Sick of being the only grey-tinged gal amid an ocean of bald blokes at gigs, Vicky Lindsay Warburton decided to start holding her own. Kind of. Grab your utensils and get ready to mosh not mash.
How’s summer treated you musically? You been rocking at festivals? Hosting BBQs in order to force your music choices onto unsuspecting guests? Swatting off requests from someone’s wife (“Have you got any Celine Dion?” “No. Please fuck off home.”) Or have you quietly edged forward with your usual kitchen gigs in the safety of your own home-hub, keeping a lid on one’s low tolerance of others?
Sonically, mine’s been a jumble-sale of a summer which has left me scarred by Mr Warby’s long hidden musical ‘talent’ that has been revealed and rudely thrust upon me: armpit farting… TO THE BEAT OF A SONG. Fast and deafening.
In my kitchen we ain’t practising the oboe, the piccolo or the viola. Nope, pass the armpit and he’ll hammer out a belter. For the uninitiated here are the basics: cup hand and place under the opposite pit (skin on skin here folks). Arm raised at shoulder level and elbow bent. Swiftly move arm to waist and expel air from cupped hand. Et voila! Armpit blast.
Our small versions have tried to replicate this unbelievably loud phenomena, but thank goodness they produce nothing and so are unable to proudly start the next new craze in the classroom. FACT: farts are funny, to most people, but especially to children who do not need encouragement in this department, particularly at breakfast time when running late (again) because people can’t eat for laughing. Our kids are banned from saying ‘fart’; they have to say TRUMP (they think ‘fart’ is ‘the F-word’ – say ‘ahh’ now).
Play that classic human wind instrument to the beat of these beauties.
Whitney – from god-damn Chicago CHIC-A-GO (no Houston in sight). With their ear-licking melancholy they’re boiling over and tipped to get hotter. Formed in 2015 by Max Kakacek from Smith Westerns and his bandmate Julien Ehrlich, also the singing drummer from Unknown Mortal Orchestra, these swoonsters signed to Secretly Canadian.
This album was written while holed up, sheltering from one of Chicago’s coldest winters; the lads cried over breakups and helped reset each other’s energy, producing a sound so pleasing on the ear you’ll be thankful those broads weren’t for keeps.
No Matter Where We Go is a summer anthem that will have you warbling in your worst high-pitched bollock-strangling voice. They reach the UK in November, pop pickers, so be sure to bag yourself a ticket before the beards get them all.
What’s with the name Whitney, though? Well, they’ve personified the band and also write as if one person is playing everything. Keeps things simple – for them maybe. The video for this ditty highlights the little moments of our mundane lives from which romance is built: a stroke of a hand, entwined legs on the sofa, and a fart of the armpit.
The only reason Julia Holter is simmering is because she boiled over last year. The release of fourth album Have You in My Wilderness saw her cementing her flag in the sand after critically acclaimed third album Loud City Song. She’s signed to Domino records who must be patting themselves on the back because she is IT.
Holter is a proper avant-garde artist: her earlier albums are based on Greek tragedies and she boasts a back catalogue of experimental development that is beyond most.
Right now she is entrancing. Her delicate threads of sound are so ethereal, you might find yourself donning a fairy frock (blokes and all, there’s no stereotyping here) and leaping and twirling along to her melodies.
Yes, she is a multi-instrumentalist. Yes, she is from LA. Yes, she is as gorgeous as she sounds. Catch her in Gateshead or Manchester this autumn as she flutters through. You WILL thank me for this one. In Elvish.
In the deep freeze: In Between Days by The Cure from the album The Head on the Door
The Cure formed in Crawley, West Sussex, 1976, with Mr. Robert Smith the one constant in an ever-changing line up. A moody teenager’s wet dream, they have provided us with 13 studio albums to flail around to – in black, of course. Fronted by a bloke with an absolute disregard for lip-liner and spider-web hair, The Cure have sold 27 million records worldwide – that’s no niche market.
Back in the day, any man or woman who fancied Robert Smith knew from that moment they did not belong in the ‘mainstream’. From humble, post-punk beginnings to bona fide goth rockers, Smith et al forced a change of direction that saw record sales increasing, along with frenzied backcombing. They can sound dour and miserable to a non-convert but everyone loves their upbeat classics – The Love Cats anyone? Everyone!
In Between Days is my hands down fave: miserablist lyrics about aging, fear and loss to an upbeat melody. There is controversy about spelling: Inbetween or In Between (both versions have been printed)? Well, we can’t be sure of anything – except black, of course.
Check out all of Vicky’s kitchen gigs here.3525 Views
Vicky is reintegrating back into society as her children are now in school. She teaches mindfulness to teenagers, wears trainers and paddles through the nonsense of life.