparency of his later years. It is not always clear how Tom is mentally but on stage, it is hard to blame the crowd for not noticing as he just gives it his all.

Like Big Sima, Tom also gets the crowd to focus on politics with a call and response of “F**k Brian Tamaki, F**k David Seymour, F**k Christopher Luxon, Death to the IDF and From the river to the sea”. Tom also was able to reflect on a past song and said “When I wrote this I was a dickhead, and at one point we were all dickheads, and that helps us grow into who we are, so this is dedicated to the dickhead I used to be.” Unfortunately, a lot of the crowd continued to be dickheads. After the band had finished, someone jumped on stage and tried to sing into the microphone that was thankfully turned off. After the gig I stood around looking to get a shirt (they sold out) and a man clearly off his chops said “Nice mullet bro” and proceeded to stroke and play with my hair. When you are in a crowd of other people it is easy to take important stances but it appears harder to reflect these values in isolation. Tom Scott has seemed to grow up in the past two decades, I hope that his audience does too.