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The Guardian
4 hours ago
- Entertainment
- The Guardian
‘Send me some money!' My unforgettable encounters with the legendary Sly Stone
In 2013, there didn't seem much point in requesting an interview with Sly Stone. It was 31 years since he had released an album of new material, Ain't But the One Way, which he had abandoned midway through, vanishing completely from the studio and leaving the producer Stewart Levine to patch together what he could. It was longer still since he had produced any music that was even vaguely close to the standard he had set himself in the late 60s and early 70s – a six-year period bookended by the release of the groundbreaking single Dance to the Music in 1967 and his last truly classic album, Fresh, in 1973 – when he could justifiably have claimed to have changed the face of soul music. Sly and the Family Stone, the multiracial band he had formed in 1966, released a string of classic singles in that time: not just Dance to the Music, but also I Want to Take You Higher, Everyday People, Stand!, Thank You (Falettinme Be Mice Elf Agin), Family Affair, If You Want Me to Stay. By contrast, his most recent release, 2011's I'm Back! Family and Friends, was a desultory collection of rerecordings of old hits, terrible remixes (a dubstep version of Family Affair!) and three new songs. Occasionally, something flickered in the original tracks, a faint trace of his former greatness, but they sounded suspiciously like unfinished demos. It felt of a piece with the handful of gigs he had played with various former members of the Family Stone a few years before: nights where something would spark fleetingly, mixed with disasters such as their 2010 appearance at Coachella, where Stone stopped and started songs at random and launched into a rant about his former manager that subsequently occasioned a lawsuit. But, in 2013, a lavish retrospective box set, Higher!, was due out. It told Stone's story from his early days, when he was a staff producer at Autumn Records in San Francisco, occasionally knocking out a novelty dance track or two under his own name, to 1976's Family Again, a single that attempted to recreate the astonishing sound of the Family Stone in full flight. But there was no question of him promoting it: his interactions with the media seemed largely restricted to appearances on the gossip website TMZ, whose reporters would doorstep him – at the mobile home where he apparently lived full-time – after a cocaine possession charge, or a lurid report that he was homeless. Instead, I spoke to former members of the Family Stone, who had incredible tales to tell of the glory days, when the band single-handedly shifted the compass of black American music. They melded psychedelia with rhythm and blues and gospel, helping to usher in one of soul music's most fertile periods. Artists previously beholden to the wishes of their record labels – Marvin Gaye and Stevie Wonder among them – felt empowered to strike out on their own artistic paths; it prompted Miles Davis to change tack and record the epochal fusion album Bitches Brew. They also had stories of the consternation caused by the very existence of the US's first major multiracial band – or, as the trumpeter and vocalist Cynthia Robinson put it, by 'seeing different races having fun together on stage'. Just the sight of her walking down the street with the band's long-haired white saxophonist, Jerry Martini, enraged onlookers, she said: 'We had to run! We hadn't even said anything to them!' I had read Joel Selvin's eye-popping 1998 oral history of the band, filled with lurid detail and the testimony of former members bitterly airing grievances about their fall from grace. Racked by drug problems and intraband discord, the band's career had slumped to such an extent that, by 1975, their final show at New York's 6,000-seat Radio City Music Hall attracted barely 1,000 people. But clearly something had changed: the striking thing about the interviews I did was the awe and reverence in which they now held their former leader. 'He affected my life second only to God,' said Martini, who in Selvin's book had been the most critical of the lot. 'Why don't people try to love him for what he did? He had so much to offer the music business and the world in general. Why is everybody concentrated on drugs or this or that?' It was already shaping up to be a fascinating feature when I got word that Stone wanted to talk to me. I didn't really believe it and it didn't seem as if it was going to happen: the negotiations to bring him to the phone went on for weeks and I had a holiday booked. With nothing seemingly happening, I packed my bags and departed for a family-friendly hotel in Cornwall with my wife and kids. We were there when I got a message: call this number; Sly will talk to you tonight. Incredibly, the only place in the hotel where I could get a signal was in the playground, perched on the edge of a bouncy castle. But that didn't really matter, because, when I rang the number, I got an answering machine: 'You called. Or did you? We'll call back.' There was no option to actually leave a message. I kept trying. Nothing. Finally, 12 hours after the appointed time, he picked up. I explained who I was and why I was calling and he told me, in no uncertain terms, to go and fuck myself: 'I don't give a fuck what you heard, I ain't telling you anything. You guys send me some money, fair's fair, I work. I don't give a fuck about anything.' Then he put the phone down. That, I assumed, was that: I had been told to fuck off by one of music's true, unequivocal geniuses while sitting on a bouncy castle just outside Newquay, which I supposed was a unique experience in itself. The next day, I was told to try again. Back to the bouncy castle I went. Presumably, the record label behind the box set had stumped up some cash, because this time he was charm itself: putting on an English accent when he picked up – 'to whom am I speaking?' – and describing at length his plan to form a backing band entirely comprising musicians with albinism, which was a little unexpected, but, the way he explained it, weirdly in keeping with the Family Stone's initial message of peace and unity. 