Someone we might yet be hearing more from…
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[6.38]
Katherine St Asaph: Night Slugs vocalist Kelela went from underground to bubbling under in about two months, and she’s about one wave of BBC collateral coverage away from disappearing into the zeitgeist of nostalgia for turn-of-the-century alty R&B. That’ll be a mistake. She’s got the period-appropriate touches (faves: the bubbles from “Hey Ladies,” the sinuous harmonies), but she’s also got the difficult stuff. “Enemy” is menacing, but it isn’t obvious. The steel drums are burnished to sound like steel weaponry (a little like Beyoncé in that respect), but the breaking glass actually sounds subtle and the track mostly stands its ground. It’s a statement, but a quiet one: a threat that chills because it’s a whisper.
[8]
Anthony Easton: The sputtering, percussive, almost handclapping breakdowns throughout this, but especially when it becomes instrumental, add a paranoid element to a song that would otherwise be too sweet, almost twee.
[7]
Kat Stevens: That reminds me, must ring the plumber.
[6]
Alfred Soto: Insofar as the demo-ish found-sound virtues of the programmed steel drums and cracked plates reminds me of early Dizzee Rascal, I wish Kelela didn’t sound so demure. Mitigating the anger with the softest of singing also dilutes some of the track’s power.
[6]
Patrick St. Michel: A great sonic idea that loses its charm with each replay.
[6]
Will Adams: A whole lot of noise — both figuratively and literally — for something that hasn’t got too much at its center. When she spells out her name, it’s both unearned and the exact moment that the distorted stab wears thin.
[5]
Jonathan Bogart: Starlit industrial beats gluing together a vocal lifted from early-90s girl-group R&B turns out to be suprisingly effective in sense-memory terms. I wish that the bit where she fragments into lush harmonies were more than just a one-off, though.
[7]
Brad Shoup: Elements launch themselves like bats from the ceiling. They’re not aiming at you, but after a couple of them cropdust your face you’d be forgiven for thinking they are. The track (especially that triggered bang) stays static, like a tone poem or some poor fool suspended in gaffa. Then the bottom drops out for a koto solo — I tend to hold my breath here — then a drumpad tantrum. It’s like a provocative installation: it’s just lying in the corner, but you peek at it from all over the room.
[6]