
Fugazi has been on hiatus since 2002, the band keeping busy with other projects and MacKaye industriously beavering away with DIY punk label Dischord and generally performing the duties of a DC punk legend. They did leave us with a rather special gift before dispersing to the four punkwinds*, however. The Argument is one of those rare, great punk albums which functions equally as a right-on, chest-beating pogo marathon and as an armchair chin-stroker. 'Full Disclosure' and 'Epic Problem' offer up anthemic, driving choruses for those looking to lose themselves in the squall, the latter such a dynamic piledrive of stunning riffs and guitar breakdowns that if it hits your headphones on the Tube, you're virtually obligated to make a dick of yourself. But beyond the categories in which we've always known Fugazi excel, The Argument pushes and strains to deliver delights rarely offered on a punk record. The smooth licks and handclaps of 'Life and Limb'; 'The Kill''s strangely detached glimpse into ultranationalism and martyrdom, complete with spooky death-rattle denouement; the dual-drum percussion opening of 'Ex-Spectator'. If hardcore as a genre is held back by the constant need to prove something (whether musical, political or lyrical), then The Argument is a classic precisely because it was made by a band who, after 15 years of keeping the faith, have absolutely nothing left to prove.

In my MOJO piece on this album, I described ex-Faith No More vocalist Mike Patton as "chameleonic". It's a suitable way of describing Patton's hyperactive genre-skipping, his career taking in thrash metal, hip hop, country, folk, jazz and funk, with Patton's elastic voice stretching itself to fit the mood. But I failed to acknowledge that there's something, whether with FNM, Fantomas, Tomahawk, Mr. Bungle or any of the other multitude of Patton's projects, that ties together his performances. There's always a smokescreen of silliness disguising a hint of murder. The particular strain of silliness deviates between records, from Mr. Bungle's absurdist carnival to the flights of pulp fantasy in evidence throughout Fantomas' discography. But no matter the atmosphere, there's always a snake lurking in the long grass.

Though I would happily defend 2008's oft-derided Evil Urges with fists if necessary, the inimitable glory of Z remains My Morning Jacket's finest moment so far, which, given the quality of the band's back catalogue, buys it a ticket straight into the top 10. Z guides the listener, hand-in-hand, through the songbook of the American heartland, interpreting the varied guitar-driven movements of the 20th century whilst maintaining MMJ's core identity, guided by principal songwriter Jim James' assured hand. So yes, there are soaring chorus lines ('Anytime'), there is slow-burning windswept rock ('Dondante'), and there's the earnest sense of adventure that has seen the band tunnel its way into our heart sockets over the last decade. But we always knew the band could pulverise in that arena. Z introduced us to all the things we had no idea MMJ could do. We had no idea they could execute R 'n' B and Caribbean rhythm so effortlessly as they do on opening tracks 'Wordless Chorus' and 'It Beats 4 U', for a start. And breakout single 'Off The Record' might begin in fertile James territory, all chugging guitars and catchy rhythm, but then it takes an inspired left turn into an extended breakdown that evokes the best of the British psychedelic wig-out and 70s French synth-pop.
UK hip hop is in rude health today, but 10 or 15 years ago it was floundering in the garage doldrums, suffocated by slicker, more marketable US releases. At a time when the game was pushing the underground out, the British scene reacted by changing the rules. Ditching huge production costs and prioritising artistic vision over courting the charts, UK underground hip hop embraced its own grim version of electronic music, spawning a fertile breeding ground that takes in grime, dubstep, dancehall and above all an almost fetishistic worship of the bassline. Stockwell MC/producer Roots Manuva's Run Come Save Me (not to mention his debut Brand New Second Hand, released in 1999) felt like the first broadside in the British assault. In a genre with such a predilection for aggrandising the drama of working class life, Manuva's revelling in the inanities of life was a refreshing shift towards the ugly truth.Run Come Save Me was a landmark record anchored by one of the finest hip hop cuts found anywhere ('Witness (1 Hope)'), but Brigadier Smythe improves every time out of the gates, and 2008's Slime & Reason is hands-down his finest work. Manuva's flirtation with dancehall and ragga evolved into a full-blown romance on Slime & Reason, popping out vivid party babies like 'Buff Nuff', 'Do Nah Bodda Mi' and 'Again & Again'. But in between there are refined echoes of the lyrical and musical heaviness on show on 2005's Awfully Deep, delving into broken homes ('The Show Must Go On'), misguided, betrayed youth ('It's Me Oh Lord') and Manuva's ambiguous relationship with God previously explored in 2001 on 'Sinny Sin Sins' (revisited on 'Let The Spirit'). Roots Manuva typifies the rebellious microcosm that's flourishing in London, embracing its own unique heritage and flying in the face of American hip hop's received wisdom. After all, if you can't beat 'em, fuck 'em.
Side note: I once met Roots Manuva on a train at Surbiton. He was nice. I almost pissed myself. Also, the reason I rambled on so much about the British scene and Run Come Save Me is that I wrote a fairly lengthy review of Slime & Reason for Londoners and didn't want to repeat myself. So for a more in-depth, track-by-track affair, check out my review.
That's what makes Boys & Girls an excellent record. What makes it a classic is that, beyond the exultation of the first few spins, it continues to reward the listener over months and years. Craig Finn's distinctive vocals, delivering dense reams of prose in a husky half-shout, are the heart and soul of the album, giving the driving riffs meaning and context and elevating them from simple feel-goodery. Much has been made of Finn's literary references, but his lyrics are far more than a list of look-what-I've-read pomp - they're actually refreshingly direct, charting the highs and lows of a cast of fresh-faced young invincibles over a span of half-remembered nights out. Finn creates incredibly poignant vignettes of the young and foolish, bringing a poetry to youthful abandon that never loses sight of the painful difference between the drug-enhanced fantasy and the stark reality of the morning after.


Anyone who has shown even a passing interest in Justin Vernon's Bon Iver will be aware of the circumstances of For Emma, Forever Ago's recording, which has by now been indelibly inscribed in the annals of folk history. Vernon, following the break-up of his previous band (DeYarmond Edison) and the disintegration of a relationship, still weak from the after-effects of glandular fever, retreated to a remote cabin in the wilds of his native Wisconsin to convalesce. While there, he recorded a set of songs that mixed reflections on relationships past with the wintry natural imagery around him.
I'm usually happy to largely divorce albums from the circumstances of their creation (it seems to encourage a myth-making process that prioritises the cult of personality over music), but in this case the background informs the shape of the songs to such a great extent that it's impossible. Because For Emma, Forever Ago is essentially a one-man therapy session, scored by an unspeakably beautiful guitar/voice interplay and the spectral presence of the forest outside. Through the nine tracks we catch glimpses of his emotional recovery, from the pained remembrance of a lost love on album opener 'Flume' ("Sky is womb and she's the moon"), through the exquisite torture of 'The Wolves (Act I and II)', on which the climactic, clattering percussion might bring to mind Vernon's gibbering demons scratching at the walls of the cabin as he intones a protective mantra in an attempt to keep them out ("What might have been lost - don't bother me"). Throughout, Vernon employs his stunning falsetto, often double-tracked to add texture, as an accompanying instrument as much as a conveyer of words. By the time we reach the serene beauty of final track 're: stacks', Vernon seems to have reached a resolution to cast off grief and live happy in the knowledge that past love is no less real, as long as it's remembered: "This is not the sound of a new man or crispy realisation/ It's the sound of the unlocking and the lift away/ Your love will be/ Safe with me."




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