'To me, albinos are the most legitimate minority group of all. All races have albinos. If we all realise that we've all got albinos in our families, it's going to take away from the ridiculous racial tension, if you're black or you're white, blah blah blah.' He talked about the mansion in Bel Air, Los Angeles, to which Sly and the Family Stone had moved in 1969 and where he made his 1971 masterpiece There's a Riot Goin' On, a bleak, experimental album that could be the sound of the utopian hippy dream curdling into something darker, or an expression of the mood in their new home, where drug use was rampant: guns, paranoia, dangerous dogs and a coterie of highly dubious 'bodyguards' were much in evidence. A little unexpectedly, he described life there as 'beautiful', although he did concede that the band's bassist, Larry Graham, had fled the band in fear for his life. 'But he's a great bass player and I figured that when he realises I'm not going to kill him, he'll be back,' he chuckled. He talked about playing Woodstock, the gig that more than any other sealed Sly and the Family Stone's ascendancy. By all accounts, they stole the show, taking the stage at 4am and rousing the audience from their sleeping bags with an electrifying performance. But his main memory, he said, was feeling 'scared', intimidated by the size of the crowd and the presence backstage of Jimi Hendrix: 'I knew my place. Just to be around Jimi Hendrix … shit. I didn't want to be running my mouth off.' At the time, I took that as modesty, but I thought about it again, years later, when I saw Questlove's superb documentary Sly Lives! (AKA The Burden of Black Genius), which convincingly posited the theory that its subject's increasingly uncontrollable drug use and reputation for turning up to gigs late, or not at all, was at least partly down to insecurity and crippling stage fright. Still, his mood was upbeat – he said he had thousands of new songs and that he wanted to 'maintain stability' in order that they might be released – until he suddenly cut me off. 'Have I talked to you enough now? I've got to go to the bathroom. You asked me about regrets,' he said, with a wheezy laugh. 'If I don't take a big shit now, I'll regret that.' And that was that: 20 minutes in the company of the one of the most enigmatic and confounding figures in pop history. The stuff about albinism got picked up by lot of other news outlets when the article came out, but none of Stone's thousands of new songs ever saw the light of day. He more or less vanished again for a decade after the interview, save for reports of his protracted legal battle to recover millions in missing royalty payments. He was awarded $5m (£3.3m) by a California court in 2015. And then there was a sudden, deeply unexpected flurry of activity. Questlove had not just made a documentary, but was releasing a Stone autobiography via his publishing imprint Auwa Books. Stone was putatively drug-free at last: not for the first time, a doctor had told him that, unless he stopped smoking crack, he was going to die; he had finally heeded the advice and his daughter Sylvette Phunne Robinson and his new manager, Arlene Hirschkowitz, had taken it upon themselves to shoo away his umpteen dealers from his home in LA. In 2023, I spoke to him again – or rather I didn't speak to him. In 2013, his voice had been a rasp, hollowed out by decades of fast living; now, he was 80 and too ill to do interviews at all, except by email: 'I have trouble with my lungs, trouble with my voice, trouble with my hearing and trouble with the rest of my body, too,' he wrote. Clearly, things had changed: there was no lengthy period of negotiation about the interview, no demands for money, just a series of answers that arrived in my inbox 24 hours after I had sent the questions, at least one of which he took upon himself to correct factually. The answers were reflective, thoughtful and occasionally a little wistful – he was no longer able to make music, he said, but could 'still hear music in my mind' – and proud of his musical legacy and vast influence: 'I was always happy if someone took the things I was doing and they liked them enough to want to do them on their own.' They were also noticeably light on regrets. He conceded he probably should have got clean sooner, but equally, he said: 'I never lived a life I didn't want to live.' It was an intriguing corrective to the idea that his career amounted to a tragedy: six years of genius followed by decades of chaos and disappointment. Perhaps Stone could have done more, but perhaps he had already done it. He achieved more in those six years than most artists achieve in their lifetime, making music of such quality and originality, such power and funkiness, that you suspect it will be played for the rest of time. If there is anything even remotely like it in the thousands of tracks he amassed in his later years, that is just a bonus.
