Jax Anderson
Heal
Firstly, a warning: do not listen to this tear-stained banger while watching the video. It’s one of those distracting, self-referential ones a first year film student might make, the kind with lots of “explainer” text. Best to listen to it instead in an open field, leaving you enough space to channel its cavernous beat while dramatically crooning “my mind’s always running, I’m tired of always being alone” in the rain. For fans of luxuriant solipsism, Maggie Rogers and journaling.
Rina Sawayama
STFU!
Streaming-friendly pop – you know the type; short intro, trap-adjacent beats, 150 seconds long max – is all well and good, but it’s nice to be surprised occasionally, isn’t it? The ludicrous STFU! careens between clumpy dreads-era Korn and cutesy, 99-era Britney, swilling warm beer everywhere one minute before cheekily sipping on a Hooch the next. It is the aural equivalent of a Paris Hilton-designed range of nu-metal chain-wallets, the sweat stains spreading across diamanté crystals.
Jessie J
One More Try
Jessie J was huge, wasn’t she? Even when she said breaking her foot gave her “a different respect … for people who don’t have legs” she was still massive. Last year, however, saw her competing on a TV talent show in China, giving her a different respect for, say, Wagner. This deliciously OTT ballad, all “I’ve made mistakes” redemption-seeking, feels like the closest we will get to Jessie J sounding self-aware, so should be savoured accordingly.
Mabel
Loneliest Time of the Year
Every Christmas, I asked for a Mr Frosty Ice Maker and every Christmas I got a puzzle instead. Or a jumper. Or – yes, thank you, auntie Jill – a book. So while everyone else was making cups of ice, there I was learning in slightly itchy cable knit. It is such ennui that Mabel conjures on this festive ballad, dripping crystal tears over a Top Shop voucher while (probably) daydreaming about elusive frozen treats.
Ozzy Osbourne
Straight to Hell
Lyric of the week comes from “Ozzy” who divulges a little too much info on this ode to the perils of drug abuse. Over a paint-it-black-by-numbers rock stomper, Sharon’s husband croaks: “I’ll make you scream, I’ll make you defecate”, conjuring images of scatological primal therapy, or worse, those clips from The Osbournes where he’d hopscotch around the house trying to avoid Malteser-sized dog turds. Either way: grim.
