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PMS August

Have you missed me? I've certainly missed me. Fear not, I've returned (sort of) to tell you most, if not all, of my perfect monthly sounds (PMS, get it?) of August. Last month I told you that PMS had temporarily moved home, but I'm now making it a permanent adjustment. Let's unpack the metaphorical boxes and have a cuppa whilst I tell you all my thoughts. August, how distant does August seem? To be perfectly honest it feels only weeks ago that the bells were ringing in for New Year and I was more than a little bit drunk, telling people that they haven't lived until they'd been to Glastonbury. I stand by that sentiment sober, no matter how pretentious it may sound. Register now for 2016! Or don't and give me a greater chance of getting tickets for myself.
That was a tangent and a half, wasn't it? What I meant by all of this was that the year has sped by, and we have put the sort-of-but-not-really-summery summer to bed once more, resigning ourselves to the cosy, cosy confines of September. But August wasn't a complete bust. Maybe weather-wise, but certainly not with music.

Carly Rae Jepsen / E.MO.TION

If you'd asked me a year ago how I felt about Carly Rae Jepsen, even a few months back, I wouldn't have responded too kindly. Her first and seemingly only song 'Call me Maybe' had been forced upon us and I didn't feel too fab about it. Now, I love a good pop princess as much as the next person, but it just wasn't my cuppa tea. It was too pop for me. (Someone who queued for days to see Lady Gaga.) Ask me now, however, and I can only praise the woman. She is due to release the pop album I always wanted and never knew I needed (and my word do I need it). The single 'Run Away With Me' is an absolute class follow up to that single - 'I Really Like You'. It's all the best of the cheesy 80s with modern raspy vocals and I love it. It's like 1989's fun little sister; beaut sounds without all of T-Swift's seriousness. If someone told me they listened to it and didn't want to gather all their gals and drink wine and dance then I'm not sure I could trust them. 

Halsey / Badlands

My love for this album was a complete accident. I first stumbled across Halsey when I was scrolling aimlessly through Tumbr, and rightly so as it appears she seems to rule the tumblr corner of the interwebs. Famed for her blue hair, obviously, she is the leader of the teen girl gang that resides on the internet. Intrigued by me not knowing anything about this, and worried that I was too old to be in the know about such artists, I keenly downloaded her album. Bordering annoying I wasn't too sure I'd made a good decision, maybe I was too old to enjoy it. It's the lyrics that pulled me in, in which the anger of the female youth is ever present, talking about sex and social pressures and the patriarchy. I only wish that there had been someone writing and singing similar messages when I was a hormonal teenager. However, it's a message that you're never too hold to hear. 

FKA TWIGS / M3LL155X

I will officially go on record to say that 'In Time' is Twig's catchiest song to date. I find myself singing or humming or whistling it constantly. Which makes it even more difficult to bare when I can't listen to the song as a single. I shouldn't moan, the visual mashup of songs that she released is glorious. Classic, all girl dance routines and a powerful pregnancy metaphor and girl power, the video is well worth a watch. All 16 and something minutes of the thing. Well done FKA Twigs. Well done. Please always release new music. (Also, her cover of Sia's 'Elastic heart' was phenomenal!)

Miley Cyrus / Miley Cyrus and her Dead Petz

I mean, technically, this album was a cheeky little September release, but let's just pretend for the sake of a consistent blog post that it's all August. It's also not a little release at all, with Cyrus releasing 23 songs, which is an insane amount of lyrics to pretend to remember. Surprise was definitely key with Miley dropping a Beyonce on us all during her VMA hosting gig. I, like so many of the Hannah Montana generation, hopped on the interwebs straight after the announcement to get a dose of that comfy pop I've come to expect from Cyrus. Instead, we were treated to something much more personal and in turn much more real sounding. The single 'Dooo it' was reminiscent of the Bangerz phase of Cyrus's career, but from 'Karen Don't Be Sad' on-wards, we start to hear the album I think she'd always wanted to make, and one which she would probably want to listen to after smoking something fun. This guitar-based, psychedelic sound is a far cry from the commercial pop she'd been hitting us with in the years previous. I'm torn, part of me wants the cheesy ballads and thumping pop beats to dance around to, but the new direction is also music I'd choose to listen to without labeling it as a 'guilty pleasure'. Here's hoping for her to move further and further in rock. 

So, that's my round up of my fave music released from August. What a month it was indeed. Pop music absolutely dominated the summer and I am 100% okay with that. If you happen to be curious about my absence, which I highly doubt but I plan to tell you about anyway, I am currently in the process of moving back to Southend, to renew my Essex gal status. I kid, of course, but I have moved and spent a fair amount of my time on trains. Luckily, I've had these fabulous albums to keep me company, ta very much gals! I hope the cheesiness continues and I hope you love it as much as I do, because I said so. 

Mistress America

I'm walking down the stairs of the picture house, trying to keep my Birkenstocks from falling off of my feet but simultaneously slapping them against every step. This causes the couple next to me stop debating whether they actually enjoyed Noah Baumbach's Mistress America or not. The aged woman behind me could only claim that it 'had a few good one-liners'. That's such a mum thing to say, right? The film had some good one-liners. And it did, buckets and buckets of them, mostly spoken by a dreamy teenage writer in New York called Tracy (played by Lola Kirke), the kind of teenager I like to think I could have been if I hadn't been born in Essex, had liked gin and had invested in a beret.

I knew I was going to like this film from the go. After falling madly in lust with Frances Ha and watching it at least one lazy Sunday afternoon a month, I knew anything Greta Gerwig related was right up my street. Maybe I'm the culture junkie and alternative wannabe they're simultaneously mocking and living through, maybe I'm not. As predicted, I loved it. It was exactly the cosy, awkward yet chic Sunday afternoon Greta Gerwig film I had hoped for; warm colouring, indie soundtrack, bootcut jeans and female friendships galore!