The Independent
6 days ago
- Entertainment
- The Independent
Cynthia Erivo mines the depths of her soul for 'I Forgive You,' her 'honest, human' album
It began as it always should, with her voice. The second solo album from Cynthia Erivo, fresh off a herculean press run with the success of the first 'Wicked' film, was always meant to be 'vocal-focused,' she told The Associated Press recently. It may be the understatement of a lifetime: to know her is to know her instrument — that range, the notes few else can hit but many attempt. And Erivo's new soulful album, the evocatively titled 'I Forgive You," hits the mark. In the studio, that meant using her vocals 'as the pads, as the stacking,' like an artist might with a guitar or piano. 'The meat of each of the pieces that you listen to is the voice,' she says, 'So that you can hear the lyrics, you can hear the song, you can hear the emotion in it,' she explains. The other instruments, too, were performed live. "Everything you hear in there is real and tangible.' For that reason — and other expressions of autonomy take across the album — she says it felt like her first. For the listener, it evokes a real feeling of intimacy. Erivo spoke to the AP about 'I Forgive You,' life after 'Wicked" and the forthcoming 'Wicked: For Good,' and the ways in which acting, singing and writing inform one another. This interview has been edited for length and clarity. AP: The title is 'I Forgive You.' What's the significance? ERIVO: This album is a collection of stories and songs that are both personal for things that are happening now, things that have happened in the past, and I think some of which I have had to forgive people for. And honestly, some of which I've had to forgive myself for. And I loved the idea of calling it this title, because it's a simple concept, but not an easy one. And not one that we as humans are very good at, often. A part of me was feeling, like, 'Wouldn't it be wonderful if people had to keep repeating the words, 'I forgive you?'' So even if you're finding it difficult to say this album will give you the permission to actually say the words, even if you're not quite ready. AP: There's a lot of candor on the album. Like in the song 'Replay.' ERIVO: The concept of being a work in progress — who still gets scared of things, who still has to deal with things — that won't ever necessarily stop. It might get quiet, but that feeling doesn't necessarily always go away. I just wanted to be honest, and I think that 'Replay' was probably the first song that I put out was because I felt like it was sort of a reintroduction to the inner part of me that most people might not really know. But it's also a tricky song in that it's fun, it's kind of upbeat, and if you actually listen, you hear that there's like a person who's a little bit fragile, a person whose trying to figure some things out, a person who's been through some things, who's dealt with things, who has abandonment issues, who has fear, who an inferiority complex sometimes, who wants to help everyone, who wants to save everyone, but gets it wrong. Those are human, human things that I want to share. AP: So, there was no apprehension in being so forthright? ERIVO: No apprehension about writing it, a little apprehension about sharing it, because it's honest. But once it's done, what can you do? It's time to share. AP: Writing, singing, acting — how does one inform the other? ERIVO: They feed each other. When I sing, I feel free and I feel open, which means that when I go and act — because I've given myself that experience — the want to close off again sort of goes away. So, when I'm on a set, I'm as open as I am when I am singing. I'm waiting to receive whatever I'm getting from my counterpart or whoever's opposite me so I can actually listen. Because the act of writing and singing actually is also the act of listening. AP: You've long been a powerhouse in theater. 'Wicked' has launched you to the heights of mainstream culture. What's the biggest adjustment you've had to make? ERIVO: I had a sort of level of anonymity that I think I got used to and I really kind of enjoyed. That isn't necessarily there anymore, which is still really lovely because people are kind and sweet, and I'm really grateful for it. But that's an adjustment, to realize that you can't just walk into a store and no one will know who you are, or you can't get on a plane, and no one will there you are. That's a new thing that I didn't expect or wasn't seeking. AP: Are you done shooting 'Wicked"? ERIVO: We have a couple pickups and then we're done. AP: Is there anything else you'd like to add about the album? ERIVO: I'm so proud of it. We spent a lot of time on it. We worked really, really hard on it. There was no stone unturned on it because I love what I do, and I love music, and I loved making it. So just know that this was made with a lot of love.
