Since 1997, Daft Punk have been a monolith in dance music. Even those with only a vague interest in music will know their name, and everyone knows the vocoded splendour of “One More Time”, Around The World and countless other Daft Punk game-changers. Silent in the music media stretching back even to around the time of 2010’s Tron: Legacy soundtrack, Daft Punk have been incubating the seminal electronic music album.   

It’s early days to call this a masterpiece, but on first, second, and third listens Random Access Memories evokes enough enthusiasm in me to use the word. Album opener “Give Life Back To Music” begins the journey not unlike David Bowie’s Starman, with rising guitars and pianos but soon drops off into a smooth trademark Daft Punk jam. Vocoded vocals are one of the staples of this album - unlike previous Daft Punk records where they played a bit part - Daft Punk are singing on almost every song on this record. Nile Rodgers’ guitar influence on this track and most others is unmistakable and absolutley crucial to capturing the sound of disco that Daft Punk have been so notoriously trying to capture on this album. Give Life Back To Music sets an early precedent and the album never fails to meet or exceed that precedent. Melancholy vocoders wobble over the rainy Game of Love, punctuated by electric jazz pianos and a rumbling bassline. 

“Giorgio By Moroder” is the first of several musical peaks that the album has, an odyssey of dance and disco music narrated by electronic pioneer Giorgio Moroder. At the song’s crescendo, live drums and soaring strings are the centrepiece before it busts right back into vintage synth arpeggios. Within props itself gently between Giorgio and the awesome “Instant Crush” which takes cue from the Strokes and has a distinctly Strokes feel to it, though Julian Casablancas’ vocals are vocoded and the music is largely synth and bass. “Lose Yourself To Dance” is the second of three Nile Rodgers collaborations and Rodgers’ impact is felt most fondly on this track, as Rodgers’ guitar and Pharrell Williams’ vocals bounce off of each other. “Touch” is a briefly jarring track as former Carpenter Paul Williams takes up vocal duties for a track which halves the album perfectly, switching from strictly disco and electronic influences to an Elton John-esque piano break and children’s choirs covering the length of the song. Daft Punk have made a very clear statement on Touch as with the rest of the album: their vision for making music isn’t at the mercy of anyone’s prejudice. Daft Punk have made a record that is an album in the same way that Pink Floyd’s Dark Side Of The Moon is an album - start to finish, the album doesn’t break stride covering a plethora of influences and ambitions. 

The second half of the album is a fitting partner to the first, with “Beyond” capturing the sound of the 80s with another smooth jam, a little bit soft rock, but still not far from “Digital Love” or “Something About Us”, where “Doin’ It Right” matches Daft Punk’s original minimalism and teams up with Animal Collective’s Panda Bear for something new. “Contact” is an album closer to close all album closers. Daft Punk have done something really special on Random Access Memories and I’m not sure what it is, but 2013 is now officially the Year of the Robot.

★★★★★★★★★★

Frank Turner: the poverty-stricken man’s Billy Bragg. Okay, that’s a bit harsh, but even as someone who likes a significant amount of Turner’s solo output, his canonisation as a voice of the alternative youth doesn’t sit well. He’s written some superb songs, but when looking back in ten or twenty years time, it’s doubtful Frank Turner will be seen as a pivotal figure in the musical world.

Five albums into his post-Million Dead career and Turner is currently at a peak on his personal timeline. 2012 saw him headline Wembley Arena to a sold-out audience of 12,000, perform at the London Olympics pre-show, last album England Keep My Bones certified as silver, and he’s a immoveable fixture on festival line-ups around the world. But he’s lucky all this came before Tape Deck Heart, because on the evidence of these twelve songs, he’s nowhere near deserving of grabbing such high brass rings.

Before diving into the deep end of what’s wrong with Tape Deck Heart, there are a few highlights to mention. The muted emo-rock of “Plain Sailing Weather” and the switch from music hall piano number to 100mph punk on “Four Simple Words” are top-drawer, whilst “Anymore” is the pinnacle, turning in a gentle acousit ballad reminiscent of Fionn Regan. Album closer “Broken Piano” impresses too, super-sizing the usual FT formula to fit those giant stages he has to play.