Gerwig's character, Brooke, is what I both love and hate about the film. In an instance I'm Tracy; rendering Brooke an iconic New York funny-woman and admiring her wholly. I love her. Then I see little parts of myself played out across the screen. That relentless optimism of 'things will always work out' that I've come to rely on. The flakiness of a character too scatty to follow through with any of her ideas. (If I had a pound for every time I told someone I was writing a novel, I'd have, at least, a fiver by now...) I hate her.

Like the debating couple on the stairs said, before they became distracted by my obnoxious sandals - it's impossible to tell whether you loved her or not. The audience is left exactly in Tracy's eyes; in love, in disgust and then in admiration once more. Like Brooke, Mistress America is a difficult one to pin down. It's overall charm and familiarity feels like going for drinks with an old friend. Even if that friend is arrogant or egotistical or too big of a dreamer, it's still impossible to dislike them. It is impossible to dislike Mistress America. Watch the trailer below!

PMS

PMS usually stands for Premenstrual Syndrome and is most often linked to a lady's lady-bits. PMS in this instance stands for Perfect Monthly Sounds, and is linked to all the songs that I wish I had helped procreate with my non-lady bits. The songs I wish I had written / sung / discovered, all by women in the music industry, are usually posted in a monthly blog over at Bored Magazine but for one night, and one night only (probably) I've posted it here. (Because you're my favourite! -Don't tell anyone).

July’s sounds have mostly been discovered during the hazy early morning hours, when I can’t sleep and I find myself stuck in the black hole that is the internet. Usually, the songs that made sense the night before because the underlying cowbell spoke to me in a way that nothing else could, do not always make the same sense the morning after. Luckily, these songs stood strong in the light of day, equally dreamy and with no cowbell in sight. (Yeah, I did re-listen to all of the songs to confirm that this is accurate / When did everything get so cowbell heavy? / Can you tell I’m not sleeping?)

Miya Folick / I Got Drunk 

‘But I was drunk and you know how I feel about you.’ Very little explanation needed. For those who have had a few too many brandy-and-cokes and confessed feelings that are more often than not unrequited, this one’s for you. Listen to the entire ‘Strange Darling’ EP for more heartbreakingly honest lyrics, musical journeys and a self-proclaimed (and utterly enjoyable) grunge-folk sound. 

Pixx / Fall In

An absolutely sultry voice and ever so exciting release from Pixx. Nine months since her single ‘A Way to Say Goodbye’, the British singer is finally waiting to birth her debut EP into the world. V. Exciting. Melt into her songs and hear Joni Mitchell, Lana Del Rey and FKA Twigs but at the same time hear something entirely different and new. 

Girlpool / Before The World Was Big

There’s something inherently summer and cutoffs and skateboards about this L.A girl band. I’d exchange my humid yet grey London evenings for a California sunset any day but I think this sound is as close as I’m going to get, for now. It’s that kind of wanderlust and untapped nostalgia that really works. Raw vocals, raw lyrics, raw sounds and cool vibes. Cool.

All Dogs / That Kind Of Girl 

Pop punk at it’s finest, this song packs an emotional punch whilst trying to bring back 2006 in a totally kick-ass and upbeat way. A musical metaphor for majorly dressing up to go to the shops incase you bump into your ex, you know? Or you don’t know and it’s just me that’ll put on a diva shade of lipstick to go get almond milk, just in case. Milk or no milk, the song is fab. 

Ibeyi / Ghosts

After missing out on seeing the sisters play live at Glastonbury, I’ve had their self-titled album on repeat, as if it’s some kind of consolation. It’s helping, a little bit. I suggest that you too should get them on repeat to lead a fulfilling and gorgeous musical existence. Not much to say other than, beautiful. (I don't call myself a writer for nothing). 

Single

I present to you another misleading post title! If you clicked on this thinking you would get to read the intimate details and emotions of a single gal then I'm sorry to burst the bubble, it ain't gonna happen (unless I've had a couple of glasses of wine.)

This morning (afternoon) I was scrolling through the wonder that is inter-webs in bed and I stumbled upon an article; the top ten Fall Out Boy songs that should have been a single. (Well done Facebook for adhering to my fourteen year old self and love of nostalgia.) What was missing from the list, however, lead me to think about all the songs that had been overlooked. So, after mucking around on my iTunes for a few hours, I've compiled my list of songs that should've made it to single status. (Not just Fall Out Boy but definitely a little FOB thrown in.)

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Alt-J at Reading Festival 2013

Alt-J / Taro

Alt-J's An Awesome Wave is beautiful throughout. I do not envy the person who had to pick out singles from a catalogue of songs that all deserved the limelight. However, 'Taro' is a completely standout track, an opinion which was really cemented for me when I saw it performed live. Aside for the fact that I was completely intoxicated and surrounded by bubble machines, it was such a indulgent moment that I cannot believe it was never turned out into a promotional single. (Thank God they decided to include it in the live act.)

Fall Out Boy / Just One Yesterday (Featuring Foxes)

Technically, the song does have a video, but so does every song on the 2013 Save Rock and Roll album, so it makes no real difference. Sigh. This song brought just enough pop and emotion to really break the band into some decent radio play. With the (at the time) relevant Foxes feature to really open up the fan-base demographic, I was always surprised they didn't get their promo on. Still, it is a song I have never skipped playing to this day and for an indecisive gal like me, that's an achievement in itself. 

The Kills / Super-powerless

Not only did this track not get its time as a single, but it never even made it onto an album -actual shock horror. Released as a B-side track in 2007, 'Super-powerless' deserves way more credit, mostly for its red wine drinking reference. We all know what it's like to have a few beverages and think we're  awesome until we go a bit far and end up trying to pay a taxi man with fried chicken (no, just me?) For those who sometimes use alcohol for the wrong reasons or get a little bit more than tipsy sometimes, this one's totally for you. 