The Guardian
26-05-2025
- Entertainment
- The Guardian
Soul icon Irma Thomas on the Stones, segregation and survival: ‘Restaurants refused to serve us – we lived on sardines and crackers'
Irma Thomas greets me at the front door of the ranch house she shares with her husband and manager Emile Jackson. For a singer celebrated as the 'Soul Queen of New Orleans', I'm somewhat surprised her home isn't more, well, palatial. Graceland this isn't. Although Thomas, 84, has enjoyed hit records, Grammy awards, international tours, critical praise and the loyal devotion of her home city, she has never experienced the largesse that comes with sustained stardom. Instead, she has her health, a 50-year marriage, great-grandchildren and a stunning new album, Audience With the Queen, created with Galactic, the esteemed New Orleans electro-funkers. Thomas is one of the last of the best, an African American soul singer who, forged by gospel, overcame discrimination and a brutal music industry to achieve enduring greatness. She scored her first hit aged 18 in 1959 but never enjoyed the huge success of her contemporaries Aretha Franklin and Gladys Knight. No matter: everyone from the Rolling Stones to Otis Redding and Beverley Knight has sung her songs (and praises). Bonnie Raitt, now a close friend, says of Thomas, 'She's a legend. She's as good today as she was the day she came out of the church singing.' I mention to Thomas the praise that now trails her and she cocks an eyebrow and says: 'I guess it's nice people say such things while I'm still here.' Irma, I'm learning, isn't one for blandishments. That said, when I tell her Audience With the Queen is a stunning return after a 17-year absence she agrees. 'The guys in Galactic had been talking about doing an album with me for a while,' Thomas recalls, as we settle in a living room decorated with her many awards. 'I had to say: 'Listen, I am not getting any younger – let's do this!' And, to their credit, they made a really good job of it.' Indeed they did; Audience With the Queen blends electronic arrangements with Thomas's gospel-steeped vocal to create yet another feather in her crown. 'I'm finally getting my flowers. About time too.' Born Irma Lee in Ponchatoula, Louisiana, in 1941, she and her family shifted to New Orleans when she was an infant. 'I grew up in the city but, between age four and nine, I lived with my relatives, real country people. I used to help pick strawberries on my uncle's farm; I ate as many as I picked! That kind of upbringing has held me in good stead over the years.' Getting pregnant aged 14 curtailed Thomas's education and a shotgun marriage to her child's father quickly collapsed. Aged 15 she was a solo mother who worked as dishwasher. By the age of 18 she had remarried, given birth to two more children and become a waitress at the Pimlico club where Tommy Ridgely, a band leader who helped shape the city's R&B sound, held a residency. Thomas, never lacking in confidence, told Ridgely she was a better singer than his band's vocalist. He invited Thomas on stage to prove herself and she seized the opportunity. While the club's patrons applauded her, Thomas was fired for neglecting her job. Sensing greatness, Ridgley took her to Joe Ruffino at Ron Records. There she recorded the storming R&B tune Don't Mess With My Man, written by Dorothy LaBostrie, who had co-written Tutti Frutti for Little Richard. 'I'd gone from a dishwasher earning 50 cents a night, to a waitress on $5 a night, so when I was offered $50 a night to be a singer, I signed on!' Fronting Ridgley's band, Thomas worked one-nighters across the south and the eastern seaboard, playing the chitlin' circuit (the name given to a loose network of Black-owned clubs) and white college fraternity parties. It was a hard grind, made more difficult by segregation's privations and raucous audiences: one night a drunken student accidentally kicked Thomas's microphone, knocking out her front teeth. 