Reading Festival 2008 - NME/Radio One Tent

Reading Festival is quite rightly renowned for its rich rock heritage and rough and ready reputation. But located just a bottle's throw from the main stage lies the NME/Radio One tent, not just an area of corporate endorsement overkill, but a haven for all things supposedly indie, trendy and so-right-now that both your auntie has heard of and your cool older brother hasn't disowned yet. This spacious canopy becomes home for three days of inspired shows, wired cameos, sound frustration, sleep deprivation, and every now and then, pure elation.

The fashionable tag is belittled slightly by Be Your Own Pet almost instantly. A buzz band a few years back, their ravenous, scuzzy punk sound and frontwoman Jemina Pearl's crazed onstage antics still draw a crowd, but they're aware it's over. Barely out of their teens, the moment has passed, Adventure seems flat and Damn Damn Leash dated. "I'm drunk. I'm so drunk," slurs the bassist. "I'm bored," moans a girl nearby. A cruel mistress, this tent.

Far better to come out on the attack, wearing a gold sequin dress and singing songs that appear to have been dragged by the hair through the already-appearing mud and held onstage just long enough for the band to thrash them into existence. This is the Duke Spirit approach, all guts and drive, not a lot of variety but full of unquenchable enthusiasm. Cuts Across The Land is particularly biting and Liela Moss consistently beguiling.

As MGMT spiritedly launch into the meaningful pop ecstasy of Electric Bloom, it is apparent this is another buzz band anomaly - having accidentally tapped into the mindset of a musical fellowship they don't really belong in, they're stuck in a halfway house between more catchy jingles and a natural leaning towards experimentation. Time To Pretend and Kids are lapped up eagerly as the crowds revel in the thrilling escapism of it all. But in the lulls between singles, the band comes alive while the audience waits patiently for another pop tart. The phrases "musical differences" and "pursuing other interests" spring to mind.

Vampire Weekend are far more comfortable pop fodder. In fact, they exclusively write this fare, but dress it up in the calypso rhythms of opener Mansard Roof and the jerky irony of Oxford Comma, so it's hard to recognise. In a perfect afternoon slot, they excel, before vacating for less reliable fun in the shape of Babyshambles.

When morbid curiosity is the main motivation for attending a gig, uncertainty is an accepted part of the attraction, which may explain the enduring appeal of Pete Doherty despite countless letdowns. So, thousands pack into the tent to witness Babyshambles headline set and are soon pleasantly surprised at Pete's chipper demeanour and the band's eager reaction to their leader's fine fettle. The Foundations' Build Me Up Buttercup is sung on a whim, before Delivery and Pipedown provide pogoing aplenty. It's the tenderness of What Katie Did and Albion that are memorable though, sung with earnestness and wit, underpinning the ensuing chaos of Fuck Forever with a poignant point and providing hope that this won't prove a high for Pete, but another starting point.


For many of those making it to the day after last night, the throwaway indie of Joe Lean and the Jing Jang Jong begins Saturday, but Santogold's crossover showmanship is more beguiling, if less accessible, drawing the likes of Bloc Party to witness her perform a dynamic set packed with tracks from her eponymous debut album. L.E.S Artistes pulls a big reaction, while she patrols the stage with menace and control.

Mystery Jets are a considerably more laid back delight, making it to Reading after a series of cancellations due to singer Blaine's ongoing illness. They stick to new record Twenty One's love-soaked melodies, Two Doors Down garnering a raucous response and the melodious craft of Flakes noticeable amongst a set oozing with ease and tenderness. We Are Scientists' singer Keith Murray joins them on backing vocals as their jocular angle is highlighted, but Behind The Bunhouse brings meaty material to compliment the general warmth of the gig.

Seasick Steve effortlessly continues this as he drafts his son in on percussion to play songs from his upcoming album as well as ramshackle oldies such as Doghouse Blues and Cut My Wings. The amiable bluesman even grabs a girl onstage to serenade as the mood in the tent shifts from light-hearted to hungry in anticipation for the twin assault of Foals and Justice.

It's rejuvenated bill-toppers the Manic Street Preachers that steal the limelight though, frontman James Dean Bradfield's vocals as cutting for this, their fifth Reading appearance, as they were for the first. Recent album Send Away The Tigers features prominently, while classics Motorcycle Emptiness and A Design For Life satisfy the overwhelmingly male hordes with their convoluted yet anthemic nature. They're no longer challenging, Nicky Wire's histrionics more a detraction from noise than an addition, but they still play with venom, provoking dedication and adulation.

