A triumph of marketing, it’s hard to escape notions that this shiny “new” version of the Anthology series essentially comprises remasters of previously remastered rejects.
Probing the paradoxes of someone who feels powerful in her art but vulnerable in her life, Welch’s masterful album affirms that she really is one of the greats.
The power of West End Girl lies in the way it clearly presents itself as one side of the story: a woman trapped in her own head. Narrative tension builds because listeners can’t pull out for a wider perspective on the situation, allowing us to share in Allen’s claustrophobia and paranoia.
Built around pianos and acoustic guitars, with lots of strings and harmonious backing vocals, it feels sleek but self-contained, akin to a Carole King album glossed up for modern listeners.
The production feels sturdy and busy. But there are no instant hits other than Manchild, and though the songs are dense with hooks and melodies, none of them are particularly memorable.
It’s emblematic of the album itself, which sees Burna Boy unsure whether he wants to be a gangster or a lothario. Fortunately, there’s just enough highs here to justify the listen.
Less the return of a pop titan, Swag feels like a cry to be heard. At times it’s uncomfortable, messy and a little confused – but perhaps after all this time, music is the only thing Justin Bieber knows will make people listen. Whether he has anything worth saying is another matter though.
What Wet Leg have done instead is nudge their formula – and their image – enough to maintain people’s interest yet not enough to alienate those drawn to their innate weirdness in the first place. It was the right move
Less successful is spongy new song One Heart, One Voice, on which Streisand, Ariana Grande and Mariah Carey ladle up sickly sweet lyrics and vocal sprinkles about onto the bland whipped cream and jelly of a sub-Disney love trifle. .... Bob Dylan makes more effective conversational space for himself on the 1934 jazz standard The Very Thought of You – the five o’clock stubble of his devoted rasp leaning into her silky sass as a breezy harmonica blows a fresh dynamic through the old tune.