'Segregation meant there were often no hotels we could stay in, so we'd drive four or five hours back to New Orleans,' she says. 'Restaurants wouldn't serve us, so we lived on sardines and crackers. That's the way things were.' Thomas isn't one to moan. Instead she speaks directly, refusing to suffer fools or tolerate dishonesty. Unhappy with her royalty payments, Thomas refused to continue recording for Ruffino. She would begin a working relationship with the famed pianist, songwriter and producer Allen Toussaint, and go on to sign for Imperial Records in Los Angeles, where she began recording with a crack team of session musicians and arrangers now celebrated collectively as the 'Wrecking Crew'. Her magnificent run of 45s included I Wish Somebody Would Care, a song Thomas wrote, which became her biggest US hit. 'I wrote that because my then husband really resented me pursuing my career as a singer and made things extremely difficult. I was on the verge of doing something that would have sent me to prison … instead, I left him.' She continued to pursue her career thanks in part to 'loving parents who did a lot of babysitting and a network of supportive women. Having children kept me grounded; I couldn't go out to party or take drugs because I had to get home to my kids.' In 1964, she recorded Anyone Who Knows What Love Is (Will Understand), a song co-written by the young Randy Newman. Its one of Thomas's most striking vocal performances, her mournful voice conveying an eerie beauty, yet it struggled to No 52 on the US Top 100. The British Invasion of the American charts was under way, with US pop radio now championing Anglo bands, many of whom were singing songs by Black American artists, rather than the originals. A case in point being when the Rolling Stones covered Time Is on My Side, the B-side of Anyone Who Knows What Love Is, only weeks after Thomas's version was released. The Stones' version is effective, although Jagger copied Irma's vocal, ad-libs and all, in its entirety – a pale imitation. 'I didn't mind the Stones recording the song,' says Thomas, 'what I did resent was when audiences would request I 'sing the Stones song'. Well, no thank you. So I stopped singing it.' A subsequent UK tour in 1966 was badly organised and saw Thomas lose 15lbs and her voice for three months. 'I had no one looking after things for me and found myself singing night after night – and some matinees – for around three weeks. I had a very basic British backing band and went everywhere in an old van. It was exhausting and debilitating. I was told by a voice doctor that if I ever wanted to sing again I couldn't speak for three months. So I didn't. Which was really difficult, especially when you have small children.' The 60s weren't swinging for Thomas. Instead her career went into freefall: dropped by Liberty Records, she forlornly sought work as a backing vocalist on LA recording sessions. Thomas settled in Oakland, California, got a job in a department store, singing only on weekends. 'Singing is my vocation,' Thomas says, 'but I was a mom first and needed to create a stable environment for my kids. And seeing them get an education encouraged me to go to night school. Later on I got a business diploma, which helped me negotiate contracts.' While she recorded for Chess and Atlantic Records, as well as working with maverick soul songwriter-producer Jerry 'Swamp Dogg' Williams Jr, her career was constantly sabotaged by music industry machinations. 