Noisey feed for https://noisey.vice.comenWed, 14 Nov 2018 16:26:47 +0000<![CDATA[Having Migos on Carpool Karaoke Is the Best Thing James Corden's Ever Done]]>, 14 Nov 2018 16:26:47 +0000As a perpetually cheery person with a funny accent—sorta the Mary Poppins of late night television—James Corden is an easy person to dislike. We even tried to rank all his jokes at the Grammys once, but none were exceptionally good. Carpool Karaoke is often a particularly odious distillation of his relentless positivity, but on Monday night he got something right—he invited Migos along for the ride. From the moment Migos pile into Corden's car, it's filled with ad libs galore and enough cash to pay off some serious student loan debt (shit, pay mine!). With Quavo riding shotgun and Offset and Takeoff cracking jokes in the backseat, Corden quickly endears himself to the group, auditioning for his role as the fourth Migo.

It wouldn't be a ride with Migos if you didn't blast their own songs and their quasi performances of "Bad & Boujee," "Motorsport," and "Walk It, Talk It" will certainly cause you to conjure up your own ad libs. But, the best parts weren't Migo songs at all. The Atlanta group showed their pop chops with a dedication to Whitney Houston's "I Wanna Dance With Somebody," and even though Quavo stayed in character punctuating Houston's voice with a Macarena dab, if you paid close attention Takeoff was the star. Takeoff did as many backseat singers often do and that is sing like no one is watching. If that wasn't enough, Corden challenged them to put their spin on Neil Diamond's "Sweet Caroline."

The entire 15 minutes is honestly gut-wrenchingly funny and we can't tell if that's because Corden really channeled his inner Cardi B or because he's actually funny. Well done Corden. We'll give you a pass on this one.

Kristin Corry is a staff writer at Noisey. Follow her on Twitter.

This article originally appeared on Noisey US.

59vb7qKristin CorryColin JoyceHip-HopmigosATLANTAWhitney houstonInternet Videos Of Particular ImportanceDripcarpool karaokejames CordenCardi Bmotorsportdabsweet carolinei wanna dance with somebodywalk it like i talk it
<![CDATA[Searching for Redemption at Kids See Ghosts' First Live Show]]>, 14 Nov 2018 16:26:13 +0000 On Sunday night at Tyler, the Creator’s Camp Flog Gnaw festival, I looked up at the towering screen next to the main stage and saw men. Thousands of them. Pressed together and compacted like sardines, only faces visible as they stared onto the stage before them. The festival’s onstage camera was trained on the crowd as the stage was reset for the debut of Kanye West and Kid Cudi’s Kids See Ghosts project, and the feed gave a fairly good indicator of crowd demographics. While some women had braved the absurd crowd crush, the audience looked to be largely comprised of young men, most of whom appeared to be in their teens and early twenties. They had travelled miles and waited hours to witness something akin to religious experience: The return of Kanye West.

Over the past two years—since a California show two years ago this week that precipitated a life- and career-changing mental break—Kanye has been more visible but less present than he’s been in his entire career. All the livestreams and TMZ interviews and merch drops have obscured the fact that, save a Cubs game here or a fashion show there, Kanye hasn’t really been connecting with his fanbase on the same level that he used to. There have been no awards show appearances, few TV performances and, crucially, no public shows. 2017 was the first year in over seven years that Kanye didn’t play at least one live set, festival or otherwise.

That fact might seem standard in terms of how most artists tour, but not for West. The Kanye West live show has always been an integral part of his art, an opportunity to explore the increasingly dense content of his records. Kanye’s records almost don’t work without the live show. Where his albums have been a space for hedonism, nihilism and unbridled ego, the live arena for Kanye has always been closer to church—a space for him to breathe, to atone for whatever sins he had confessed to on record, and, above all, to bring people together. Kanye’s last three major tours—Glow In The Dark, Yeezus and Saint Pablo—were all, at heart, about the mission beneath Kanye’s bombastic art. They were about finding redemption, in whichever form it may take.

Over the years he found different ways to bring the audience closer to his vision of transcendence. Initially this happened through setpieces like moons and mountains and waterfalls, but eventually, on his Saint Pablo tour, through engineering—a floating stage that could be seen just as well from the back of the room as it could from the floor. (Lady Gaga recalls Kanye once telling her that he would never sell a ticket for a seat with impeded viewing; the Saint Pablo stage was a natural progression of that ideal.) His shows, as heavily influenced by the communitarian nature of gospel as they were the musical aspect, were designed so thousands of people could come together and find what he had found through his music. During the Yeezus tour, he started delivering a speech during “Runaway” about the importance of being yourself, loving yourself, empowering yourself. These speeches were sometimes characterised as rants, but they were more like sermons, and they truly felt divine at times.