Lady GaGa / Gypsy

Quelle surprise, I didn't include the fan favourite 'Dance in the Dark' as a single that should've, would've, could've been. I admit, I agree. It should've been! But 'Gypsy' came at a time (ARTPOP / 2013) where nothing was really working out for Gaga. She didn't seem into it, the fans found it difficult to get into it and unsurprisingly the critics weren't into it either. Seeing her perform 'Gypsy' live gave everyone a little glimpse into the fun, hit-making and emotional artist we all missed, and I think if it had been released, the rest of the world would have gotten on board as well.

Palma Violets / Chicken Dippers

As you'd expect from a title that gives you an absolute hankering for processed chicken products, the song is fun! A cut from their debut album 180, the song lures you in with this sultry tempo and echoey yet harsh vocals and builds into intense, dirty choruses. Although the lyrics are minimalist (and are probably, definitely written about a ginger girl or someone who is legit on fire) the line 'you make me feel like I'm the only one' is delivered in such a way that you could almost believe it's one of the best written, heart-felt ballads of all time. (Stops writing to pursue chicken dippers.)

Red Hot Chili Peppers / She's Only 18

Stadium Arcadium is genius. I and many others I know still listen to it repeatedly. The songs and ideas remain relevant but contrastingly classic. At the time of its release, 'Dani California' and 'Snow' were perfect single choices, I wouldn't change that. Hump de Bump however, really? Two discs of perfectly single worthy songs and that's what was chosen? Nah. I played a little fantasy RHCP manager and decided to choose 'She's Only 18' as the finale cut to promote the album. Playful, forceful and catchy as hell. 

M.O / Slow Love

No Mythologies to Follow remains one of my top albums of 2014. (I had to think twice about what year it is right now.) It's an album I have forced upon many a friend and to ease them into it, I've alway opted for Slow Love as an introduction. Much less 'poppy' and much more synth yet soulful than the other tracks on the album, her voice is simply dreamy and delicious. 'Slow Love' gives me visions of duty sunsets in London. It deserved the chance to be part of everyone else's memory as well. 

Arctic Monkeys / Stop The World I Wanna Get Off With You

Once again, a song that never made it to the album, only a B-side to 'Why'd You Only Call Me When You're High?' it was certainly overlooked as an album track and I believe was (and is) well worthy. Catchier and more heartfelt than some of the slow-burners that did make it, the 'Stop The World I Wanna Get Off With You', would've made a perfect final single to a string of perfect single. (Also, it is great to try and imitate a northern accent with)

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There's a whole plethora of songs that I didn't get to talk about, I realise this. I also realise that these are all contemporary songs. However, the biggest revelation of this entire post is that album favourites often come with some kind of sentimental or nostalgic memory attached to them. So songs that I deem important because it scored some monumentally scarring, unrequited love I had at fourteen, may not actually sound that fab to the common ear. (See, this was so nearly a post about being single after all!) I also found out that most of the songs I thought deserved single status, had actually been released as a single and had flopped. Guess I don't know everything after all. Don't quit your day job Alex, because I said so. (Cries internally.)

Bleachers

In an overtired yet unable to sleep half-slumber I listened to the most recent NPR: All Songs Considered last night, which had SOAK as a guest DJ. Refreshing as it was to hear a artist of a similar age talking about the same musical influences I had growing up, they had a discussion about picking albums based purely on their album artwork. There's something special about the surprise that follows when the decision to purchase is based purely on visuals and not what you've heard.

All this in mind, I found myself scrolling through iTunes 'new music' section. Not quite walking about HMV on a Saturday morning with my emo pals and a well-earned tenner wondering what to pick, but the sentiment was still there. At the bottom corner of the singles section was a little picture of the back of a person, with short bleached and pink hair. Major hair envy and nostalgia for that time I decided to go pink kicked in and I decided it was probably worth a listen. The song was 'I Wanna Get Better' by Bleachers. Before the song had even finished I had their album 'Strange Desires' downloaded and ready to play on repeat.

(I wasn't kidding, this is me spring of '14)

The sound is fun. It has the energy of the punk-pop bands I stalked as a 14 year old, the 80s vibe I loved as an 17 year old and the voice and tone of all the music I enjoy now. Perfect. Parts of the album feel a little cheesy, but it's easy to forgive because it's just so damn enjoyable.

It all became clear when I realised the singer was Jack Antonoff, bae of Lena Dunham and pal and producer to Taylor Swift's 1989 album; the album we've all been dancing to repeatedly for the past few months, right? They catchy, synthy pop vibe is all over the Bleacher's debut and will have you dancing all the same, without the guilt of being a twenty-something thoroughly enjoying America's new pop princess (not that I've ever felt guilty about loving Tay-tay.)

There's rarely a song on the album that doesn't have an sickeningly catchy I-need-to-sing-along hook in the chorus and I think that's the charm. 'Roller coaster' makes me think about singing along in the car as I drive by the beach with the top down (or sitting shotgun in my mum's ford as we do the stretch of the golden mile in Southend if we're being realistic, no American-dream here.) 'Shadow' is delightfully more towards the indie side of the record, but still uses that enthusiastic vocal layering in the chorus to bring it back to pop perfection.

My favourite cut from the album is 'Like a River Runs', an equally infectious positive vibe track, perfect to sing out all your feelings too, that sounds like you've probably heard it on a advert before. Antonoff's vocals are much deeper in the verses and hark back to the pop-punk sound I referred to before. If I sing along fast enough, I can fake a Scottish accent better than I've ever managed to before. (Aside from singing / shouting along to Biffy Clyro.)