While Yeasayer suffer technical difficulties as they open Sunday, most people are suffering similar problems with their consciousness. Nevertheless, the New Yorkers manage four songs full of magnetism and guile, including the absorbing 2080, before Adam Green's cabaret tomfoolery provides a wake-up call. The Big Apple's clown prince sings about sex with legless girls and drug epidemics, cavorting around in an army helmet, "British, 1950, honestly," and proclaiming a Reading Chinese takeaway as "the best restaurant in the UK". Utterly irreverent and equally irrelevant, it’s different nonetheless.

Lightpeed Champion no longer possesses this commodity, having travelled this summer's circuit so extensively rumours that festivals don't make a sound unless Dev Hynes is present are circulating. His charming alt-folk, including an extended Midnight Surprise that begins with the Star Wars theme and ends with the singer's guitar smashing an amp, is a complimenting precursor to the arrival of Conor Oberst.

Joined by the Mystic River Band instead of his usual incarnation Bright Eyes, Oberst is unfettered by the shackles of expectation his unshakeable tag of songwriting's great white hope bring, leaving him free to mess around a little, even throw in a Dylan-inspired version of Corrina, Corrina. Drinking throughout, he looks relaxed, but still shines in balladry rather than the upbeat shenanigans of I Don't Want To Die.















Alex Turner seems to triumph in anything he chances his arm on. The Last Shadow Puppets, backed by an orchestra, storm the tent regardless of more sound struggles. Opener Calm Like You has to be restarted, while later the duo's lack of practice – it's only their fourth gig ever – result in more mistakes. However, this just provides content and texture to the overall engaging soundscape they conjure. With loftier ambitions than day job bands The Rascals and even Arctic Monkeys, Miles Kane and Turner revel in the audacity of crooning The Meeting Place and making an unlikely sing-along of The Age of Understatement's disjoined rhyming patterns.

If the scope of the support was impressive, the directness of The Cribs' festival-closing show is all-consuming. Joined by illustrious new permanent member Johnny Marr, dryly introduced as "this is Jonathon, our new guitarist," they blast through tracks from all three albums. Hey!Scenesters is manic, while Marr adds depth to Moving Pictures' catchiness. Sonic Youth's Lee Ranaldo makes a big screen appearance for Be Safe, while there's crowd surfing aplenty from the Jarman Brothers. As I'm A Realist ends Reading in rollicking, frenzied fashion, it feels like a proper gig, in the manner this still manages to feel like a proper festival.

V Festival – Main Stage

Chelmsford – Main Stage
V Festival
16-17th July 2008

With the second stage looking like Smash Hits came back from the dead and threw up on it, the main stage has a lot of pressure on it this weekend. Luckily, V spends more on their line-ups every year than an average country does on food. This guarantees a stellar - if top-heavy - line up, brimming with potential headliners throughout the bill and aging rockers tempted out of retirement by one more shot at big crowds and bigger paychecks.

It’s a band that has recently rejected the arguable merits of corporate endorsement, not entirely through choice, that kick-starts the main stage on Saturday. The Futureheads look to have a hunger back following the release of third album ‘This Is Not The World’ and manage to provoke an impressive amount of crowd interaction considering the early hour. Predictably, ‘Hounds of Love’ is the main thrill for most, with singer Barry Hyde stating “we’re gonna drag this out for 15 minutes”, self-deprecatingly noting the disproportionate reaction the song receives. Still, new tracks like ‘The Beginning of the Twist’ are delivered with verve and it’s never less than solid.

Alanis Morissette is a less obvious billing, but draws a large crowd for her crass set of sun-kissed nostalgia. Her voice is pretty remarkable, almost as notable as the shaggy mane of hair she carries around with her as she writhes around like a stoned Bon Jovi fan circa 1986. It’s rather dull, besides the hair-shaking, with ‘You Oughta Know’ coming across corny rather than potent and even ‘Ironic’ sounding dated rather than defiant. Her backdrop of a dove and clenched fists behind a barbed wire fence says it all – it’s supposed to rouse protest and togetherness, but ends up just looking a little bit silly.

