‘DOOM has done some indefensibly dastardly things in his time – relative felonies within the context of performance and the etiquette thereof. No-shows, no-go’s, and plenty of no bloody point in going’s though somehow the perma-masked hip hop crusader continues to hold us rapt in the palm of his oversized hands. And as he here returns with Mike Volpe, aka Clammy Clams, aka Clams Casino on production duties he appears not only to have done just that, but also to have found a rather more apt accomplice than Jneiro Jarel proved to be as the intriguingly entitled Bookfiend effortlessly betters anything and everything off of last year’s JJ DOOM full-length, Key To The Kuffs. Volpe’s beats consummately languid – conceivably even more so than DOOM’s routinely indolent delivery – they unlock certain truths concealed deep within Daniel Dumile, as he placidly fesses: “I think I still owe ‘em lil’ sumthin’ since November – whatever.” See, he should here be pleading we pay him even an iota of attention after all he’s pummelled us through in recent years and yet in the one summertime jam enduring just shy of a poxy three minutes, we’re helplessly his once more. “Who need credit when cash speak?” Who need even cash when tracks speak such unapologetic wonderment?’



DOOM (theoretically) plays next month’s TV On The Radio ATP curation.

‘You know when you hit saturation point with that one song? You’ve heard it so many fucking times over – you know its every lyric and every intricate inflexion thereof; you can reproduce its slick lick round the back of your brain; know, and so too fear the exact second it’ll end. That is, or rather was where I was at with Get Free – I foolishly believed I could immaculately reproduce Amber Coffman’s elastane vocal; redo her squiggly guitar part, and as such I needed something; anything to rejuvenate the adoration. And one might set about questioning how it may be that a perfect crossover pop track may ever be bettered. Well, arguably even a full-on live rendition would’ve sufficed as opposed to the half-baked sludge Diplo’s Major Lazer served up last Bestival, though that this one comes bolstered by the creative brawn of dear David Longstreth, alongside various members of The Roots, ensures it stands out for all the right reasons. Inevitably with the Philly funk/ soul brothers onboard it makes for a predictably tight recital, and indeed it’s fairly wondrous to see and so too hear every peculiarity, kink and quirk played out in full though that which really makes it is Coffman’s live vocal. For so idiosyncratic and immediate, it could never sound the same twice and is intricately incomparable here – an off-kilt tour de force, and the askew cherry topping off an ineffably nonpareil redux.’



Major Lazer (ludicrously belatedly) release Free the Universe April 15th via Because Music.

‘Peeping out from behind a mesh of xylophones, organs, percussion and pianos, stands Jónsi – blinking before us. Scattered across the stage, the dim flicker of lightbulb filaments hoisted high above the band on thin stands stick flag-like in the blurred middle ground located between living room comfort and stadium spectacular. And it is under the blue orb of an ocean glow during Sæglópur that the band really quicken into swing as the crowd, still spellbound, do nothing but gaze up – mouths naturally agape – as the sound twists and contorts itself between softened piano melodies and crashing cymbals.’

Dots & Dashes review the first of Sigur Rós’ three sold out O2 Academy Brixton shows.

‘Coldwave Brooklynites Black Marble gave us a darn alright time with the chilly gusts of A Great Design way back when summer was once alive and well (or back in July to be a little less cryptic) and now that the season has all but shrivelled up on itself having been packed away with the fungus-ridden tent at last weekend’s Bestival, the duo have warmed up somewhat. Like A Flock of Seagulls’ I Ran fleeing a wondrously gangly bass hook, Static is dark, and broody, and more than a little arcane although in its dark niches resides some muted euphoria. A compulsive motorik pummel, the whole thing reeks of ’80s hangover – that pungent whiff of upchucked wine cooler spewed down the front of fluoro lycra of something. It’s one well worth knocking back irregardless, dubious analogies ‘n’ all.’