For Kanye, his live shows served as a reminder that, despite his rarefied celebrity status, he was still speaking to the same kinds of people he had grown up with–dreamers and devotees and fans. Whenever it felt like Kanye’s records were about to disappear into a cloud of namedrops and high fashion references, the shows pulled him down to earth; it was almost like he needed them to remind himself that his fans loved him because of his vision and not his immense status.

Because of this track record, I thought that Sunday night’s Kids See Ghosts show might be the start of a new era for Kanye, one that did away with this summer’s MAGA hats and cracked revisionist histories and instead looked back towards the communal spirit that defined his earlier work. In Ye and Kids See Ghosts, he made dark albums that would be perfect prelude to a classic Kanye show; it would have made sense for this set to offer explanations and, perhaps, atonement. This was, of course, incredibly naive. Instead of a redemptive counterpoint, Kanye and Cudi offered up a dark and emotional distillation of the hyper-masculine recklessness that’s coursed through Kanye’s work over the past two years.

If there was a theme that ran through both Ye and Kids See Ghosts, it was that Kanye and Cudi are both searching for a kind of freedom within a society that they believe will never let them be free. For Cudi, freedom means living without the depression and addictions that have plagued him during his career; for Kanye, freedom is a little more complicated. Through his Wyoming records and their associated press cycle, it almost felt like he was searching for a line to cross in the eye of the public. Kanye has always wanted to push limits of what’s in good taste and what’s not, and this time, it feels more personal. Freedom from society’s gaze, as Kanye expressed it on his summer’s work, only comes when you’ve lost all of society’s love. The most telling lyric of his two Wyoming records came on Kids See Ghosts’ “Reborn,” when he admitted that he wanted “all the pain,” “all the smoke,” “all the blame.” To Kanye, with exile comes liberation.

True to that ideal, the Kids See Ghosts show leaned into this desperate need for oblivion. The show’s setlist—beginning with The Life of Pablo’s “Father Stretch My Hands” before running through the entirety of Kids See Ghosts, two songs from 808s, Cudi’s “Pursuit of Happiness” and, finally, Ye’s “Ghost Town”—was unusually dark for a Kanye show, and centered on songs with blackened emotional cores, ones about getting fucked up or being fucked up. “Welcome to Heartbreak” and “Paranoid” were given rare showings, and given their origins on Kanye’s most emotionally broken record, their inclusion feels telling. The only solo Cudi track performed was “Pursuit of Happiness,” and that, too, felt of a piece with the bleakly nihilistic bent of the show.

Rather than re-use the floating stage design from the Saint Pablo tour, Kanye and Cudi were suspended in a large perspex box. This staging was typically on-the-nose—Kanye dressed in dark clothing in his glass prison, looking down on the public; Cudi, in a huge white jacket, circling him like a redeeming angel—but undeniably compelling to watch. Both Kanye and Cudi remain magnetic performers, even when obscured and warped by sheets of perspex, despite the fact that it seemed like Kanye was having trouble getting out words at points. Little banter was delivered between songs, and, seemingly as a way to address his lack of political discussion, Kanye clarified that he and Cudi were “just [t]here to have a good time.”

A good time is what Kanye and Cudi have both always excelled at, and to their credit, this show was undeniably great—the pure chemical thrill of hearing tracks like “Pursuit of Happiness” and “Paranoid” will probably never wear off. Kanye sometimes looked dazed—a little tired, maybe, or nervous—but still the most animated he’s looked in months; the live stage is his natural environment, and having Cudi as an anchor beside him clearly helped when he looked disengaged.

Despite only being there for a “good time,” Kanye was still sermonizing, just in a different way than usual. Rather than a combination of light and dark, this show was all darkness, and that itself sent a strong message. Of every Kanye show I’ve attended—five total, including Sunday night’s set—this crowd felt the most rabid, and the most masculine. The crowd around me—fairly close to the stage, albeit slightly to the side—was entirely made up of young men who lost their minds when Kanye and Cudi appeared.

It makes sense that this show felt more aggressively male than usual; Kanye, at this point in time, represents a kind of alternative masculinity that seems as if it’s free of the (supposed) strictures that are placed on masculinity today. He sides with Bill Cosby and XXXTentacion, does what he want, says what’s on his mind at any time. I can absolutely imagine being a 16- or 17-year-old and wanting to be like Kanye—perhaps not fully understanding why you can’t say some things nowadays or not understanding why it’s not okay to support someone accused of abuse, and therefore identifying with a figure who goes against the right opinions to have. It’s a deeply tempting path, deciding that society is too regulated and too PC and just blowing everything up. It certainly felt like this crowd—dancing to XXXTentacion when “Look At Me” was played between sets earlier in the day, lining up hours to buy KSG merch, expressing their love for Kanye without reservations—had completely given themselves over to the gospel of new Kanye.