Of course, much of the audience laps it up, as is the case as major-league indie returns with two bands suffering from second album syndrome up next. Maximo Park save themselves the indignity of a patchy set by sticking to first album tracks and the odd choice cut from ‘Our Earthly Pleasures’. They throw in a new song, ‘The Kids Are Sick Again’, maintaining their energetic, jerky blueprint. With Paul Smith oozing outsider charm, encouraging the crowd to make V signs and referencing Curb Your Enthusiasm, it’s harmlessly entertaining.

The Kooks are simply dull. Despite every person in Chelmsford seemingly knowing the words to every song, the novelty of ‘Ooh La’ has gone, the allure of ‘Naïve’ seems juvenile and the new songs sound plain tripe. Even a guest appearance from Kinks legend Ray Davies on ‘Victoria’ can’t save them (especially as most of the audience don’t know who he is) and the inevitable massive sing-alongs acquire an emptiness that isn’t solely down to the need for a trip to one of V’s hundreds of food vendors.

Though not exactly fulfilling, The Stereophonics then put in an exemplary display of festival know-how. Expertly pacing their set, the Welsh band intersperse a few new songs that continue their signature stadium sound into a solid 70 minute show. Tracks from classic album Performances and Cocktails are scattered throughout, with ‘Just Looking’ heralding a particularly rowdy response, drowning out Kelly Jones’ vocals. His strained, scathing voice is utilised best on more mellow moments such as ‘Maybe Tomorrow’, but it’s ‘Dakota’ that prepares people for the onslaught Muse are preparing backstage.

Armed with more eye-catching onstage paraphernalia than the entire bill put together, including six gigantic satellites that bring a Dalek-like sense of chilling campness to the gig, the intergalactic agitators take to the stage. Ripping through a marathon set including ‘Bliss’, ‘New Born’ and ‘Starlight’, their back catalogue is raided as they dredge every inch of enthusiasm from the rapt audience. Rumours of collaborations and UFOs fail to take off, but the likes of ‘Plug In Baby’ and ‘Knights of Cydonia’ contain riffs bigger than any set-piece and the show is an identikit of how to headline a festival.

The Stranglers are equally adept at their own role the next day. Heavy-eyed boys and girls blunder their way past the all-engulfing advertising that overwhelms on the walk to the main stage, only to find the punk veterans are not going to allow them a lazy lounge in the sun. The filthy blast of ‘Peaches’ is a wake-up call, ‘Golden Brown’ a darling, morose lullaby that seeps with intensity and ‘Whatever Happened To Leon Trotsky’ a cracking blast of stripped rock.

They show that reformed bands, despite bad clothes and worse teeth, can be worthwhile. Squeeze display why they should be outlawed, along with the fake tan that is plastered like war paint on almost every girl present, both band and beauty product looking embarrassingly novice and past their sell-by-date.

Mentioning fake tan may arguably be more apt as Girls Aloud strut onstage, but they actually look rather good, certainly interesting enough to have men sprinting from their stations at bars for a clearer viewpoint. Though aural delights are less frequent than visual ones, it’s flashy and fun, with the five black-clad ladies prancing their way through favourites like ‘Love Machine’ and ‘Biology’. The painful sound of Cheryl Cole rapping as they butcher Salt n Peppa and Run DMC verges on unbearable, but the many youngsters in the audience lap it up and Girls Aloud justify their festival stature with ease.

Lenny Kravitz does likewise, so cheesy he’s cool as he blasts through ‘Fly Away’ and ‘American Woman’. Garnering considerable affection for his cliché-ridden act, complete with Flying V guitar and the Fonz dress sense, he takes the opportunity to preach for world peace when all the crowd wants to do is hear ‘Are You Gonna Go My Way’. It’s worth the wait when they get their wish though, as the US rocker nails himself the right side of the novel/drivel divide.

Bridging the void with a display of real class is not expected to occur next as Amy Winehouse totters into view. Then, contrary to all expectations, she produces a show as tight as it is incident-free. A few expected rambles about her husband aside, she tackles the sizeable task of filling an hour without making a tit out of herself almost admirably, sounding in control and comfortable as ‘Back To Black’ and ‘Rehab’ resonate. Unpredictable in its professionalism, with her stunning roaming range intact, it hints at hope of a return to permanent form.