Strange desires is a perfectly cliche summer anthem album. It's lifting me way out of the grey days in London and giving me life as the kids say these days. Well worth having a listen and cheesy dance to, because I said so.

Kanye, Juergen, Kim & Me

As a writer, I adore print. As an artist, I admire photography. As a reality tv lover, I'm addicted to Keeping up with the Kardashians. As a woman and eyebrow connoisseur, I bow down to Kim and as a sometimes, wine-enthused, rapper extraordinaire, I enjoy Yeezus too. All of these things meant that I could be found seventh in the queue outside Dover Street Market at 10:06am on a Saturday morning, when I could have so easily been in bed. Instead of the latter, I took my last £20, which could have been spent on food or bills or things essential to living, to pick up the questionably essential 'Kanye, Juergen and Kim,' a portfolio of photographs published via System Magazine. (Please don't tell my mother.)

For the first ten minutes, I waited in the wrong queue. I didn't even know there would be a queue, let alone a plural. The original plan had been to go over to west London early for breakfast in the area, then saunter down to the market at 11am and collect my magazine. A romantic Saturday in London, with myself.

As I wandered down Dover Street to scout the area for the nearest Pret, I noticed a small crowd had already formed. Dismissing the middle class white family waiting by the door as tourists, I placed my bets with the edgier, younger crowd that had started up on the opposite side of the shop. Soon after, a guy approached me (the only female in the queue) to ask what I was actually there for.

'The Kimye Book' I said with instant regret, remembering that combination names should be left on the internet. For a moment it seemed he agreed, looking at me with confusion. As it turns out I was in a queue for men's shoes, the so called 'Kimye Book Queue' started over behind the middle-class white family. (Shame on the guy for assuming that a woman couldn't buy men's shoes.) ((Shame on me for not knowing what the shoes were.)) (((Update, I have since googled said shoe and I'm glad I switched queues.)))

I tutted my way through the tedious one-in-one-out system the shop had going on, half expecting Kim  herself to be working the shop floor with the amount of security and precaution Dover Street Market were taking. (Guess the shoes are a pretty big deal after all.) Once down in the shop's basement, no Kim in sight, and pushed to the back of the line by the shoe-crazed youth, I managed to exchange that controversial last £20 and get my set of photos of the king and queen of controversy.
After I finally found a Pret and bought myself a salad ('with what money?' I hear you ask - good question!) filled with coriander that I would spend ten minutes picking out and an avocado that was lust-worthy, I positioned myself down in Green Park to have a flick through the magazine.

It's bizarre. This is definitely not a criticism by any stretch of the imagination. I had wondered why the photographer, Juergen Teller, had been listed central in the title when the subjects were seemingly so narcissistic. Inside, the answer was sprawled out across pages of Juergen hiking and climbing and awkwardly existing between shots of the all-powerful-power-couple. Kim's stares were haunting and her curves were to-die-for and Kanye succeeded in looking brooding as the pair frolicked about in piles of dirt and grass somewhere in France.

I would give and arm and a leg and some more of my non-existent money to have been there during the shoot. I think that's where the collection's magic lies, in what the heck happened to even get to the end result. Why is Juergen Teller crawling through he dirt in extreme short shorts to find a gold ring and why did Kanye style Kim in that skin colour body-suit and bra and get her to pose with a tractor and a hundred more whys. Thank you Juergen Teller. Maybe I'm hideously biased (because I truly believe that Kim can do no wrong) but this is genius. Thank you.

My back ached from the tree I was awkwardly leant against. It always looks so chic in the movies, sitting and reading under the shade of a tree when in reality you're just uncomfortable with dirt on your hands, bug bites on your back and pins and needles in your butt. I persevered, wanting to capture my cliche summer in London moment. Instragramming a picture from the magazine, to update the world that I had, in fact, made it out of bed, I received nothing but hate (in the form of vomming and sick emojis) -in true Kimye style. But I guess, that's what I love about them; love or hate, they force you to actually have an opinion.

They force you to comment on that stranger's Instagram with hate or devote unmentionable hours on that bloody Kim Hollywood Life game. They force you to start petitions to get Kanye out of Glastonbury or to actually kind of agree when he says he's the 'Greatest Living Rockstar'. Love them or hate them, they force you to talk about art. And that's a conversation we all need to get more involved with. (Because I said so.)

Post-Glastonbury-Blues

There's glitter on everything I own. My hair still smells a little bit like smoke and/or wee and/or dirt. The tent is poorly folded in a reebok bag, half poking out from the end of the bed. All of these things can only mean that I have made my return from my favourite weekend of the year; Glastonbury.

I'd spent the entirety of the six days away praying for a shower. Not so much a rain shower, although we did manage one of those, but a shower to actually wash away all of the terrible things that had stained onto my skin.

'It's not really a festival if you haven't peed, a bit, on yourself,' my pal said, emerging from the She-Wee tent, her brow well and truly furrowed as she shook her leg like a pissed-off male dog. As it turns out, she wasn't entirely wrong.

As the weekend went on and what once looked like a well preened (and cleaned crowd) had deteriorated into the smell-ridden descendants of Worzel Gummidge, we started to mock and detest those who still had traces of normality about them. Those without a greasy hair bun or mud splatters about their thighs or a general look of distain about their dirty faces. I traipsed back across London during rush hour, in what felt like million degree weather with all of the above; the grease, the mud, the distain. Strangely enough, I wasn't the worst smelling person on the tube. (Congrats London commuters.)

Finally making it home (and more importantly, the sofa) I collapsed and refused to take the shower I had been dreaming of (and frankly, needed) for the past week. I wasn't ready to give up the smell and feel of such an incredible weekend.