But large parts of the record feel almost as artificial as Mumford & Sons’ studied folksiness; the mandolin augmentations to Turner’s usual sound (Mumford bagsied the banjos), the rousing crescendos, the jarring, incongruous “dear”s and “darling”s. But Turner’s been doing this middle-class Troubadour schtick for almost eight whole years, and if you chucked every one of his songs into a playlist and hit shuffle, there’d be little to differentiate between songs released in 2006 and those released in 2013. This could be twisted into a positive element, as a few too many bands strive to drastically change their sound from album to album instead of letting things grow and evolve organically, but five albums in a row with only nominal musical development is ridiculous.

Turner’s lyrics aren’t really evolving either. Addressing us directly as listeners, references to shows and gigs, and similar devices are all big no-nos in this writer’s mind. They take you out of the moment, swapping the escapism music often delivers with a metaphorical sharp stick which jabs you in the side, reminding you that you’re simply listening to one song out of billions, spending three minutes of your dreary little life listening Frank Turner. You poor bastard.

“Four Simple Words” is the worst offender of all. Rhyming “very” with “century” Spat references to Shoreditch hipster bands? Sleeping on people’s floors? Bands working hard and earning their keep? It just comes off as amateurish, petulant and bitter. Frank, mate, you’re an extremely successful musician, you should be above complaining about this sort of inconsequential shit. Your hero and forebear Mr Bragg used his music to talk about important societal matters, he wasn’t pandering with lyrics about “the kids who never fit in with the rest”. British music could really do with someone saying something about, well, anything; the shitty economy, the shitty politicians, the shitty state of society? They’re all fertile soil in which to sow the basis for lyrics. England Keep My Bones was an album that was quite passionate about English heritage and culture (but not in an extreme way), so you’d think Turner would have something to say two years down the lane, with the omnishambles occurring every second? 

Nope. While they can be good a lot of the time, songs about fucking up and/or having a good time are dime a dozen, and Turner’s have none of the wit, heart, humour or power of The Gaslight Anthem or The Hold Steady. Why on earth do people savage Taylor Swift for writing break-up songs when Frank Turner is giving us The Middle-Class White Boy Blues every two years or so?

★★★★☆☆☆☆☆☆

In the modern music world, the solo artist seems to be taking precedence over the band. No longer to the teenagers of today need three or four spotty mates to cram into a garage and fumble out Oasis covers; your average 17 year old can grab a Mac and have an a clutch of buzzworthy blog hits in the space of a week. This isn’t necessarily a bad thing though, as the lack of bandmates means the solo artist is free to create what they want, their singular vision, without ego clashes, petty squabbles, compromise or waiting three albums to going solo and do their thing (looking at you Bloc Party, The Strokes and countless others).

Fyfe is one of the crop of young musicians striking out on their own with a fully formed sound, like King Krule, Mount Weak or Howl, collecting elements of the sounds which have influenced them in their youth, like open-minded magpies in skinny jeans. The skittering and shuffling electronic beats across his debut EP Solace point to hip-hop, R&B and ,at points, the more restrained areas of dance, but the layered on top are the atmospheric chiming guitars which have been monopolised by The Maccabees and Bombay Bicycle Club in recent years. But Solace manages to sound a lot more cohesive, and altogether, better than either of those two established bands’ last albums.

It’s an odd combination but the swell of those giant-sounding guitars somehow fits into what is a very chilled and relaxing four tracks. The smooth vocals on “Lies” and the image of “Waiting on those tables in sunny St. Tropez” on the track of the same name help place Solace firmly in the Summer playlist on iTunes, but it’s the polished production which will help it become an all-year listen. Every element is given space to breath, and room to have the full intended effect. The title track is undoubtedly the highlight here. It sounds a little like Damon Albarn’s other other band The Good The Bad And The Queen, with a sly subtle dub influence (in fact the basslines throughout are top drawer) and wistful vocal choir propelling the track along. It feels like it could very well become an future staple of alternative music, or at least become one of those “moments” at festivals and gigs which people remember for years to come.

With musical boundaries blurring and the scene becoming saturated with a multitude of new names, Fyfe is one of the few who really do demand your attention. It’s very likely he’ll become a vital voice in British music in the near future.

★★★★★★★★★☆

It’s been a year of huge returns: Bowie, Timberlake, Gaga, Beyonce, Vampire Weekend, The Knife, My Bloody Valentine, and many more. When Fall Out Boy announced their name to that list a few months back, the internet went into meltdown. For all the bile aimed at emo back in the day, it seemed like a lot of people remained diehard fans of Stump, Wentz, Hurley & Trohman, or at least harboured secret crushes on the Chicago quartet. Five years on, do they still deserve the love and praise of a once devoted fanbase?

