Photography by Pavla Kopecna

Recently I read a feature on The Line of Best Fit about The Pains of Being Pure at Heart’s latest record ‘Belong’. It’s an easy album to love, full of dizzy hooks, love-touched warmth and that miniature twee delectability of a bygone era. They also wear their cross-Atlantic influences on their sleeve, literally – frontman Kip Berman always dons a Suede pin on his jacket. Naturally that makes them a pretty easy target for the chronically shifting indie-sphere, especially where the international press is concerned. Within the first two paragraphs of this review (which was admittedly advertised to be contrarian), John Calvert uses phrases like “Urban Outfitters”, “eyebrow-deficient vegan”, “Rudy Giuliani”, and of course, “Anglophiles”. It’s the latter term that is most frivolously tossed about when discussing American bands, but just how often is a just criticism?

I’m talking primarily about the NME-core, but to me it seems like the bands christened with alt-rock, stadium-smashing blessings overseas always subscribe to some core tenant of traditional American rock music, rather than ripping off the Brits. The surrogate adoption of The Strokes is the most blatant – a hip quintet of New York stereotypes, playing grimy, urban and immediately iconic music in their city of origin’s niche. They skyrocketed overseas, representing an idealised, Technicolor version of New York; something that was easier to sell to those who were willing to believe the movieland fantasy. In Nashville, Kings of Leon erupted in popularity throughout Europe much before they transcended their yuppie-indie stigma domestically. Sure, that partially has to do with the critical thrashing they received (and continue to receive) from American critics, but their gussied-up southland swagger speaks for itself – traditionally and identifiably from the heartland, but void of all the nastiness and prairie dust. Lynyrd Skynyrd never made it across the ocean, not because they weren’t as catchy, but song titles like ‘Gimme Back My Bullets’ and ‘Sweet Home Alabama’ are a little too real. In a sense, this philosophy is a lot more Anglophelic than The Pains of Being Pure at Heart doing Britpop impressions. It filters out a surface-level hovel of American music while devoting all their hype to their own kin, most of which are drawing influence from a much larger pool than certain publications care to cover.

It seems to me that American music is often delegated to fit these archetypes, and when they embrace influence outside of their oceans they find themselves struck down as imitators. Be purebred, and be tasteful, or risk being stuck as an anglophile.

Recently I read a feature on The Line of Best Fit about The Pains of Being Pure at Heart’s latest record ‘Belong’. It’s an easy album to love; full of dizzy hooks, love-touched warmth and that miniature twee delectability of a bygone era. They also wear their cross-Atlantic influences on their sleeve, literally – frontman Kip Berman always dons a Suede pin on his jacket. Naturally that makes them a pretty easy target for the chronically shifting indie-sphere, especially where the international press is concerned. Within the first two paragraphs of this review (which was admittedly advertised to be contrarian), John Calvert uses phrases like “Urban Outfitters”, “eyebrow-deficient vegan”, “Rudy Giuliani”, and of course, “Anglophiles”. The guarded notion of Anglophilia is something that’s pilfered through the intrinsic musical relationship between the US and the UK – we borrow, we influence, and we exchange, but the division remains forever in place.

I’m talking primarily about the NME-core here – but to me, it often seems like the bands christened with the alt-rock, stadium-smashing blessings overseas always subscribe to some core tenant of traditional American rock music. The surrogate adoption of The Strokes is the most blatant – a hip quintet of New York stereotypes, decked in leather jackets and Velvet Underground shirts, playing grimy, urban and immediately iconic music in their city of origin’s niche. They skyrocketed overseas, arguably topping even their homeland in terms of adoration. They represented an idealised, Technicolor version of New York, something that was easier to sell to those who were willing enough to believe the movieland fantasy. In Nashville, Kings of Leon erupted in popularity throughout Europe much before they transcended their yuppie-indie stigma domestically. Sure, that partially has to do with the critical thrashing they received (and continue to receive) from American critics, but their gussied-up southland swagger speaks for itself – traditionally and identifiably from the heartland, but void of all the nastiness and prairie dust.

Lynyrd Skynyrd never made it across the ocean, not because they weren’t as catchy, but song titles like ‘Gimme Back My Bullets’ and ‘Sweet Home Alabama’ are a little too real. In a sense, this philosophy is a lot more Anglophelic than The Pains of Being Pure at Heart doing Britpop impressions. It filters out a surface-level hovel of American music while devoting all their hype to their own kin – most of which are drawing influence from a much larger pool than they’d care to cover.

Again, we’re talking about the old guard here – these statutes of cornering American music in its location and pre-conceived sonic definition is something reinforced by the long histories of the commercial-minded English press. The underbelly, like FACT, and TLOBF, and Clash, and (yes) Loud And Quiet don’t buy into this archaic mindset, and criticism is a lot better for it. I just wonder if these divisions will ever go away. Pop ought to be universal after all.