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My first weekend highlight comes in the form of two incredible ladies; Just a Couple of Mums. We first caught sight and sound of them on the Thursday. It was frustratingly warm and the group had travelled to what felt like the ends of the earth for a scrap of suncream although we were already at lobster status. Hot, bothered and without alcohol things were going south. Then it happened. Voices, singing from the shadows. The instantly recognisable synth of The Human League being chanted in the distance. We wandered along the dirt pathway into the trees to find a tree house bar absolutely filled to the brim with drunkards at one in the afternoon. Moods were instantly lifted. Any chance of punching the next person to ask to stop for the toilet was gone. Thank you Just a Couple of Mums for stopping what could have been the first Glastonbury heat murder. We pulled out any warm cans of cider we could be bothered to carry, sang wildly, and snap chatted to prove to everyone else that we knew how to have a good time. The weekend had officially started.

After watching Florence do her thing (a highlight in its own right) we stumbled over to the toilets in the dark, slipping down muddy slopes as we did. Planning where we would end up for the rest of the night we heard people singing to Men At Work from behind a line of trees. I complained about trying to get across the ditch, something I would complain about sober but found increasingly difficult drunk and in wellies. My friend Sasha held my hand and pulled me through, entering us back into the world of Just a Couple of Mums. We danced and belted out the best of the 80s, Motown hits and disco classics and discussed how much our parents would be loving this. After a few drunken messages sent to said parents, we considered that the festival with them might not be that fab. (If you think I complain, you should meet my mother.) We reminisced over Abba and peed ourselves laughing at pill-heads being dumb; how all Friday nights should be.

My second weekend highlight comes in the form of something you would never expect to hear at a festival; cheap drinks. What? Alcoholic beverages at a reasonable price at a festival? Unheard of! This discovery came pre-Florence and post-steak-sandwich-and-churros. Deciding it was time to find some mixer for our spirit we stumbled around the Park area and found the Bimble Inn. Our spirits were lifted at the price of spirits and frozen cocktails and prosecco- all things that I love. £3.50 for a glass of bubbly is the most rare, even in day to day life, so the thought of satisfying my Essex needs in a field miles and miles from home made for an excellent spend. Come with a strawberry and everything. Classy lady, me.

You may have noticed that my highlights so far distinctly lacks any of the weekend musical acts and musical highlights there were plenty. Laughing at Kanye being a dick, laughing at Father John Misty being a dick, laughing at people being dicks. We laughed a lot and we rapped a lot too. We also danced in the rain to keep warm. That makes for my best weekend highlight.

It bloody well hammered it down about halfway through Saturday after teasing us with glorious sunshine up until that point. Turned out the macs we had with us were only shower proof and the rain was a pretty bit more than a shower. We were soaked. Sasha paid £10 for an eco poncho that said 'I'm a potato' on the front and contained a pouch of seeds.

'You can plant it and get a cucumber, that's genius!' We all tried to convince her before the seed bag burst under the pressure of the rain and covered her white top in what looked like gravy stains.

We sat in front of our favourite stall, Socks, My Socks, on a bench that we'd spent the past half an hour eyeing up and waiting to become free. The water had seeped into my wellies and created a slushy warm vacuum. (You know in your heart that nothing feels worse than wet socks, don't try and tell me anything different.) Things weren't looking good; the rain kept coming and the alcohol was running low. Then, The Vaccines. In a bid to stay warm I decided to get up and dance, water squelching in my boot as I went. In a moment that, for all intents and purposes, should have been awful, we had the best time, dancing and singing and laughing some more. Thank you Vaccines. It would have been a right shit afternoon otherwise.

So the sun has set on a bloody crackin' weekend away. (Awfully cliche but I have a photo that goes with the metaphor so here we are.) I can confirm that I have now showered and bathed and showered again. Not sure I've managed to get rid of the smell, although I'm not overly in a rush to lose it either.  Every time I get a whiff of all things terrible, I'm reminded of all things amazing. Counting down the days to get all gross again.

Inheritance

Throughout my life I have had adults, my parent's friends and distant family, telling me that I look like my Dad. As a child, I could never fully understand what they meant and for a good while I was convinced I had been adopted. I remember sitting at the top of the stairs, watching my Mum getting ready to go out with my head pressed up against the banisters, entirely unable to fathom all the parts of her and all the parts of my Dad as part of me.

As I've grown older, I've noticed that the similarities to my father extend much further than my cold and pale complexion, addictive personality and penchant for cheap cider. One thing I have always, undeniably shared with my Dad is a love for music (and I thank him for that, above everything else.)

He was a white-van man, in the least sinister sense of the phrase, and I was a trusty sidekick, riding shotgun almost always. Even to this day, the heaviness of driving in a van makes me sleepy. My Dad would unashamedly collect all of the "free" CDs in the Saturday newspaper, the ones in the little cardboard sleeves that newspaper marketers of the naughties went crazy for, and play them whilst we drove about doing usually, mostly nothing. Often I would complain that I 'just didn't want to listen to the best of UB40 one more time' and pretended to sleep until it wasn't pretend anymore. However, there was one particular occasion where the Daily Star somehow got it right (How often are you able to say that these days?) when they released their 'Hits of the Decade: 80s edition'. Through KC & The Sunshine Band and The Bangles, I was awoken to a whole decade of music that really shaped my tastes and lead me to discover one of my favourite albums of all time, 'The Best of Belinda Carlisle'. To this day I still sing loudly and obnoxiously to 'Heaven is a Place on Earth'. (Showers or karaoke or pretty much anywhere) I also, legitimately cried when I knocked the CD rack from the kitchen counter and found the only disc that had smashed was my beloved Belinda's. (Thank god for the music on the internet nowadays, am I right?)

