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.)

-

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)

-

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.

-

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.