'Music's a tough industry,' she says, 'especially if you won't sign whatever they put in front of you. I didn't want people to own me, so they called me 'difficult'. Well, maybe I am. Better that than being taken advantage of.' By the mid-70s, Thomas determined that New Orleans at least still appreciated its Soul Queen. Returning home led to marrying Emile Jackson – 'third time lucky', she says of the man who is still her husband today – and getting plenty of work. Her career rebirth began in 1983 when UK label Ace issued Time Is on My Side, a compilation of her 1961-64 singles. The album sold strongly and introduced Thomas to a new generation – British northern soul fans started to seek out the Lion's Den, a club she and Emile ran – while Jim Jarmusch chose Thomas's It's Raining to soundtrack Roberto Benigni and Nicoletta Braschi's affecting waltz in Down By Law. Then Scott Billington of Rounder Records, a Massachusetts label dedicated to American folk/roots music, approached Thomas about recording new material. From 1986 to 2008, Billington produced 10 albums that re-established Thomas as one of America's finest contemporary vocalists, and saved her from what she describes as 'a life singing It's Raining every night in a hotel bar'. Almost 20 years ago, Hurricane Katrina decimated much of New Orleans. Thomas and her husband were out of town when the hurricane hit, flooding their home and ruining the Lion's Den. Recorded mere months after Katrina, Thomas's 2006 album After the Rain won a Grammy. But, after 2008's majestic Simply Grand album, she again found herself without a record label, while the collapse of CD sales meant the music industry again declined to back a singer who was written off as 'old school'. 'I don't feel bitter about things,' says Thomas. 'I'm established, and I only sing when I want for the fee that Emile insists is right. If no one wanted a new Irma Thomas album so be it.' Galactic, who command a wide US audience, determined the world did want a new Irma Thomas album. 'I'm used to recording with musicians in the studio,' notes Thomas, 'while Galactic programme the beats and music then got me in to sing. A strange experience for me, but it worked. I never previously considered myself a protest singer but, things being the way they are, means I got to voice my displeasure.' Thomas is talking about Lady Liberty, a song where she sings: 'How long can history repeat itself, Lord we need some help / Time to shuffle these cards that we've been dealt and free ourselves.' Lady Liberty, I suggest, nails Trump's America. 'I don't even want to say his name,' she replies, her voice indignant. 'I grew up with segregation and now he and his people are trying to turn back time and ruin everything good about this nation. I am furious.' The 'flowers' she mentioned have been blooming in recent years: Anyone Who Knows What Love Is (Will Understand) became a recurring motif in Black Mirror, giving Thomas 90m streams and sparking interest in her back catalogue. 'The first thing I knew about it was when I got a phone call saying: 'Irma, there's a big cheque coming your way.' I ain't never heard of Black Mirror but I'm sure glad it exists.' There have been two documentaries about her life and an authorised biography will be published next year. Then at New Orleans' Jazzfest 2024 festival, headliners the Rolling Stones invited Thomas to join them on stage to perform Time Is on My Side. Watching the veteran Brits and the Soul Queen of New Orleans unite is a treat – Jagger tells the audience that the song they're about to perform was first sung by Thomas in 1964, then they trade off verses with aplomb. Were you happy as you look when singing with the Stones, I ask her. 'I was,' she says. 'Because Mick told the crowd that I did it first and they learned it from me. He gave me respect. That's all I ask for. I've been through a lot since 1964, so it felt good to get that kind of acknowledgment in front of their audience. Real good.' My audience with the queen is up: Thomas wants to have lunch with Emile, read the Bible, watch a gameshow and prepare for headlining the French Quarter festival the next day, performing with a voice that Raitt says is still as 'beautiful, sultry and powerful as it was on her first records'. On stage and off, time remains on Irma Thomas's side. Audience With the Queen is out now on Tchuop-Zilla Records. Garth Cartwright travelled to New Orleans as a guest of Explore Louisiana.