One of our van trips took us all the way to Sheffield to see The Rolling Stones on their Bigger Bang Tour during the summer of 2006. He'd somehow convinced my Mum it was a good idea and paid too much for tickets on eBay. On the drive I tried to think of any Stones songs I might have known, but kept spouting 'Get it On' by T Rex by mistake, much to his disgust. Inching the speedometer to a number my Mum would've slaughtered him for, he told me to reply 'but I like it' every time he sand 'It's only rock and roll' whilst he was driving; that way by the time we got to the concert I'd know at least one song. He parked up down a back street in Shuffled and went to find the nearest pub open at 10am whilst I napped in high vis jackets in the back of the (hopefully) locked van. We went down the Don Valley Stadium, stood on seats in the rain, laughed at Paolo Nutini tucked away on the very corner of the stage and sang 'I know it's only rock and roll but I like it' together.

Like any parent, he taught me right from wrong (early Madonna as opposed to post-ray-of-light Madonna), he appreciated my diverse tastes (even buying my first Lady Gaga album and listening to a bootleg copy of the Hairspray soundtrack with me) and always pushed me to find new music and talent. My Dad gave me a part of me that is so, so important.

Somewhere from the complexities of childhood I've come away with a few simple memories of music and him. So, as my looks slip from the stern aesthetic of my father to the softer smiles of my mother, I try to cling to what ever parts of him are left and all of the nostalgia that comes with it. Lord knows I love a bit of nostalgia. Happy Father's Day to all the Dads trying desperately to get their kid to like the same music.

Unmissable

As the weekend of mud, glitter and warm cider draws closer to us, aside from checking the weather forecast online everyday and praying to the festival gods for anything but more rain, it's also time to start thinking about what bands we want to wrap our little ears around. To make things slightly easier I've picked my Glastonbury 2015 weekend highlights. How nice of me, right? Have a listen to the acts I deem worthy of Worthy Farm because I said so. Maybe I will see you there. 

Leon Bridges

River

I wanna come near and give you / Every part of me / But there's blood on my hands

Friday / John Peel Stage / 14:00 - 14:40

Father John Misty

Chateau Lobby #4 (In C for Two Virgins)

I haven’t hated all the same things / As somebody else / Since I remember 

Saturday / The Park Stage / 18:30 - 19:30

Slaves 

Hey

A bleeding heart welcomes the sharks / Come to tear your world apart

Saturday / John Peel Stage / 14:00 - 14:40

Lianne La Havas

Unstoppable

I was like a satellite spinning away / Almost lost forever and leaving no trace

Sunday / John Peel Stage / 19:05 - 20:05

FKA Twigs

Kicks

What do I do when you're not here? / I get my kicks like you

Sunday / West Holts Stage / 20:30 - 21:30

Pyramids and Parks

If you've come up for air between episodes of Orange is the New Black, you'll have noticed that unfortunately the world has been carrying on without you. Somewhere deep within that myriad of pop-culture news, you may have heard that living-legend Dave Grohl broke his leg and, in the most badass way ever, continued the gig whilst getting his leg casted up. It was then announced that Foo Fighters would have to miss out on headlining Glasto this year. Much, much less badass.

It does mean that Florence and the Machine will be headlining the Friday night Pyramid slot. (Yaaaas Flo.) ((Sorry Foos.)) It also means that this years headline acts are perhaps the most musically diverse headliners for a good while. Although the headliners present a pleasing clash of musical stylings, there are many other clashes and contradictions that run the festival.

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The Music

Firstly, the festival experience wouldn't be complete without a line up time table clash. Sometimes this is casted by terrible scheduling (The XX and Mumford and Sons clash of 2012; brutal and exhausting) and sometimes it's just a matter of taste. So, before you go bargaining of a few cans of warm cider for an extra ten minutes at The Who, whilst your pals wanna be getting 'on it' at The Chemical Brothers' set, let's thank our lucky stars that there's only a few little blips on a mostly perfect line up.

When trying to make heads or tails of what's on the Pyramid Stage or the Other stage or the other other stage, the first line up struggle (or first world struggle) comes early Friday from two indie/alternative heavyweights; Alabama Shakes versus Catfish and the Bottlemen.

Vs.

I cannot, cannot, cannot give enough praise for Alabama Shakes. They have perhaps been at the centre of most of the content I've written in 2015 (and I had to write a 10000 word final project for my degree.) So it may come as a surprise, when I confess I'm probably going to walking my wellies over to the Other Stage to bop about to Van McCann and his band have a good ol' sing and probably say offensive things about the music industry and One Direction. A lot of this is down to logistics; catch the first bit of Alabama Shakes, run across the site, watch the end of Catfish and the Bottlemen and you're standing ready for Jungle's set on the same stage. Of course, what it comes down to, is how many people in your gang feel the same way. Majority rules, always.

The Crowd

After four years of overly-drunk results-day teen crowds at Reading Festival, the Glasonbury audience came as a bit of a surprise when I first attended last year. Much like the lineup, the people in attendance reflected that wild diversity that the festival champions. 

It was during The Black Key's rather unimpressive performance that we found ourselves watching the family in front of us, rather than the stage. Spread out over a pink picnic blanket was three generations of a family, essentially having a grand time together. It makes so much sense to have Glastonbury as the ultimate British stay-cation. It was something we'd never seen at previous festivals and something we vowed to do when we were all grown up and adult and had maybe reproduced. 

Alternatively, as Glastonbury is the mecca to music lovers of all kinds, you get the crowd that are there purely to party themselves into a good story to share. These are the kids that look like they should probably be in Ibiza, sleep their way through most the bands and appear only after sunset but always with sunglasses to head straight to Shangri-La. Power to 'em. 