Nabbing a trick from Plan B’s “Ill Manors” and sampling Peter Fox/Shoshtakovich is a wonderful way to kick off a comeback record. That orchestral loop hits like a blitz, reaching Manic Street Preachers-level bombast. One of the most immediate elements of the album as a whole is the sort of slick, clean, polished production which usually only heard from the likes of Kanye or Beyonce. The opening hattrick of “The Phoenix” “My Songs Know What You Did In The Dark (Light ‘Em Up)” and “Alone Together” sound as crisp and clear as is aurally possible, particularly “My Songs…”, a top drawer melding of hip-hop, pop and rock sensibilities.

Like Paramore’s recent album, the balance between pop and punk is a huge landslide towards the former, but that’s a logical progession for FOB. They’ve always been a covert pop group, and one of the best at that; “This Ain’t A Scene…”, “Dance, Dance” and “Saturday” are all huge pop songs, smothered in a few layers of emo lyrics and angry guitars. The record’s title is quite the misnomer, since there’s never been much rock & roll about Fall Out Boy, and the radio-ready sheen of the eleven tracks here doesn’t really scream that they’re too bothered with saving the genre; it’s simply a (thankfully) shortened example of Pete Wentz’s wonderfully quotable titling ability, a declarative, ridiculous statement, a little silly, but most of all memorable. However, whilst the cover art is a great photo, it holds absolutely no connection to the title or themes or sounds of the album, but then again, when has that mattered much in music?

For all the superb little elements and hooks in the opening three songs, the next clutch never really jump above the level of “pretty decent”. “Where Did The Party Go?” and “Death Valley” could pass for covers of unheard Franz Ferdinand tracks, whilst “Miss Missing You” is pure Blondie, synths and all, but they’re all sort of, well, meh. It’d take between ten and fifteen listens to lodge them in your mind, and that’s not the sort of time anyone really has in the modern music world (especially those of us rushing to post reviews online before anyone else). Most of the songs with featured artists fall flat too. Foxes pass by anonymously on “Just One Yesterday”, Big Sean is completely useless on The Mighty Fall and manages to get away with only barely damaging the overall quality of the song, whilst the inclusion of Courtney Love on Rat A Tat is baffling; “it’s Courtney, bitch” is what she spits at the top of the song… Really? Are we back in 2007? Is that a relevant pop culture reference to make again? Her contributions don’t really fit with the rest of the track either; her sections sound like Sonic Youth, jarring with the big arena sound on the rest.

The one guest star who really works and earns their place is Sir Elton John, probably the most surprising name to appear on the tracklist a few months back. Naturally his song has to be the big piano-led torch song title track which closes the album, only the best for Elt. “Save Rock And Roll” turns out to be the best written song on the whole album, with everything falling into place. Sung by anyone else “You are what you love, not who loves you/In a world full of the word yes, I’m here to scream no” would come off as some John Green bullshit peddled at terribly deep teenagers, but Patrick Stump and John’s voices fit together incredibly well, and it’s a change of pace from the rest of Fall Out Boy’s oeuvre. It’ll be a crime against good things if it doesn’t end up closing all their gigs from now on.

So, in the league of big comebacks in 2013, Fall Out Boy have fall far behind the likes of Bowie and Timberlake and have to settle for a mid-table slot. Then again, they’ve never really been an album band; they’re fantastic at crafting these big, colossal anthems, three minute chunks of power-pop gold, but they’ve never found a way of spreading that magic formula across an entire album.

★★★★★★☆☆☆☆

As the old adage when reviewing follow-up efforts from current artists after meeting critical reception, the “sophomore slump” is a storm cloud that unfortunately seems to linger above many artists and acts, and leaves us all hanging with bated breath for the outcome. The aforementioned storm cloud, for James Blake, may as well have been an approaching hurricane. After his phenomenal and enigmatic debut in 2011, and then almost vanishing off the face of the digital earth as mysteriously as he appeared, it seemed like an eternity waiting for his return back onto the music scene, and its relieving to say that fans won’t be disappointed.

Many of the components of Blake’s self-titled blueprint have returned, and as such not a lot, on the first few listens at least, is all that different. However, going back and forth between the two LP’s there is something that strikes out at you: subject matter. During the break between James Blake and Overgrown Mr. Blake found love (Theresa Wayman from Warpaint, by the way) and as such this record is strongly influenced by the subject matter that plagues most creative output.