There is nothing capricious about Kings of Leon’ set. They walk on, say ‘We’re Kings of Leon’ a lot and leave as the highlight of the weekend, without an attitude or a satellite in sight. It’s ‘Knocked Up’ that connects tonight, its marauding refrain of ‘Oh, wooah wooah, woah oh’ reverberating around the blustery air long after the song ends as the Followills perform a masterful collection of blues-soaked rock. New single ‘Sex on Fire’ sounds a behemoth in waiting, while ‘On Call’ and ‘Four Kicks’ spit with rage and satisfaction. Their unfussiness, barnstorming self-confidence and sheer musical nous leaves them untouchable at present. As they thank the UK for “making them the kings” and celebrate “with a little drink and a little fun”, they cement their standing as rock’s premier performers.

The Verve have to follow that, plus it’s started raining, so they sharply slip in a colossal croon through ‘Sonnet’ to instantly appease a crowd getting soaked for the first time all weekend. Starting strongly, Richard Ashcroft sounds roguish but commanding and the band appears together despite reported unrest. With a new album on the way, fresh songs such as the revved up ‘This Is Music’ and an Isaac Hayes-dedicated ‘Rolling People’ are up-tempo and possess a certain drive. However, this tenacity is lacking in the main, with ‘History’ and ‘Life’s An Ocean’ sounding languid and lifeless.

After an unsatisfying half-hour, the cavalry arrives in the form of ‘The Drugs Don’t Work’ and ‘Lucky Man’. Both are melodic colossuses, digging into the band’s brooding undercurrent and recapturing past glories. ‘Bittersweet Symphony’ follows to scenes of united exaltation across the field, but it’s almost backwards in its dominance. Though the new stuff sounds listenable, it mines much-travelled avenues and the reliance on Urban Hymns’ majesty to get them through makes for a disjointed set.

Though not a disaster, it’s not a festival-defining performance. Still, V is more about glossy excitement than revelatory affirmation, which is just as well. Little means much here, but this allows genres to intersperse and diversity to flourish. If that dilutes the impact somewhat, most people are having too much fun to notice, let alone care.

Peggy Sue, Slow Club, Scroobius Pip - Live

Peggy Sue, Slow Club, Scroobius Pip
The Windmill, Brixton
Thursday, August 7th.

When you turn up to a gig expecting to be on the guest list, only to find you’re name isn’t down, the bouncers generally look at you as if you just asked to borrow their wallet. Or their wife.

At the Windmill, the staff run around trying to sort the problem out while you prop up the bar. It’s all ridiculously friendly, which fits with the atmosphere of tonight’s show. Peggy Sue decided the best way to promote their new EP was to play four gigs on consecutive nights in London’s four compass points, tonight being the southern section of said mini-tour. With musical friends joining the fun, it feels so much like an indie birthday party you half expect organic cake to be handed out.

Scroobius Pop is the evening’s first big draw with a short set of spoken word showcasing the lyrical prowess that is sometimes lost when he teams up with Dan Le Sac’s backing beats. ‘The Physical Embodiment of Music Part Two’ proves a highlight, mingling couplets of menacing bile with snippets of chortle-inducing drollness.

With lines about beatboxing with Jacques Chirac sharply following meanderings regarding the criminal activity of the Post Office, he’s as irreverent as he is charming. Ending on album title-track ‘Angles’, complete with glasses, ties and caps for props, the acute appeal of this talented wordsmith shines through the gimmicks and the beard, revealing social perception deserving of a far grander soapbox. Perhaps, though, it’s flourishing because it isn’t yet receiving the attention it warrants.

Next, Slow Club are far less challenging. A boy, a girl and a smattering of smiley songs, they’re more twee than a lumberjack with a speech impediment. The tag has been a sticking point with many bands, but their Tilly and the Wall-esque tales of quirky quarrels and incidental incidents almost define the term.

Beautifully stripped melodies and relaxed personas add to the appeal of ‘When I Go’, with chuckles as regular as missed notes and neither detracting from the overall effect of vacant loveliness. The watching hordes, hand holding aplenty, are gently cajoled into approval by sneakily catchy choruses and an overall carefree sense of fun. They sound one hook away from being memorably good, but tonight settle for being quietly impressive.

Peggy Sue move swiftly into their giggly, giddy set, commanding attention with an array of tinkling, swaying ditties. Their pop sensibilities override, but intertwine with mild eccentricity, the overriding sensation of onstage enjoyment diffusing into the crowd situated just inches away.