RNZ News
24-05-2025
- Entertainment
- RNZ News
The Mixtape: Deva Mahal
This audio is not downloadable due to copyright restrictions. Photo: supplied Hawaiian-born New Zealand musician Deva Mahal has had quite the 2025. From watching her dad win his fifth Grammy Award, to releasing her latest single South Coast featuring Estère, even preforming at the Fringe Festival audience in Wellington, Deva Mahal has been busy. Stacked schedule aside, Deva Mahal made some time to sit and select the soulful songs that have sound tracked her life and career in music with Kara Rickard on The Mixtape. Songs Played: Karyn White - Superwoman Mary J. Blige - I'm Goin' Down Stevie Wonder - I Never Dreamed You'd Leave in Summer Des'ree - Kissing You Frank Ocean - Pink Matter
ABC News
18-05-2025
- Entertainment
- ABC News
Surprise Chef — Superb
Melbourne-bred instrumental combo Surprise Chef have built an enviable reputation upon their platter of cinematic jazz-funk and soul, featuring licks of library music, film scores, and hip hop. The band's tasteful updating of vintage sounds has earned them overseas attention while making them darlings of crate-diggers and community radio alike, serving up intoxicating atmospheres and grooves tight enough to set your watch to. Their new record, however, sees the group loosening up. Superb , Surprise Chef's fourth album in five years, trades precision for experimentation and carefully plotted courses for spontaneity. From the jump, Superb embraces a broader range of ideas and influences on music that's freer and more relaxed to tinker and explore. Slow-burning opener 'Sleep Dreams' welcomes you in with gently raked guitar and mysterious keyboard lines that draw from Middle Eastern psych-folk. 'Body Slam' begins with a bait-and-switch: a familiar soul-soaked arrangement swiftly giving way to a sinister, suspenseful affair with sleek xylophone, vibraphone and a squelchy synth lead. There are more electronic flourishes too, from the knob-twiddling decorating 'Consulate Case' and 'Plumb Tuckered', to the drum machine anchoring spacious stand-out 'Websites', building layered, sticky melodies upon buttery bass. Hailing from the inner-north Melbourne suburb of Coburg, the band continues their tradition for naming songs with hyper-localised references (such as 'A1 Bakery Pledge of Allegiance' and 'Blyth Street Nocturne'). Here, we get the Australian-specific titles 'Fare Evader' and 'Tag Dag'. The former is a smoky, hip hop-leaning groove while the latter is an album highlight. Dusty drums, faux strings and a sizzling triangle rhythm lock us into a luxurious groove and layered melodies. Like Surprise Chef's best work, it pulls at various genre threads to fashion something uniquely fresh. Surprise Chef have made fans out of The Roots leader Questlove and even scored a Pepsi Super Bowl Halftime ad. ( Supplied: Nick McKinlay ) Elsewhere, the dusty beats and smoky piano licks of 'Bully Ball' are begging to be flipped by a rapper. (Let's not forget Surprise Chef's 'Spiky Boi' was sampled in a collab between Wu Tang's Ghostface Killah and Rich Brian). But the track's twinkling melodies, wah-wah guitar and fuzzy keys have plenty of personality alll their own. The groovy 'Slippery Dip' closes the album on a high note, complete with a mid-song tempo switch toward something silkier and laid-back. Superb is the sound of a group who fully grasp their lush, signature sound but now confident enough to toy with it, loosening up without sacrificing what makes them special. By branching out, Surprise Chef deservedly join the ranks of Khruangbin, BADBADNOTGOOD, Sven Wunder or Budos Band — world-class (mostly) instrumental acts who evolve through a mastery of dynamics, interplay and undeniable groove, achieving what many vocal-fronted acts cannot. Offering extra spice to their established menu, Superb finds Surprise Chef living up their name – allow them time and space to cook, and they're guaranteed to dish up something tasty with a satisfying twist. Catch Surprise Chef touring Superb at the following dates: Saturday 24 May - Sydney Opera house for Vivid LIVE: Gadigal Land, Sydney Saturday 31 May - Porch & Recreation @ Burnside Ballroom: Kaurna Land, AdelaideFriday 6 June - The Night Cat: Wurundjeri Woi Wurrung Land, Melbourne Saturday 7 June - The Night Cat: Wurundjeri Woi Wurrung Land, Melbourne Thursday 19 June - Princess Theatre for Open Season: Turrbal Jagera Land, Brisbane