Not to condemn love as a central focus, however, as Blake’s still alarmingly fresh sound makes the retelling of deep affection and its ensuing tumult enjoyable. “Retrograde”, the lead single, takes the very essence of ‘falling in love’ and slaps in what feels like that signature THX sound that used to blow your eardrums at the beginning of Star Wars films (with “…suddenly I’m hit!” accompanying as lyrics, Blake makes it visibly apparent that he has found his muse).

Also drawing on influences from his hip-hop remix alter ego Harmonimix, RZA features (on “Take A Fall For Me”) and Big Boi is sampled heavily on a track featured in the deluxe edition, showcasing that Blake is able to adapt while still drawing on the sounds that propelled him this far into the spotlight. The Eno collaboration “Digital Lion” and “Voyeur” are standouts as well, breaking away from centering on piano work and giving in to those fine-tuned, underlying wobbles that only someone like Blake himself knows how to twist.

While essentially more of the same, Overgrown certainly feels more representative of something a bit more definite. Definitely something to put through a good speaker system or set of headphones too, you’re cheating yourself out otherwise.

★★★★★★★★☆☆

It’s fair to say that the hype, controversy and drama surrounding Odd Future, especially Tyler, the Creator, peaked in summer 2012 and has certainly quietened down now. This is pretty bleak considering that Wolf may be Tyler, the Creator’s best effort yet. Gone are the misogynistic and downright awful lyrics about kidnapping and raping women! They’ve been replaced by yet more rapping about father problems, troubled teenagers and a story set in Camp Flog Gnaw – Tyler’s imaginary summer camp. In the smooth piano led intro Wolf asks Samuel (both personas of Tyler’s) “so you guys are into jazz?”, letting us know that Wolf is going to be all about jazzy beats and crooning over twinkly piano chords, something a million miles away from the angry and aggressive Tyler featured in songs like “Radicals”.

A highlight of the album is the confessional “Colossus”where Tyler raps about trying to enjoy a nice day at a theme park but ends up being hounded by a very obsessive fan – it’s all very “Stan” by Eminem – but much more enjoyable because it’s backed up by simple piano chords and what sounds like a glockenspiel!  The album could almost be his Summer Camp Mix for 2013, what with it’s summery theme and soulful tracks like “Treehome95” that go down a Noughties R&B route, a genre that Tyler is a huge fan of. It’s almost as if Wolf pays homage to everything Tyler enjoys outside of rap music – there’s jazzy piano, an appearance from Trash Talk’s Lee Spielman on “TRASHWANG”, quite a few appearances from Odd Future’s resident crooner Frank Ocean, a Toro Y Moi reference and that’s not all! Lætitia Sadier from Stereolab pops up in “Partyisntover” to make some s’mores by the camp fire; Pharrell and Nas also manage to contribute a few verses too, no big deal.

The only thing that really grates on me about Wolf is “Tamale” – it’s an obvious reminder that Tyler hasn’t totally left his childish behaviour behind but I’m just left feeling a bit…annoyed and wishing it wasn’t on there at all. One annoying track aside, the rest of the album is summery and lush, backed by an interesting story about rivalling teenage boys at a summer camp. Tyler’s creativity and innovative beats really shine through on Wolf which is all a bit disheartening as it leaked a few days before the release date and the internet barely batted a collective eyelid. Wolf is possibly Tyler’s most diverse and interesting release to date and he’s proved that he doesn’t need to rely on controversial subject matter or aggressive beats to produce a brilliant rap album.

★★★★★★★★☆☆

I’m not a Paramore fan. They’ve buzzed around my music consciousness for the better part of a decade, and I’ve seen them live at a festival once (half an hour late to the stage, and delaying me seeing Blink 182, the bastards), so I’m pretty sure I don’t like them, with the exception of “Misery Business”. The messy departure of two band member a few years ago and now a moody-looking new image had dismiss them even further. I’m not one for admitting defeat too often, but I’ll happily concede now; Paramore have obliterated my preconceptions and produced what might turn out to be the surprise package of the year.