‘Superman’ manages to be almost poignant despite being an ode to a comic book character who only wishes “to have the right to wear my pants underneath my tights”. Ok, it’s verging on silly, but there’s a sensitivity seeping through too, underpinned by Rosa Rex and Katy Klaw’s secret self-awareness that they are talented. A solemn take on ‘Escargot’ from the Body Parts EP adds depth, but soon the duo are joined by more members of their revolving backing line-up and celebratory mood returns.

How a whole album of material would hold up remains a mystery; the balance between stylish songwriting and throwaway pleasure is nailed at this welcoming pub, but is untested on a larger scale. Nevertheless, while they remain on their current level, such uncomplicated loveliness is easy to embrace.

Field Day

Field Day
Victoria Park, London
Saturday 9th July

Being in Britain and at a festival, you’d think rain would be a given. But after sunshine at most of this summer’s musical gatherings, the sight of precipitation streaming down the cheeks of cold looking faces is about as welcome the cancellations that hampered this year’s event.

Yes, Mystery Jets pulled out due to singer Blaine’s ongoing illness, Dan Deacon cancelled after having his passport stolen, and the weather is more miserable than this review so far. But that’s as far as the negativity goes. Field Day, if not an indubitable success, is an amiable achievement, managing to keep thousands of indie kids entertained for, oh, a good ten hours. OK, there is a bit more pessimism, but if we’re talking about the weather we may as well embrace another infuriating English trait.

Noah and the Whale, current implausible chart darlings, begin the day on the main stage as an eager crowd waits to hear ‘Five Years Time’ and nod along to Charlie and the gang’s laudable lullabies. Sadly, ‘Shape of my Heart’ is struck by sound issues and the set never really recovers despite solid instrumentation and a heartfelt voice. It isn’t really their fault; it’s early and people are milling around on mobiles trying to find friends or gawp at Noel Fielding, but even the aforementioned single lacks a spark and this is an opportunity missed.

Howling Bells grasped what should have been their shot at the big time a couple of years back with a stylish, layered record and sultry live shows – but nobody really noticed. Now back with a new album to plug, the brooding, colourful melodrama of ‘Setting Sun’ and the ‘Broken Bones’ has been replaced with synths and attempts to find a hook the radio will play. This may diminish from the overall impact of Juanita and co, but the songs burn slowly, suggesting future promise.

This is all that many people are left with by mid-afternoon, as a lull in proceedings and a further downpour dampen spirits and leave many seeking shelter in tents playing electro and jolly disco thoroughly unsuitable for 3pm. Solace is found in the form of the British Legion playing shaky brass band covers of ABBA tracks on a bandstand under a tree. The feeling they are here every Saturday and the festival was merely placed around them brings a warming glow and before you know it we’ve won a coconut.

Suddenly, we’re back at a festival: the fact a few bands were mediocre is an irrelevance, there’s a man wearing a bin bag losing to a girl wearing a smile in a consuming carrot-consuming contest. Following this vegetable eating virtuosity, it’s back to the business of watching bands.


Laura Marling doesn’t disappoint. Beginning with ‘Ghosts’, the sound problems that haunted last year’s event return and Laura’s ephemeral spurts of lyrical prowess are lost in wind and bass. Nevertheless, she plays with such quiet disregard for crowd reaction that any response is irrelevant and ‘My Manic and I’ plunders into ‘Cross Your Fingers’ with delicate power. There are lots of pretty young things who can hold a tune, but Marling sounds like she needs to sing, a few evocative moments lingering in the drizzle long enough to make the lulls immaterial.

Then it’s time to race around the site as the thought of the day disappearing becomes perceptible. Tunng thrill with a gangly version of ‘Bullets’, all arms and ahs, sound effects aplenty. Then Of Montreal fail to translate to a muddy field, despite theatrical stage-play, so it’s back to the tents for the Mai Shi to bemuse but delight with a contorted set of strangely engaging noise. The guitarist loops around the stage, the singer takes to repetition and attempts to obliterate rhythm, but, secretly, there’s melody in there, chuckling as it hides behind squawking guitars and Jack Black poses.

