Mura Masa ft Slowthai
Deal Wiv It
This pair’s follow-up to Doorman was born from the two sitting down for a chinwag, recording it, then picking lyrics from the waffle that was, well, waffled. The result is a thrilling three-minute blammer, a car-park scrap between the in-your-bones whomps of Bonkers and the trebly-guitar STI-funk of Ian Dury. “I went to the pub and asked for a pint for three quid,” Slowthai honks. “He said it’s a fiver, well that’s gentrification, you prick!” Been there, mate.
Mirage (Don’t Stop)
Everyone’s got one old pair of trainers that are more hole than not, that stink like a bum crawled up another bum before both bums died, that make your mum worry you might have discovered hemp. But dagnammit if they aren’t the comfiest boats you will ever own, so you refuse to chuck them, at least until the council intercedes. Club bangers are Jessie Ware’s comfies: yes, 2017’s Glasshouse was full of sultry dry-ice feelie-bops, but velvetine dancefloor smooshes such as this are clearly Ware’s catnip. If that means more like this, then that’s A-OK.
About six years ago, after having had a sherry, I was walking back to my flat, and needed to micturate so fiercely that it felt like my entire pelvis had dissolved. Still, I could see my front door! It was right there. So I was concentrating, hard. Then WHAM! A squirrel ran across my path. I thought: “Ooh a squirrel”, looked down, aaaand, you know the rest. This song is like that: it’s total fromage, but as soon as you let your guard down for a millisecond its fuzzilicious glitterball disco-pop smothers your entire lower half with pleasing warmth, and you realise you feel much better for it. For clarification: this is a positive review.
I’m the Man
It turns out the only thing stopping Savages from going full-on Nine Inch Nails was the members of the band who weren’t Jehnny Beth. Dirty music to make you go “oof”.
Panic! At the Disco
Into the Unknown
Look, this is a Panic! At the Disco song taken from the Frozen II OST, so you’ve already got a pretty good idea how appalling it is. Strap in, though, because it somehow manages to be even worse than that. Overblown MCR effluent with someone-set-a-stoat-on-fire falsetto, plumbing hitherto unexplored depths of unpleasant noises, all scatologically garnished with the knowledge that the only reason for its existence is money. Do yourself a favour and pour angry fire ants down your ears instead.