If The Byrds or REM had joined the pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood maybe they’d have played the baroque folk-pop Seattle’s Green Pajamas have pushed since 1984. Still stalked by dark ladies and ghost lovers, The Pajamas’ 30th album in an apparently infinitely sustainable career satisfies regular customers’ expectations of effortlessly hummable guitar pop – Supervirgin’s McCartney bass…
The Vermont indie-folkster Anais Mitchell’s own songs echo archaic British folk lyrics, and she’s spearheaded the rediscovery of the English folksinger Nic Jones. Last Summer, I saw New Yorker Jefferson Hamer playing along anonymously in a traditional session in an Edinburgh bar. Like Dylan and Paul Simon in the ‘60s, the dutiful duo sought the…
Jill O’Sullivan, Belfast born but Chicago raised, fills her lungs and sucks the trademark Alternative Country and Post Rock sounds of the windy city through the filter of a dramatically dour Welsh-Scottish rhythm section. Valley Of Death, Water Wont Fall and Avalanche of Lust suggest some lost widescreen western cowgirl, like Neko Case or Paula…
If The Heads, who’ve spent two decades hammering at the coalface of Stooges-derived spacerock, hailed from Japan or Finland they’d be living legends. Instead, they’re from Bristol, and remain prophets without honour. Their vocalist and guitarist Paul Allen’s new project, Anthroprophh, moves his influences forward eighteen months from late 1969 to mid 1971, adding kosmische…
Once, Alasdair Roberts leavened his love of traditional Scottish styles with a sloppy-casual indie sensibility. Now he burns like a convert and demands we meet on his mountaintop. His egoless, idiomatic writing style indistinguishable from centuries old song, Roberts, and his gifted ensemble, graft surges of orchestrated acid-folk-rock abandon, dainty highland dance tunes, and florid…
In 1988, the then unfashionably elderly House of Love front-man Guy Chadwick, 32, looked both ways, smearing Seventies glam rock insousiance over the transformative aspirations of the era’s widescreen alterno-rock surges, like a decadent Bono, his prayers rolled into Rizlas. Buoyed by Terry Bickers’ guitar, fusing John McGeogh’s post-punk Banshee wail with then fashionable treble…