I think the best way to approach the festival is to experience it from both sides, because essentially it is just that; an experience. Have a chill drinking day of watching bands, lounging about and praying for a little sunshine, but don't be afraid to go out with the metaphorical guns blazing at night time too. Remember to sleep at some point, just a little bit, otherwise you may not make it to Sunday.

The Weather 

Would it be a proper festival experience if you weren't half drenched and sunburnt at the same time? No, it wouldn't. The need for both wellies and sunglasses is one of the most traditional clashes of festival heritage, I can assure you. Last year, we camped directly under a pylon and feared for our lives as the festival came to a halt during an electrical storm. It bucketed it down last year, well and truly bucketed but it was also bloody hot in those few rare moments that the sun broke through. You can't win. Do as you're told by anyone giving their two pence, prepare for everything. Prepare for sunstroke, prepare to watch drunk people mud wrestling and prepare to have a shower, just not in the way you'll be desperate for. 

Glastonbury is full of clashes; from culture, political and even to what food truck to eat from. (Chicken nuggets and noodles are never a good idea, it's not worth £6, don't do it. Try something different and half decent.) It's what makes the festival so exciting and so worth the £220 price tag. Embrace it and you'll enjoy it, because I said so. (See you there!) 

Expecting Spector

We sat on benches in the courtyard of The Dome, somewhere too far north in London for me to recognise it as London anymore. The tube station name sounded like a football team I've never heard of, rather than a destination for a gig. The occasional drum beat from inside the venue echoed out to remind us to consider going inside soon. We spoke about the importance of complimenting women in bathrooms, as there is no compliment more valued. We videoed pigeons attempting to break-through nets and laughed whilst trying to blow smoke rings.

We went inside, bought expensive ciders and stood at the side of the crowd so I felt like I could breathe for a while and laughed some more, about pigeons. Then we stopped laughing, in awe of the energy Spector brought to the stage. A good band will do that; take a complicated moment and make it entirely simple.

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Seeing a band on the cusp of potential fame is always an excitingly rare moment. The band are often still grateful, like an insecure lover, pandering to every bit of affection they're not sure they actually deserve. Before the gig Fred, the lead singer of Spector, wandered over to the march stand at the back of the venue, followed by a small trickle of excited teen girls. He seemed genuinely happy to pose for selfies and sign an array of things, that shining bit of gratitude undimmed. I'm not sure most band members would or could genuinely smile about these days and it's genuinely refreshing to watch the band in their prime, before the wildness nature of popularity.

This in-between time, in-between rugby club gigs and arenas, gives the band space to still be excited by their own music, perhaps just as excited as the crowd in front of them. Which, in my gig experience, often fades a bit too quickly. But Spector performed with rugby-club approachability and stadium quality songs, making them and their London gig an absolute winner.

There's a definite age gap between their debut and soon-to-be-sophomore instalments, despite them only being three years apart. The guitar-heavy tracks and fan-favourites from the first album and the synth-rinsed slow jams they keep practising at shows strike a nice balance. (If nothing else, it gives you time to run to the bar during the songs you can't sing along to yet.) It's also sad to come into the game when the band are already one album down. Some of my favourite tunes, like No Adventure and Upset Boulevard are now strangers to the stage and are left for me to sing along to in showers only.

What redeems this, somehow, are the equally lyrically intriguing songs that the band keep hitting us with. All The Sad Young Men, Bad Boyfriend and Kyoto Garden all lend great lines to indirectly tweet at people and turn into Instagram quotes for ex-lovers, ex-friends and lost people to see. Standing in a crowd of people chanting with such conviction -I don't wanna make love, I don't wanna make plans, I don't want anyone to want to hold my hand- I found it difficult to remember whether I meant the words, or not.

I shall wait with great anticipation for Spector to birth their metaphorical baby into the music world, as it's expected to appear sometime this year. If it's the heartbreak album that leaves you confused about whether you want to dance or cry that I suspect is it, I can't be expecting Spector too much longer. 

Grab your wellies and waddle through the mud to catch the band (and a potentially drunk me) at Glastonbury this year! They'll also be at Reading Festival and so many more places across the summer, so check them out before that youthful gratitude is swallowed up by the ego of sold out shows and screaming teen girls, because I said so. Although, I have a feeling they're way too cool for that. I hope so, anyway. 

(Also, shout out for the band trying to make Southend look way more cool than it actually is in the All The Sad Young Men vid. Bravo.)

The Opposite of Loneliness

This week I finished a book. Something I rarely managed throughout my entire three years studying Literature. Pats self on the back. Better late than never, I guess. From the title I'm assuming, you assumed this might have been an overly personal rant about feelings. That's where you're mistaken -I have no feelings. I'm kidding, of course, because the book I've just finished, The Opposite of Loneliness, hit me right in the feels. This proving true the well documented rumour of my hectic emotions.

This article is me, telling you (fellow post-uni creative types and uncreative types alike) to read this book. The Opposite of Loneliness is a posthumously published, collection of short stories and essays from Yale graduate, Marina Keegan. I speak directly to those wandering the post-studies maze because this book was born from the same excitement and anxiety that we are currently trying to departmentalise in our young and wild minds.

The collection opens with Marina's final essay, one which was published in The New Yorker and turned viral, synonymously titled The Opposite of Loneliness. She articulates the essence of being a student, far better than any definition I could string together in words. The bizarre cocktail of post-university emotions are defined and wrapped up in the succinct bow of Marina Keegan's words. It's a relief to know that someone else gets it.

Marina's language reminds me of the classmates I critiqued in writing workshops. It reminds me of my own writing. It's a language that felt simple and immature in my own stories, but somehow seems fresh in published print. Marina's writing is honest and unafraid and sometimes cliche -it's youthful. A far cry from the thesaurus-driven, high-register attempts at sounding adult I had to pretend I'd fully read in writing workshops.

