Amid the many major names on Frank Ocean’s Blonde – the Beatles, Jonny Greenwood, Beyoncé – one credit stuck out as conspicuously low-key: Philadelphian 24-year-old Alex G, now with his (Sandy) prefix, was a natural fit for the album’s introverted, explorative textures. His eighth record is as dysfunctional as the R&B star’s album, establishing him as a truly dexterous songwriter: there are echoes of Lilys, Battles, Death Grips, grunge and soft rock. The sinister clattering of Horse and Sportstar recalls Animal Collective, Bobby channels Avi Buffalo and the wizened country of Proud positions him as a kind of Cass McCombs protege. It is at times unpleasant, but Rocket has no ambitions to score a dinner party. The frantic interchanging of emotions – like the internal monologue of someone with a hellish hangover at ATP in 2009 – is a challenging, ambitious progression.