A Kanye West show is still a goddamn Kanye West show. There are few artists living or dead who can capture the same feeling of invincibility and project it onto a crowd of thousands. But as someone who once idolized Kanye for his willingness to call bullshit on injustice, and his innate ability to convey both hubris and humility all at once, it was hard not to feel a little disconnected. It’s hard to accept the fact that even when he’s playing the hits, Kanye isn’t preaching the same message he used to. Sunday’s show was thrilling because it was anarchic, not because it was redemptive. Some nights it feels good to get lost among the damned, but it's hard not to miss the times where it felt like Kanye might reach down and save you.

Shaad D'Souza is Noisey's Australian editor. Follow him on Twitter.

This article originally appeared on Noisey AU.

xwjxmzShaad D’SouzaColin JoyceCamp Flog Gnawkanye westwe saw thisKid Cudikids see ghosts
<![CDATA[Girlpool Announce a New Album With the Vivid, Very Good Single "Hire"]]>, 13 Nov 2018 16:59:18 +0000Oh, excellent, Girlpool have a new album coming out. What Chaos Is Imaginary, their third LP, is out via ANTI- on February 1, and they've released a new single called "Hire" to coincide with the announcement. "Lucy's" and "Where You Sink," the two singles that Harmony Tividad and Cleo Tucker released last month, both hinted at the fact that Girlpool were growing into their status as a vivid, incisive rock band, but "Hire" is the best of the lot. Cleo's voice is rich and raspy, particularly in its upper reaches, and there's even a serpentine guitar solo at the end. It's really good, and you should listen to it at the top of the page.

Follow Alex Robert Ross on Twitter.

This article originally appeared on Noisey US.

8xpndgAlex Robert RossColin JoyceindiePOProckNew musicNew Albumanti- recordsgirlpoolhirewhat chaos is imaginary
<![CDATA[Jill Scott Is Trying To Dismantle 'No Nut November']]>, 13 Nov 2018 16:37:13 +0000

Men are weak-willed creatures. And in this life full of carnal sins, abstinence is our only final line of defense against poor decisions during the cold winters of ‘Cuffing season.’ In prior years, we employed ‘Movember’ where men shaved their beards to superfluously raise money for cancer. But in all actuality, it was to stave off partners and challenge ourselves for reasons that are not entirely clear. Nevertheless, this wasn’t enough and a new movement would rise: No Nut November.

To put it simply, for an entire month one cannot ejaculate or ‘nut’ under any circumstances. Through doing this one can test the depths of their willpower and discipline and ascend to the highest echelons of humanity and graduate to 'Destroy Dick December.' Possibly, even, acquire ‘nen.’ (Here’s a chart for reference). However, the heights are very high and many have fallen over the course of the month. But true believers stayed strong. That is, until this morning thanks to R&B/Neo-Soul empress Jill Scott.

Last night, during a live performance, Scott, recently free of the fuckery of men, took the opportunity to physically illustrate her divine talents on the mic. These very techniques Scott employed put a spell on her audience and a video was subsequently shared on Twitter. The response was immediate, with the most iron-willed on social media falling in one fell swoop to her precision, skill, and endurance. Scott is, evidently, an 'Enhancement-type.' In response to the outcry, she tweeted: “Hi. I sing/act out all kinds of stories. You should cum to my shows. After a Jill Scott show, most people get splendidly laid by whoever they came with. #iftheydontFitup #stopfrontinusuckdicktoo They also usually go on 2happier, more productive, focused, wealthy lives.”

Now if anyone, and you should have, has taken even a cursory listen to Jill Scott’s beautiful discography it would be made VERY clear she not here for the games with choice cuts like “Come See Me” and “Celibacy Blues” and this Breakfast Club Interview. As a community, we should’ve been diligent, ready, and prepared. We were not. Thirteen days have passed and the war is nearly lost. But perhaps there is a light at the end of the tunnel. Despite some questionable opinions, Scott has always had self-love at the centre of her material teaching all of us the value of moving on and having sex for closure. So one could believe she was trying to save us ourselves and stop the stopping of acts of self-love. Who really knows? But as the wise Ms. Scott once said: "My love ain't watery." Thank you, Ms. Scott. Thank you for saving us from becoming this:

pa5bmzJabbari WeekesJabbari WeekesMusicInternet ExploringCuffing SeasonNeo SoulThe Breakfast Clubjill scottR&BnenNo Nut NovemberHunterxhuntermicsair-head
<![CDATA[Lil Peep’s First Posthumous Album Is Haunted By What Could Have Been]]>, 13 Nov 2018 14:20:59 +0000There is no right way to clean out the house of a loved one you’ve lost too soon. You’re confronted not just with memories of the person as you knew them, but objects and ephemera that you’ve never seen before, reminders of their life’s unknowable fullness. For every record you know they’ve listened to a hundred times, there’s an old paperweight or a photograph of a friend you never met. What could this have meant to them? What should you do with it? To trash any of it feels perverse.

