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Laufey – A Matter of Time
★★★★★
What happened to romance in music? Those orchestral strings, mournful saxophone solos and heart-pattering drum beats to soundtrack a Paris rendezvous or New York cocktail hour? As far as Icelandic-Chinese artist Laufey is concerned (and I agree), there’s still nothing like it. It’s wonderful, then, to learn that the Grammy winner’s third album, A Matter of Time, is steeped in the glamour and glitz synonymous with greats such as Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin and Ella Fitzgerald.
At least, where the sound is concerned. Laufey uses her remarkable understanding of her biggest influences, along with technical proficiency, to catch our attention. Lyrically, though, this album is as timely as it gets, particularly for younger fans who are, perhaps, yearning for a more profound unpacking of the dating world they know – of Tinder swipes, ghosting and situationships.
Who else of Laufey's generation makes music like this? Where else – other than on a song such as her opener, “Clockwork” – would you find the gorgeous shuffle on the drums, those flutters on the piano or the jaunty rhythm on the double bass? Her voice trills and lilts, floating easily across octaves with melismatic splendour. From such grandeur we find ourselves suspended in the introspective, pared-back “Snow White”: a devastating reflection on self-worth and cruel beauty standards that deploys her vibrato to best effect.
With longtime producer Spencer Stewart and new collaborator Aaron Dessner of The National, Laufey has achieved the kind of confessional storytelling that makes Taylor Swift so relatable. Yet it’s always in her own unique way, from the lovely momentum of “Carousel”, complete with fairground chimes, to the shivery, spellbinding flair of “Forget-Me-Not”. She’s as compelling as Julie London on “Silver Linings”, as heart-rending as Sam Phillips on the bold, surprising “Sabotage”. It’s sublime. Roisin O’Connor
Mac DeMarco – Guitar
★★★☆☆
There’s a purposeful slightness to Guitar, the sixth official studio album from Canadian indie-rock chiller Mac DeMarco. The dozen songs it comprises are short – most are less than two-and-a-half minutes in length – and sparse. As you might expect from an album recorded, produced, and mixed entirely by DeMarco at his LA home last November, it’s something of a back-to-basics affair.
Album opener “Shining” feels like a pitch-perfect imitation of early Neil Young, complete with a sort of cooing falsetto; “Terror” layers the playful, rubbery noodling of an electric guitar over a plodding folk-rock beat. “Rock’n’Roll”, one of the album’s clear standouts, lets the guitar break free into a bluesy, expressive solo. The songs are individually worthwhile, but get lost in the aggregate: Guitar rattles through agreeable ditties about life, love, and music at a clip that makes them blur together.
If the vibe of Guitar is gentle, that’s not necessarily a bad thing: DeMarco’s most well-known, and best, album – 2014’s Salad Days – was gentle too, albeit in a wonkier, more uptempo way. And the return of DeMarco’s vocals and lyrics makes Guitar an immediately more arresting effort, at least, than One Wayne G (2023), his pointedly uncurated 199-track behemoth of an instrumental album.
Speaking to The Independent earlier this month, DeMarco suggested that he originally conceived of Guitar to give him an excuse to get back out touring again. The perfectly amiable record has ended up being more than just this excuse – but quite how much more, I’m not sure. Louis Chilton