By Luke Winkie

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Originally published in issue 29 (vol 3) of Loud And Quiet. June 2011

For all of its problems, its chortling suburbia, the fringe, anti-realist politics, and its occasional lack of culture, American music can certainly seem seductive to the average teenager. I’ve recently found myself going through the back catalogue of Bruce Springsteen, in parts out of curiosity, but mainly from faded nostalgia, and the fact that ‘Darkness on the Edge of Town’ has found itself in a certain renaissance following that widely acclaimed reissue. Naturally there’s a constant emphasis on escapist anthems, teenage love on the road, dissolving unjust hindrances with the power of miles and miles of pavement. It’s so well ingrained in pop music it’s almost redundant mentioning, but then I look outside my dorm room and I see stretches of highway blending with a warm, sunshine horizon. The open plains of Texas only accentuate that effect – for every deadbeat small town lays a car, a couple, an ambition, and an endless, interconnected highway escape route.

The interstate highway system is estimated to run 46,876 miles, across all 50 states, and it serves as the primary means of transportation for almost every American. That beckoning freedom has permeated every aspect of classic American pop. Our most universal heroes are something of road-poets; Dylan, the surrogate adoption of Neil Young – and even in modern times the vigour of icons like Craig Finn or Josh Ritter have inspired similar, if more bated critical respect. The prose of U.S. pop is always tied to landscape; Sufjan “drove to Chicago,” Doug Martsch wanted to see “their faces turn to backs of heads and slowly get smaller,” and Springsteen’s own “tramps like us, baby we were born to run” has become one of the most cited singular lyrics in music history. These little quips have planted seeds of rosy anarchy in the cores of millions of young people.

The sheer scale of this country is tempting. America is one of the only places on earth that offers unbridled escape, diverse society, divergent landscapes – all unified in the same borders. Sure, plenty of wanderlust-pop has surfaced from other nations, but never to the power and unbridled irresponsibility of the States. Often, outside my dorm room a collection of homeless runaways gather and peddle for change. We call these fellows ‘drag rats’, given their dishevelled demeanours, but it’s easy to drum up some sympathy. I see them as the train-wreck of the American teenage dream, inspired more literally by the same music that inspired me, but brave enough to act on it.

Some do find that erstwhile enlightenment that Springsteen talked about, but others crash and burn, shredded to bits by the weight of their undertaking – so they huddle together, finding some solace in the embrace of their fellow’s broken wings. We can all attest to the dangerousness of this rampant, music-fuelled idealism, but I certainly think we can lift a toast to the times when we were green enough for it to make sense.

By Luke Winkie

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Originally published in issue 28 (vol 3) of Loud And Quiet. May 2011

I feel a little guilty dedicating this column to more commentary on Odd Future Wolf Gang Kill Them All’s meteoric rise – after all, the youngsters have been fairly ubiquitous on this side of the Atlantic, gracing everything from Gorilla vs. Bear to a 5-page spread in Spin magazine. We’re headed towards critical mass, but they still deserve to be talked about, if only to shine a curious light on how savagely the American press have attached itself to such an explicitly counter-cultural rap collective.

I mean, let’s be honest, anyone who doesn’t find “fuck a mask/I want this ho’ to know it’s me” at least a little troubling is either psychotic, incredibly misogynistic or willing to give artistic credence enough space to allow for bitingly uncomfortable rape-talk. Watching journalists cheer on hooks like “KILL PEOPLE/BURN SHIT/FUCK SCHOOL” seems rather incongruous to the usual bitten-tongue cringes the world has come to expect. In fact, their incredibly anarchic wordplay has become just a part of the Odd Future mythos. That Columbine/Adventure Time drop on ‘Yonkers’ has become one of Tyler The Creator’s most quoted lines, like he’s some sort of impish champion for riffing on one of the darkest school shootings in memory.

But most tastemakers have been perfectly willing to forget all of that dark imagery, because strangely, Odd Future is an entity that indie-ist scenesters have all the reason to get behind. They’re young, uncensored, aggressively DIY, and they like Ariel Pink. It’s the closest us suburbanized, European-American liberals have come to identifying with a rap collective since Wu-Tang Clan (another group famous for its dorky-ass disciples). The number of white hands in the air at their recent New York gig made it all the more clear. This is music mainly listened by people like you, someone who would pick up a Loud And Quiet, buzzed for a demographic looking for something both independent and thought-provoking, and Odd Future is definitely both those things.

However, there is one thing about Odd Future that isn’t devilishly discussed or written about behind concealed smiles; in fact nobody really likes to talk about it at all. It’s the F word. No, not that one – I’m talking about ‘faggot’, which, as you’re probably aware, is a significant homosexual slur in the states, and it absolutely covers every song the group has produced thus far. Elitist white America wrings their hands when Tyler mutters, “go ahead admit it faggot this shit is tighter than buttrape,” but not during, “keep that bitch locked up in my storage, rape her and record it.” Whether it’s because homophobia is closer to home or we have selective hearing is up for debate, but it certainly represents the internal dilemma Americans (me included) is having right now. The critical future of these kids is most definitely odd.

By Luke Winkie

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Originally published in issue 27 (vol 3) of Loud And Quiet. April 2011