Seeing that Paramore contains seventeen tracks is a bit of a shock. That many songs on a single record, not even including bonus tracks, is very ambitious, especially in modern rock, where ten or eleven seems to be the safe number for most bands. But still, that ambition is to be applauded rather than chastised; the last two My Chemical Romance albums are the most recent landmarks in this sort of high-target, high ideas, sprawling grandiose pop-rock, and they were both forever ago in terms of how swiftly the music world moves. Even if such an amount is detrimental to overall quality (a little stricter quality control and Paramore would shoot into most critics’ albums of the year lists instantly), it’s still admirable to see a group have such confidence in themselves to think they’re able to hold their prospective audience’s attention for more than ten songs..

Alas, three of these are simply interludes, featuring little more than a ukulele and Hayley Williams’ vocals, but they’re short, sweet breaths of twee fresh air in between all the heavyweight poppin’ and rockin’. Breaking the lengthy tracklist down into sections either side of these intermissions also helps to both digest it in one sitting and give it an air of a concept album (another fast fading relic of rock gone by)

The balance of the record is definitely more towards pop than the band’s punk roots, but they sound all the more happier and comfortable for it. Dabbling in the likes of electro-pop (and occasionally morphing into Yeah Yeah Yeah Jrs, which is no bad thing) and straight pop-rock suits Williams’ voice and songwriting a lot more than sticking to four-chord adolescent punk-pop. A lot of the songs here will definitely be more suited to big arenas and stadiums than the venues visited on the Warped Tour. Without a doubt, Paramore will be capable of headlining the Reading & Leeds and Download festivals by the end of the decade.

What was most surprising to these ears was just how enjoyable and likeable the album is: a step away from the brattish creatively-limiting emo of the past. Highlight “Ain’t It Fun” is a straight-up ’80s-Jacko-in-his-prime pop anthem, from production to hook to lyrics, just with a few added guitars. It’s genuinely one of the best pop-rock songs these ears have heard in some time. “Still Into You” is the perfect summation of where Paramore are right now; it’s a pop song about liking a boy - the same thing Taylor Swift gets crucified for - but it fills you with the rush that great pop music is capable of.

Speaking of T-Swizz, H-Willz (sorry) & co have inched onto the Wyomissing warbler’s patch, with the country-tinged balladry of “Hate To See Your Heart Break” and “(One Of Those) Crazy Girls”; they’re the sort of thing Swift vomited up pre-“We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together”, but whereas Swift sounded saccharine and soulless, Paramore sound like they’re owning their position as one of the biggest pop bands on the planet.

But it’s not completely streamlined and pop-oriented. “Grow Up”, “Proof”, “Daydreaming all” have a bit of bite and kick in them, confident in their sound, the type of song that, if they continue in this vein, Paramore could churn out in their sleep. Not bad songs, per se, just the fat I would trim from the album, if by some bizarre turn of events I had creative control.

Further straying from the stadium-pop vibe “Anklebiters” is a wonderfully spunky two-minutes-and-change, recalling Black Parade-era MCR - spiky guitar stabs, gang vocals, rough around the edges, full of wild abandon and tongue just slightly in cheek. It’s fun, which is all it aspires to be and is all the better for it.

Songs like “Part II” & “Last Hope”, whilst impressive on a technical level, outstay their welcome, dragging on at least a minute too long each; they grasp a little too transparently for stadium-level epic, especially with heavy echo effects on Williams’ vocals. The unnecessary pandering of “Be Alone” is a backwards step too; the production is great, and it’s a decent chunk of pop-punk, but lyrical shots at “cool kids” and and other adolescent themes are terrible transparent attempts to stay in the hearts of mopey high school kids.

Paramore represents a shot at stepping into the major leagues, and it’s a surprise success. Even with the release of previous album Brand New Eyes, it’s unlikely anyone outside of diehard fans would’ve backed Paramore as a potential world-beating band, but here they are with an album which will put them on the level of fellow emo survivors Fall Out Boy, in terms of crossover and mainstream success. And now, I can happily say I’m a Paramore fan.

★★★★★★★★☆☆

The rumors are true: Comedown Machine does not sound like The Strokes of old. It isn’t Room on Fire. On the other hand, it still inhabits the same universe- a nocturnal tumble through an uneasy cityscape, where the glittering lights around the corner might belong to a police car, but those shouts in the alleyway are just spillover from a party that has passed its peak. This album has a slicker, poppier sheen than its predecessors, but it has smoothed out the jagged edges that made Angles ultimately a disappointment (and I say this as someone who liked Angles more than the apparent consensus). If this really is the direction they’re headed, Comedown Machine makes a very persuasive case in its favor.