In November 2017, the emo-rap-cum-pop prodigy born Gustav Åhr died from an accidental overdose on a tour bus in Tucson, Arizona. After the vigils and the tributes and the grand outpourings of public mourning had passed,those closest to him had to untangle the more mundane details of his life. Because Peep was a devout homerecorder, a single laptop held a trove of unreleased recordings intended for various projects in various degrees of completion, including an album called Come Over When You’re Sober Pt. 2. His management company and his mother Liza Womack had to find a way to access and back up those files. In an interview with the New York Times last month, she remembered taking his computer into an Apple Store and saying, “My son died—this is him.”

The question of what to do with those recordings no doubt hung heavily on Womack and the small handful of Peep collaborators she allowed to access the files. In addition to the usual considerations of having to sort through the assumed wishes and desires of a person who wasn’t there, Peep’s music complicated the process. His songs were always raw and intensely personal, which meant that he often sang about suicidal ideation or the substances that ended up taking his life. For a while, after his death, revisiting them felt grim. If Peep couldn’t outrun this stuff, what did that mean for the rest of us? I can’t even imagine what it was like for his friends and family to listen to the contents of his hard drive, to all those minutes of pain.

Still, part of Peep’s talent as a singer and songwriter was always taking those themes and turning them into something that resonated with millions. When he was here, lyrics like the oft-quoted couplet from “OMFG” (“Used to want to kill myself/Came up still want to kill myself”) felt celebratory; his stubborn insistence on continuing to exist in spite of those feelings provided a roadmap for those who suffered in similar ways. This was something Peep was passionate about. I spoke to him once for an interview, over Facetime. Sitting on a couch at his apartment in LA, he was most palpably excited when he was talking about the possibility that his music might provide a healthy outlet for people who felt the same. “It’s there to let people know they’re not alone,” he told me.

On Friday, Columbia Records released the first posthumous collection of Lil Peep’s work, Come Over When You’re Sober Pt. 2. It was the planned sequel to a project he released just three months before his death. Per a feature on Complex that detailed the making of the record, all the vocals were recorded in the same burst of productivity that fueled that first album (Peep once told me he could make a whole song in five minutes. His collaborator Smokeasac estimates that it was more like 10, but still, whoa).

The vocals were essentially all that was done, which makes the finished version of Come Over When You’re Sober Pt. 2 an interesting case study in how to respectfully handle the work of someone who’s not around to hear it. The record was largely produced by Smokeasac and George Astasio—the husband of Peep’s close confidante and not-quite manager Sarah Stennett—who pieced together the instrumentals after the fact. It was obviously an intense experience for everyone involved. Speaking with Complex, Smokeasac recalled the feeling that Peep was there with him, guiding him through the process. “He was there with me the whole time I was doing the production.” Smokeasac said. “Even to this day I feel his energy around me […]I would get goosebumps, and I literally felt like he was standing behind my back watching me [make the record.]”

Listening to this record is almost enough to make you believe in ghosts. In a lot of ways, it picks up exactly where Peep left off—full of both the chest-clearing 808s and the simple geometry of the spindly guitar riffs that marked most of his work. On “Cry Alone,” tensely coiled palm-muted guitars dance around thunderous kicks; the song exemplifies the seamless marriage of pop-punk melodies and rap beats that Peep was always attempting to make, one that many have adopted since Peep’s star started to rise in 2016. And it’s to Smokeasac and Astasio’s credit that they’ve crafted instrumentals as scuzzily anthemic as any of the beats Peep hopped on while he was alive—I can imagine no fate more depressing for these vocals than to be appended to distant echoes of the sound he inspired.

The subject matter, for better or worse, mines many of the same themes he explored throughout his catalog, and on Come Over When You’re Sober Pt. 1. He sings, throughout, about the pull of drugs and death, of the comfort that each could offer to him. On “Leanin,’” he sings of “[waking] up surprised” at surviving a suicide attempt. There is one chorus that sees him channeling his signature half-sigh, half-yowl into the line, “Fuck me like we’re lying on our deathbed.” In the hands of a more straightforward songwriter, it might be kinda eye-rolly, but Peep was always in on the joke, aware of the apparent absurdity of his own pain: the contradiction between how he felt and how good he had it. He told me during our interview that’s why he called an album crybaby, and why he got that same word tattooed on his face: It was a reminder to be “grateful for the shit I do have.”

Smokeasac told Complex that there was no effort to tamp down any of that rawness in the wake of Peep’s death. But knowing what soon followed the recording of these songs, it’s a hard record to listen to. At a listening party for Come Over When You’re Sober Pt. 2, recapped in a story in The New Yorker, Peep’s mother reportedly said flat out, “This is the album Gus would have wanted.” In some senses, this is undoubtedly true. These are the words he intended to sing on the album—and he finished them before he passed. But even if the finished record honors the spirit of what Peep intended, it seems hard to argue that this is how the record would have sounded exactly. The record is cleaner sounding than much of Peep’s output, and the beats and the vocals shimmer in a way that little of his music did when he was alive.