The stories, as cliche would dictate, made me both laugh and cry in the waiting rooms of hospitals, on train journeys between my London-home and my home-home and in many well-needed baths. Above all emotional reactions, this book inspired me to write. Actually it kept me up at night, worried that I hadn't written stories that were good enough or even just enough. It made me question my future and what I wanted out of a career and, of course, it highlighted the delicacy of life.

Read The Opposite of Loneliness, because I said so. Read Marina's famous essay or read it all. Whether that's for guidance, comfort or just genuinely witty writing, is up to you.

(Photo of Marina Keegan politely borrowed from The Guardian)

White Light and Witches

If synth pop and 80s beats don't excite you, then you may not have a soul. To test this theory, I share with you the new (sort of) single from Shura. 'White Lies' is seven minutes in musical heaven -enjoy! It's fast becoming the soft-pop, slow-jam of the summer. (Try saying that after a few pitchers of Pimms.)

Maybe she'll sink, maybe she'll fly, maybe she'll listen to the song and promote it on her blog. Gengahr, who I had the fortune of catching live once upon a time, have been releasing singles all over the place, ready for the launch of their debut album. I predict all good things for this band and you can hear all good things from them by listening to 'She's A Witch' below.

All round lovely lady Florence Welsh released another album quite recently. It features a myriad of enchanting chants and howls from the songstress and lyrics that are all indirect-tweet-to-your-ex-worthy. Florence's deluxe albums come with a few demos tacked on. It's always interesting to see the starting line of the race to make an entire body of music. Below is a demo for 'Which Witch', a song that didn't make the final cut, but is entirely worth a listen (and very usefully fits with the theme of this post). 

Accidentally Anarchic

(Painting by Ant Carver, live at GFW)

During the Friday night briefing before GFW, my manager mentioned Erin O'Connor. The name found itself scribbled down in my trusty, yet difficult, notepad (always listen to the flatmate when they tell you to pick the practical one, not the pretty one) with 'google her' written right next to it. The name felt familiar but, with so many things to remember and to think about, my mind was already working overdrive. My knowledge of models unfortunately wasn't a priority. So I googled her. Erin O'Connor; British model and writer and television personality and everything in between. Oh, that Erin O'Connor? Erin O'Connor the icon. Cue the freaking out.

As it turns out, not too many people my age recognise the name either. (That's not to say they don't know who she is.) When I mentioned to my flatmates that I'd be attending a conversation between her and Hilary Alexander I received only a few nods with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. The same lack of enthusiasm they threw at me when I excitedly shoved my phone towards them because she'd favourited one of my tweets. (The only thing they truly get excited about these days is pizza so I don't feel too offended.)

I am officially in love with @Erin_O_Connor! Witty, brilliant and has eyebrows to die for, I could listen to her for days! #gfw2015

— Alexandra Craft (@AlexandraSaidSo) June 2, 2015

Thank you for coming Alexandra! :) https://t.co/Q0ZO7p3oUq

— Erin O'Connor (@Erin_O_Connor) June 2, 2015

I'll pick up that name I just dropped.

____

Erin's eyes rolled within seconds of the dreaded 'who are you wearing?' Hilary called it 'The Forensic Investigation' but without the red carpet beneath them the question felt irrelevant and trivial. However, curiosity quelled, she was wearing a mixture of Dior, Topshop and Marc Jacobs. Obviously. (As a poor student of a size that none of the brands will ever stock, it was nice to know my wardrobe housed two of those brands regardless. I own two thirds of a model's outfit, darlin'.)

(Photo Credit: @rosemarypitts www.gfw.org.uk/blog)

Erin quickly urged the conversation into new, more appropriate territory; the start of her career. There was something endlessly comforting in her beginning. After being scouted at The Clothes Show in the 90s, she moved to 'the big smog' that is London. The agency only paid her £40 a week and she used over half to travel to jobs, leaving her eating tinned beans for the most part. I now feel much less horrific and much more fab eating beans from the tin. The times in university I spent wondering if this is the rest of my life can now be defined as my beginning too -danke Erin!

With the high-street championing the return of all things 90s recently, chokers and all that jazz, it was interesting to hear an account of actually living through it. (Fully aware I lived through the 90s as well, but a six year old's account of their dungarees is much less interesting, I promise.) Despite the alternative grunge trends that have transcended the decade, the 90s was much more about achieving 'perfection' or what the fashion industry deemed perfect. That was what allowed her to start out, not being the idea of perfection, being the tall lanky girl with the room-commanding nose. 'I guess I was accidentally anarchic' she said. Joking that she 'had the undercut before undercuts were cool.' So, to all those rocking the 90s throwback, you have this woman to look up to.

(Photo Credit: Stefania Porcu www.gfw.org.uk)

Self-Acceptance was, and still is, a big part of her journey, Erin confessed. The nose that makes her instantly recognisable was something she so desperately wanted rid of as a teenager. The nose would command the room and she admitted it was something she wasn't ready for. 'I wasn't ready to be powerful and dominant.'

Erin thanked all the haters who pushed her to be defiant about her nose. She 'wasn't going to change because someone was uncomfortable.' It was the criticism she faced that forced her to realise it. Self-acceptance isn't easy and definitely isn't definite and Erin knows this all too well. The supermodel, who had spent her life relying on her body, felt challenged by the changes that came with pregnancy. However, her baby boy gave her the chance to view life differently, from a new perspective and she soon learnt to love her body in a new way.

The crowd and I fell in love with Erin as she spoke about openly and candidly about motherhood, her favourite designers to work with and gave advice on getting into the fashion industry and making sure you bloomin' well stay there. All these things I will eventually divulge with you, darling reader, but for now I must go and feebly attempt to braid my hair like Erin, because she's my new idol.