Lightspeed Champion is pretty definitive of this place. Thoroughly engaging, quite amusing, ostensibly confusing and pretty unsure of exactly what he wants to be, this is the only festival even verging on being as indie as him. So it’s only right he’s bumped up the bill to replace the Mystery Jets, noting their absence with apologies and a short cover of ‘Alas Agnes’. He’s soon spurred into extended versions of album cuts ‘Dry Lips’ and ‘Tell Me What It’s Worth’, the longer time slot giving him chance to arse around a bit with extended guitar solos. However, the core spirit of Hoxton Americana remains, gashing guitars and bittersweet melodies competing for attention. It’s all very loveable, with a Star Wars introduction into epic closer ‘Midnight Surprise’ characterising the niche appeal of this congenial chap.

Sometimes festivals dip for an hour or so, but there’s always adventure lurking for those inclined. Here, as evening creeps into darkness, there doesn’t really seem to be. Confined into mass huddles in cramped tents, toilet queues and, in many cases, exits for early trains home, the appeal of this well-intentioned affair dwindles as nothing truly attention-grabbing leaves hordes just hanging around for headliners or kicks. The sack racing antics of the afternoon feel a daydream as a skip in the step becomes a trudge and murmurs of discontent flood the field.

A show-stopping headline performance is required to salvage the evening. Foals await, not the most likely candidate considering their tendency to ignore regardless of how much they are adored. However, this stand-offish style bubbles into a potent truce between band and fans, the jerky music mixing with reflexive audience reactions and brewing into an atmosphere of tangible tension.

Guitars held high, drums tight and choruses now known, Foals look solid; they’re more comfortable with their position as an act people want to see but still calculatingly deprecating of the whole sham. Yannis looks positively menacing during ‘Cassius’, while dropping other singles ‘Balloons’ and ‘Hummer’ early smacks of buoyant self-belief. By the time the marauding, glazed attack of ‘Mathletics’ bleeps by, everyone present is converted to Foals’ mantra, even if they want you to think they don’t want you to be.

Field Day could be brilliant: better scheduling; reliable sound systems; more toilets - we aren’t asking for The Beatles. Nonetheless, a few eccentric little twists and choice performances from artists make it a satisfactory if not unforgettable day. With better weather it could easily move from one to the other, but then what would we have to moan about?

Simian Mobile Disco - Sample and Hold

Simian Mobile Disco
Sample and Hold – Remix Album


Remix albums. Usually, the only people who buy them are obsessive about the band in question to the point of knowing the bass player’s pet rabbit’s middle name, and are going to love whatever drivel they stick an extra trumpet loop on.

Mostly, they’re little more than the bits that fell on the floor while the proper music was made, then got scooped up and stuck together when the act became profitable. Generally, they’re ego trips where every whim an artist thought was a good idea, but was actually as relevant as U2, gets brought back because all remix record songs must last 8 minutes and it’s hard to fill that time when you only have one musical idea.

By and large, they’re remixed by a bunch of superstar DJs you think you should know but won’t ever get round to checking out because you’re too busy listening to the National. Sometimes, though, they’re quite good. Well, if they’re not good, they at least include a purpose at no extra charge. Maybe even sound a bit purposeful.














Simian Mobile Disco’s Sample and Hold does, admittedly, include intentions, ideas, even innovation. ‘Wooden’, remixed by Danton Eaprom, is a stylistic take on the original; minimal but attention holding, tickling synths and uninterested bass hold together a quiet, mellow stroll through the song.

‘It’s The Beat’ is all a bit crass and reeks of trying very hard, with lyrics like “one for the treble, two for the bass” veering the cheesy side of chic on this version. The record has its moments though, it ebbs and flows with flaws and showy flourishes of excitement, notably on old single ‘Hustler’, complete with a wonderfully needless eight second orchestral intro.

It all goes on too long though. You soon realise you’re not in a seedy club at 4am, where this should be heard, and concentration dips. This can reach the extent when you perk up, intrigued that a bonus track is sampling ‘Bridge Over Troubled Water’, before realising the album has finished and Simon & Garfunkel comes after Simian Mobile Disco on your iPod.

Whenever this duo has altered other people’s tracks, notably Klaxon’s ‘Magick’ and The Rapture’s ‘Whoo! Alright, Yeah...Uh Huh’, it’s gave it an edge, a difference. Here, while allowing some musical contemporaries to tamper with their own tracks, it is unclear whether the songs simply aren’t strong enough or the DJs brought in are not inspired enough. Either way, it’s another one for super-fans only.