In some ways, this shift feels like an extension of the leap Peep made between his mixtapes and Come Over When You’re Sober Pt. 1—he was on his way toward pop stardom, and his music was starting to sound like it. One could argue that this record only pushes him slightly further down that path, but there’s no way to know for sure if that’s what would have happened. There is a thought I can’t shake, which is that this record is haunted by another version that doesn’t exist, one where Peep could have been in the studio with Astasio and Smokeasac, arguing about the way a specific guitar line unfurled. He told me when we spoke that he always had a hand in the samples that ended up on his songs. He worked fast, sure, but he was exacting.

The Complex story suggests that when he was still alive, Peep liked to mix his own vocals in what Smokeasac called a “guerilla” approach. When Smokeasac worked on the first Come Over When You’re Sober, he seemingly only had access to all the vocals as one file, rather than the separated stems he had this time. I’m not sure why Peep preferred doing things that way, but I think the choice to abandon it—an explicit departure from their previous workflow—says something about the fraughtness of working on something like this. No matter how much you think you’re doing right by the memory of someone you held close, they’re not around to give you a thumbs up or thumbs down. To clean up what they’ve left behind, there are decisions to make, and there’s no way to know for sure if you’re making the right one.

This article originally appeared on Noisey US.

bjezmzColin JoyceNoisey StaffrapPOPemoEssaysPosthumousLil Peepsmokeasac
<![CDATA[How Much of 'Scorpion' Did You Actually Listen To? ]]>, 12 Nov 2018 18:00:17 +0000Drake didn’t release the longest rap album of 2018—hello Migos and Rae Sremmurd —but Scorpion is still long as hell. It’s 90 minutes, spread across two sides organized...thematically? Sonically? Whatever, it doesn’t matter, because apparently there aren’t that many people listening to it all the way through. Despite the reporting that suggests that bloated albums fare well in the streaming era, a new piece on Rolling Stone today seems to say, among other conclusions that people are listening to Scorpion in a very curious way.

According to the report, much of Scorpion's success came from lead singles "God's Plan," "Nice for What," and "In My Feelings." Those songs, along with three others—"Nonstop," "Don't Matter to Me," and "I'm Upset,"—completed the other portion of its streams. So basically, Drake made a long ass album and people only listened to six of the songs. The other 19 songs only account for 18 percent of the album's total streams. You do the math. But, how much of a 25-track album are you really expected to digest?

If we're being honest, I haven't listened to side A since I gave Scorpion the first full listen. There isn't a part of me that wishes I would've given the complete album another chance because this is how Drake designed it. If you want If You're Reading This It's Too Late-era Drake, the first 12 tracks might be for you. But if you, like me, enjoy Drake when he's being less of this faux-macho guy side B was where you made yourself comfortable. That seems to be the point, that you can take whatever parts of Drake you like best and roll with that.

But the article's point that people gravitate to listening to radio hits doesn't seem to me to be entirely unique to the streaming era. Digital spaces are transforming every industry and the fact that people aren't budging on radio hits isn't new to the streaming era. Those of us who are old enough to remember what it was like to physically buy a CD may be guilty of only replaying the same songs that lured us to the store in the first place. The panic surrounding what streaming numbers feels alarmist and anxiety-ridden when you consider every artist's goal isn't to create the soundtrack to a viral dance.

Kristin Corry is a staff writer for Noisey. Follow her on Twitter.

This article originally appeared on Noisey US.

qvq8d7Kristin CorryColin JoyceHip-HoprapDrakestreamingScorpionNoisey Newsnonstopgod's plannice for whati'm upsetin my feelingsdon't matter to me
<![CDATA[Robert Christgau on Pistol Annies' Sharp 'Interstate Gospel']]>, 12 Nov 2018 17:01:25 +0000

The self-proclaimed "Dean of American Rock Critics," Robert Christgau was one of the pioneers of music criticism as we know it—the music editor of the Village Voice from 1974 to 1985 and its chief music critic for several decades after that. At the Voice he created both the annual Pazz & Jop Critics’ Poll and his monthly Consumer Guides. Christgau was one of the first critics to write about hip-hop and the only one to review Simon & Garfunkel's Bridge Over Troubled Water with one word: "Melodic." He taught at New York University between 1990 and 2016, and has published six books, including his 2015 memoir Going Into the City. A seventh, Is It Still Good to Ya?: Fifty Years of Rock Criticism 1967-2017, is now available from Duke University Press. Every Friday we run Expert Witness, the weekly version of the Consumer Guide he launched in 2010. To find out more, read his welcome post; for almost five decades of critical reviews, check out his regularly updated website.