The album opener, “Tap Out”, is reminiscent of The Police, circa Regatta de Blanc - dark, arty disco-pop - something The Strokes have always done well. It’s a solid lead-in to “All The Time”, which is the closest the album ever gets to the early sound, and quite honestly, one of the more tired tracks. The guitar solo is a beautiful, twisty, grimy-glittery highlight, but the rest of the song just sounds like what it is- a bone to the critics. And then there’s “One Way Trigger”, which, of the two singles, is the more artistically exciting. Yes, it’s packed with synth and Julian’s falsetto, but its samba-inflected beat and mournful tenderness have a mysterious appeal. Its follow-up, “Welcome to Japan”, is definitely the next sleeper classic. It’s creepy and cool, deliciously danceable, and cheekily weird in just the right way.

Then, the soft, rippling percussion and spiraling keyboard of “‘80s Comedown Machine” kick in, heralding almost five minutes of achingly ephemeral prettiness. It almost hurts to be shoved into the devilish punk of “50/50”, but it only takes a verse for the rough charm of this track to be convincing. “Slow Animals” cools down and offers up another slice of catchy glam, and “Partners in Crime” attempts the same thing with less success. It’s not a bad track on its own, but it’s the weakest moment on the album.

Luckily, it’s followed up by “Chances”, another ghostly, airy slow-dance, deeply romantic under its glassy electronic veneer. Then, as if concerned things were getting too sincere, “Happy Ending” skates onto the scene for a last rally of disaffected hipness. But the facade gets torn away completely with the final song on the album, the crooning tango “Call it Fate, Call it Karma”. It’s like wandering upstairs at the bar and opening the door onto some strange, private party, where the smoke curls lazily around men in sharkskin suits and women in silk chiffon with flowers anchoring their shellacked coiffures. There’s nowhere else on the album where this song would be appropriate, but here, it’s a gentle farewell, a rapidly fading hint of perfume and the memory of a whiskey-soaked kiss on the stairs.

★★★★★★★☆☆☆

I laboured for a long time writing the review for Faith & Violence, the new EP from Father Sculptor. I struggled for the adjectives to describe their music, I struggled for bands to compare them with; the Glasgow quintent are better than being lazily compared to The Smiths, or Joy Division, or any other ’80s/’90s post punk band you can think of. Father Sculptor are on track to being better than all of those bands. 

The truth is, there’s something inescapably difficult to describe about Faith & Violence, which is Father Sculptor’s second release in as many years. Following a small February tour, FS released “Lowlands” (and its companion video) and “Sault” to build excitement about the EP. Excitement was suitably built. The former is an ode to Glasgow, so says Thomas David Hall - the band’s soft-spoken frontman - tinged with calm electric pianos and gripping vocals, and the latter is a keyboard-driven groove laden with anguish.

Differing from 2012’s VI (available from the Father Sculptor Bandcamp and absolutely worth your full attention), Faith & Violence feels like a much more light-hearted-but-melancholy sister to the dark and moody tracks on VI; but the rulebook hasn’t changed. The guitars ooze reverb and the synths glisten (here I go with the adjectives again). “Basilica” (formerly known as “TDRA”) opens the EP, with grooves made for if ever Father Sculptor made a “smooth jam” that’s reminiscent of 2012’s “Aristide”. The chorus bassline is infectious and as can be and Hall’s vocals are spacious and distant. “The Swim” offers the most ’80s nostalgia of the 5 tracks on show, sexy and slow, with synth pads floating behind the cleanest guitars you’ve ever heard. The closer, “Swallowed In Dreams” has an guitar part reminiscent Smashing Pumpkins, and is another groove-laden dance track with snappy drums and a rumbling bassline. There’s not a weak track on offer here, meaning the current total of weak FS tracks sits comfortably at zero. 

In 2012 I said you can expect Father Sculptor’s rise to be astronomical. Expect it to be colossal. Father Sculptor have not only broken new ground on Faith And Violence, they’ve uprooted it and laid astroturf.  If only this EP was longer.

Faith And Violence is available on IX Hispana on April 15th. 

★★★★★★★★★☆

In case you don’t follow our Twitter (how could you possibly not?!), our editor live-tweeted his thoughts on the new Strokes record last night. It’s surprisingly good.