Mandy Barnett: Strange Conversation (Dame Productions/Thirty Tigers) I doubt Barnett conceives this strange little album as a rebuke to the reverent high musicianship of the Patsy Cline interpretations she made her bread and butter long before 2011's Sweet Dreams. High musicianship with a gourmet flourish is what she does. But there's a savor in hearing it applied to this potpourri of humble deep-pop obscurities—late Connie Francis, later Sonny and Cher, lost girl-group and guy-group keepers by Mable John and the Tams—garnished with newer art-pop obscurities. For me the clincher is "The Fool," a top-10 one-shot for 21-year-old Sanford Clark that I thought I hadn't heard since 1956 until I found out there are karaoke versions. A MINUS

Robbie Fulks/Linda Gail Lewis: Wild! Wild! Wild! (Bloodshot) The acerbic Fulks tailors his material to the "sunny, high-humored attitude" of Jerry Lee's little sister, who was way more fun acerbic herself on 1991's alt-rock International Affair, not to mention 1969's consanguineous Together ("Round Too Long," "Till Death," "Memphis Never Falls From Style") ***

Follow Robert Christgau on Twitter.

This article originally appeared on Noisey US.

ev3dqjRobert ChristgauAlex Robert RossrockCountrynashvillepistol anniesExpert Witness with Robert Christgaubecky warrenmandy barnettinterstate gospel
<![CDATA[Tove Lo Explains How a Night at a Bar Started Her Career]]>, 12 Nov 2018 17:01:08 +0000This week on Noisey Radio, Vancouver rapper Tommy Genesis describes how she balances between reality and fantasy on her self-titled debut album. Then, Swedish pop sensation Tove Lo reflects on how she got her start before sharing brand new music.

Listen here at 11 AM EST/8 AM PST and 11 PM EST/8 PM PST.

Lil Tracy - "Tattoos"


Tove Lo
Tove Lo - "shedontknowbutsheknows"
Tove Lo - "Habits (Stay High)"
Tove Lo - "disco tits"
Tove Lo - "Cool Girl"
Major Lazer - "Blow That Smoke feat. Tove Lo"
Tove Lo - "True Disaster"

Follow Noisey on Twitter.

This article originally appeared on Noisey US.

a3md8zNoisey StaffColin JoyceTove LoBeats 1Tommy GenesisNoisey Radionoisey beats 1
<![CDATA[The Kurupt FM Guys Tell Us All the Ways to Fuck Off Forever]]>, 12 Nov 2018 15:14:26 +0000Look, by now you probably know about People Just Do Nothing. Since it started as a web-series in 2012 – moving to BBC Three in 2014 – it’s become one of the best-loved comedies on British telly, with its deluded pirate radio 'tycoons', their money-making schemes and a UK garage soundtrack. The Kurupt FM squad – Grindah, who makes David Brent look meek; Beats; Steves and failed entrepreneur Chabuddy G – were our perfect protagonists, horrendous and loveable in equal measure.

A mockumentary hadn’t felt as fresh since The Office – and, as People Just Do Nothing went on it also delivered unexpected amounts of pathos; last year’s fourth series saw Grindah (played by Allan 'Seapa' Mustafa), Beats (Huge Chewgin) and Steves (Steve Stamp) on the cusp of losing the station, and Chabuddy (Asim Chaudry) forced to live out of his van. Things aren’t looking up for series five, either: while Chabuddy has finally got himself a girl and a job, Steves has been arrested, and Miche and Grindah’s neighbourhood is victim to gentrification.

Away from the show, its stars have enjoyed slightly more success, however, appearing at the likes of Glastonbury, and even releasing an EP, The Lost Tape, last year via XL. However, bucking the trend of British TV shows that go on for 20 series, slowly losing their way, the new series of PJDN will be its last, with the series going out on a (perhaps literal) high. And so, we met with the Kurupt FM crew for a drink (orange juice; it was 4PM, so not quite time for Chabuddy’s signature Polish vodka and peanut dust combo), in a swish east London bar where Radio 1 bounced off shiny surfaces.

Here, the group rarely break character, if only to erupt into fits at giggles at phrases like “golden seed” in a way that only colleagues who are also best mates do. Or, of course, to take the piss out of each other; a mention of Jodie Marsh sees Seapa accuse Chegwin of harbouring lasagne-themed fantasies about the model, for example (real heads know of lasagne as a PJDN touchstone). Seapa lunges around in character as Grindah, but is more docile when the chat ends, even if he does briefly wonder whether they may have made too many sex references. Anyway, because this is meant to be the show’s final series, we made them all tell us the best ways to fuck off forever, from ditching out of control WhatsApp groups to leaving the country before Brexit hits.

Noisey: You hate your housemates, they’re loud, rude, they don’t know what a sponge is – how do you get out?
Grindah: What the fuck is a houseshare?
Steves: It’s like where I lived with Nan. Although, actually, that was her house.
Beats: Until we moved her out.
Grindah: Yeah I'd say just get them out instead. Just make sure they've got somewhere to go first. Say to your houseshare mate … house friend, flatmate, whatever … say, you're doing my head in a bit, but what I've done is I've gone onto, what's the thing called…?
Chabuddy G: Gummytree.

Oh, you mean Gumtr–
Grindah: I've gone on to Gummytree on Google and that, and I've already set you up with another place with other housesharers.
Beats: You could pack their bags for them as well to make it quicker.
Steves: Yeah that’s what you lot did for my nan.
Chabuddy: You could get them a space in a shed. I had seven geezers from Sri Lanka living in my back garden before. It solves the housing crisis as well.
Grindah: [Laughs] Yeah, people are moaning about immigrants, this one’s actually sorting out their housing! Tell that to the President! You could also say to your housemate 'you leave first, I'll follow you'. Then you just stay, obviously.

People Just Do Nothing in 2018

And how do you dump a friend?
Grindah: I mean I don't do it, I've never had to do it. You know why? Because me making friends isn't that easy, it's like an X Factor process. I'm like a villain – I turn all the lights off, they walk in, there's a tiny little chink of light in the room. They're like, ‘Hello? Anyone in there?’ I slowly turn around and say, ‘What do you want from me? Can you MC, can you DJ?’
Steves: [Laughs] That's how we met.
Beats: I was friends with this guy called Darren, he was safe for a bit but we realised he was into House music. Again, I just blocked his number, see you later. Gone forever.
Chabuddy: I had this needy Mongolian friend, Melford, who lived in one of my cupboards, really short. Played the accordion. I didn't get rid of him though, he just got deported.
Steves: I would wait til your friend's asleep then make them shit themselves.
Beats: How do you do that?
Steves: Use dog shit. Put it in their trousers, then wake them up and tell them “get out! You’ve shat yourself”

You’re in a long WhatsApp group. How do you leave?
Chabuddy: I’m not on WhatsApp, I still use MSN. But I'd probably send a virus, put a bit of Trojan malware in there, bit of porn.
Grindah: I would send a picture of me biting my bottom lip and putting my middle finger up and then just the next thing you see is ‘Grindah’s left the group’.
Beats: Just say your WhatsApp ran out of data. I only get £5 credit a month so it does happen, especially when I’m looking at pictures of Jodie Marsh.

How about quitting a job you hate?
Grindah: That's a question for the rest of these guys ... you're all workers, you all work for me. I pay all the bills, gas, electricity. Where do you think the water comes from, the mountains?
Steves: I pay all the bills.
Grindah: Yeah, cos I tell you to. As your boss.
Beats: Just follow your dreams. Tell them the boss you’re better than everyone that works there, then duck out.
Steves: That's what I did at Megabowl.
Beats: Yeah, but that was just weird cos you didn’t even work there.
Chabuddy: If you work with a company for a long time, you can also do an inside job, make the company go broke and then they have to give you redundancy pay. It’s like a five-year plan. Maybe someone could do that at VICE...

The final series of People Just Do Nothing airs from Monday 12 November on BBC2 at 10PM, then will be up on BBC iPlayer; The Kurupt FM Last Ever Tour (Probably) is on its way around the UK from 9 November to 26 November.

You can find Hannah on Twitter .

This article originally appeared on Noisey UK.

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<![CDATA[H.E.R. Wants to Be Both Successful and an Enigma]]>, 12 Nov 2018 15:12:49 +0000When rising R&B musician H.E.R. was ten years old, she sat stiffly at a piano while an adult woman leaned over to wrap her in an awkward hug. They were on the set of NBC’s Today show, in 2007, where H.E.R. – then going by her given name, Gabi Wilson – would pound out a well-rehearsed, precocious cover of Alicia Keys’ “If I Ain’t Got You.” And one of the show’s three hosts couldn’t get enough of how this child in front of her calmly spoke about her love for music, without giggling or fidgeting or doing anything else a typical kid does when they’re being filmed on live TV. At one point, while Gabi spoke about her friends “being really supportive” of her musical pursuits, the co-host cut her off, scoff-shouting: “I love you! Oh, I love you. Oh my God, oh my God – what a grownup,” before pointing at Gabi’s Filipino mother and black father, yelling: “you did such a good job.”

Now, if you know much about H.E.R., you know that the California-born and New York-based 21-year-old has earned millions of streams and video views, for her intimate, softly-softly music. You’ll also know that she always appears in public wearing sunglasses, often swathed in hoodies and jackets, her waist-length curls framing the few facial features you do get to see. It’s in a bid to centre her music, rather than appearance, in how people discuss her work. Publicly, she doesn’t speak about her “real identity,” which is completely her prerogative. But I bring up that childhood video, labelled on YouTube as a Gabi Wilson performance, because she plays some of the audio from it to a packed west London room in early November this year. H.E.R. has just been named one of Apple Music’s “Up Next” artists (a generally young talent who they highlight, on host Julie Adenuga’s show). And on this night, fans who had to sign up for tickets, and stood in a queue that snaked around the venue for two hours before her set, enjoy both a short film about her journey so far, then a live set.

One of the Today show hosts’ “what do you wanna do when you grow up?” wafts out of the speakers in Porchester Hall, the Grade II-listed house that now vibrates with the start of H.E.R.’s relationship-focused R&B. Next, you hear her voice, as recorded in 2007: “I want to be a singer, a songwriter and a musician.” It almost fades in and out, underneath the live band’s warm-up skittering drums, climbing basslines and perfectly harmonised vocals, courtesy of two backing singers. By the time she’s gliding through tracks like Michael Jackson “Earth Song” interpolator “Fate,” piano and handclap-peppered “Changes” and “Focus” – her biggest single so far – it’s unclear how many of the people in the crowd recognise that she’s made a nod to her “previous” identity. Ultimately, they might not care anyway. Though H.E.R. is trying to control so many factors about her image and “brand,” when she lets the music do the talking, that’s what the fans are really here for.

Once the film plays through, H.E.R. flutters her rounded vocals over the top of “Feel A Way,” from the I Used to Know Her EP she released in August. In the vein of many of her songs, it’s about a particular stage in a romantic relationship; in this case, the grey area that bleeds between no-strings-attached sex and a situationship. As she sings “don’t make me feel a way” repeatedly in the chorus, she verbalises that horrible tug-of-war between being vulnerable and self-protected, when you wobble on the edge of falling for someone you’re non-committedly shagging. Like loads of artists riding R&B’s current, inspiring wave – SZA, of course, Brent Faiyaz, H.E.R.’s own collaborator and friend Daniel Caesar, Justine Skye and UK relative newcomers Ella Mai and Mahalia – H.E.R. deals in the weighty marbles of crystalline emotion. You’d struggle to find more universal stories than these ones, of sexual attraction, romantic love, lovesickness and distrust.

So it’s a bit surprising to see that the crowd don’t really come alive until “Focus” and that Caesar collab “Best Part”, towards the final third of the set. British crowds have a reputation for closely following the rules of what an audience “ought” to do: clapping and whooping in between, singing along to the big hooks – nowadays, Insta Storying the big hits. But at pop shows like this, they sometimes hold back from the sort of call-and-response exchange that Mahalia recently described to me, thinking back to her recent US tour. There, she felt “like you’re moving together through the set, as opposed to ‘you the artist,’ and ‘them the audience,’ where you’re playing a load of songs and they’re enjoying them and clapping, listening, clapping, listening.” English crowds don’t always tend to interject with the “uh-huhs,” the “go ons” when they’d rather not miss a second of the artist’s voice. As indie guitarist and songwriter Lucy Dacus recently put it to Noisey’s Lauren O’Neill, “I don’t know if you know this but the UK and Europe have a reputation of being super-attentive at shows. Just being silent. So like, American bands come and are like ‘Do they hate us?’”

R&B musician H.E.R. in London in 2018

It feels as though that wall breaks down fully when H.E.R. soars into “Changes,” off 2017’s H.E.R. Volume 2 and H.E.R., the 21-track album that followed it. She and her band go off-script, as she trills the “all I want is youuuuu” hook over and over, in a cascading sequence of falsetto-range vocal runs that send a shiver down your back. At last, the crowd fizzes in an explosion of applause and shouted encouragement. Hidden behind those sunglasses, only a cracked smile at the end of the song indicates that H.E.R. feels their adoration. In many ways, she seems so much like that little girl from the video, still – intently focused, to the point of appearing detached or aloof.

She spent years in “development” at RCA Records. Initially, she didn’t have much to show for it besides a slew of childhood media appearances – on Maury, The View, Today, twice, event red carpets – and a similar run when she hit her teen years. By then, was speaking with people like Sway, in 2014 or Tyrese, for this slightly dystopian piece of branded Coca-Cola and BET content two years ago. In past interviews, and in almost identical quotes she gives in her Up Next film, she acknowledges how people kept asking what was going on, if she’d been presumed a flop as she grew into her teens. It feels like she would’ve had something to prove.

Surely, since releasing music as H.E.R. for just two years, she feels she’s done so. The co-signs she’d been pulling in since she was underage, from Alicia Keys to Janet Jackson, haven’t dried up. She killed a BET Awards performance this year. Spotify reports that she has 6 million monthly listeners on their service. And even though her breathier voice now, far removed from the shouty belt of her childhood, sometimes can’t match the power of her backing vocalists, she draws people in. So, yes, she can commit to her alias, and its costume – as I said, that’s her right. I didn’t dig deep for these old videos, nor am I trying to “out” her. Sia’s shown that you can belt out as many hits as you like, in an eye-obscuring wig, and connect with audiences at the same time. Similarly H.E.R.’s voice, when she lets it out fully, is beautiful. But she carries some scars from being in the industry for as long as she has been. She has a lot to prove. And tonight, at least for the people in this room, she succeeds.

H.E.R. is touring the US right now, and comes to the UK for her I Used to Know Her Tour in early 2019 – see those UK dates, and tickets, here.

You can find Tshepo on Twitter.

This article originally appeared on Noisey UK.

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