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Haim: I Quit review – Ferociously catchy, satisfyingly grudge-bearing

Haim: I Quit review – Ferociously catchy, satisfyingly grudge-bearing

Irish Timesa day ago

I Quit
    
Artist
:
Haim
Label
:
Polydor
Rock music arrives at the quarter mark of the 21st century in a strange place. To the extent that anything interesting is happening, it is largely in the margins.
Out in the daylight this is the era of the big beasts of antiquity: Oasis on the comeback trail, the middle-aged happy chappies Coldplay making it their mission to sprinkle the world in figurative and literal confetti, U2 trying to work out what to do next. Significantly, the most streamed band on Spotify are Imagine Dragons, a pop act with a passing familiarity with guitars.
Thank goodness, then, for Haim. There is something hugely cheering about the return of these three sisters from the San Fernando Valley, in southern California, whose bittersweet soft rock is proof that, between the indie underground and the stadium cash grab, there is still a third way.
Since their debut, a decade ago, they have championed such delightfully old-fashioned values as sun-kissed guitar anthems fuelled by heartache, melancholy and zinging melodies that insist on being hummed aloud.
READ MORE
They've also had to overcome being dismissed as pop fodder early in their careers. Still, in their teens they resisted attempts to turn them into a chart group dancing to the tune of behind-the-scenes producers and composers.
'We were scouted as teenagers, and it was kind of a horror story,'
Este
, the eldest of the sisters, told Irish journalists in 2014. 'It was terrible; we were turned off the business for a while. The songs were already written – they only wanted us to play. That was an instructive experience. Immediately we were, like, 'From now on we will write all our own stuff.'' To paraphrase their musical heroes Fleetwood Mac, they were determined to go their own way.
That journey moves up to the next level on their ferociously catchy and satisfyingly grudge-bearing fourth album, I Quit. Showcasing the wonderfully vituperative songwriting of
Danielle Haim
, the middle sister – she's had her heart broken, and you're going to hear all about it – it makes the bold statement that rock music can be catchy and cathartic without pandering to the lowest common denominator.
With Danielle producing alongside the former Vampire Weekend member Rostam Batmanglij, I Quit exits the traps at speed. All Over Me is a steamy chunk of acoustic funk whose narrator dreams of healing their broken heart with a quick hook-up. Take Me Back, meanwhile, is chiming folk pop that bubbles with retro goodness, recalling at moments Joni Mitchell and REM.
The album's title is a reference to the band's mission statement of not being caught in a rut. The goal is 'quitting something that isn't working for us any more', according to
Alana Haim
(who is best known outside the band for starring in Paul Thomas Anderson's
Liquorice Pizza
).
Nor is it entirely a Danielle show. Este takes lead vocals on Cry, the most country-oriented moment on the epic 15-track run time. ('Seven stages of grief and I don't know which I'm on,' she croons in a lyric that draws from the big book of country-rock cliches.)
A youthful vivacity runs through the project – a consequence, they have revealed, of the three sisters all being single for the first time since high school. 'I think it really brought up this nostalgic [feeling] for the last time we were single, when I was, like, 14, 15, 16,' Alana told BBC Radio. 'It's just been amazing to kind of, like, go back and relive those times [and] get back into it.'
There is little in the way of surprises – aside from one curveball at the end, when Now It's Time samples the U2 song Numb, a highlight from the days when Bono and friends were more interested in pushing themselves sonically than putting bums on seats. It is a haunting reminder of the more experimental band U2 might have been and a winning conclusion to a charming LP.
Haim could never be accused of blazing originality: this is a great album forged from the DNA of other great albums. But it is catchy, brash and bittersweet – and refuses to take prisoners. With so much going on, I Quit is an urgent call to the world not to give up on rock quite yet.

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Malachy Clerkin: Cannot wait for Lions tour, but why does rugby always feel this need for overblown nonsense?
Malachy Clerkin: Cannot wait for Lions tour, but why does rugby always feel this need for overblown nonsense?

Irish Times

time6 hours ago

  • Irish Times

Malachy Clerkin: Cannot wait for Lions tour, but why does rugby always feel this need for overblown nonsense?

It was well into the wee hours on Sunday night and the final round of the US Open had gone medieval. The best golfers in the world were falling into sinkholes all over Oakmont, drowning in grass, dissolving in rain. It was like watching live action Pac-Man, as one of the most difficult courses in the world chomped them all to crumbs. A snuff movie in soft spikes. But then, through the gloom, Sky came back from an ad break and from the opening seconds of the soundtrack you feared the worst. It was the light plinking guitar of The Mighty Rio Grande by This Will Destroy You, a portentously named instrumental band from Texas. You know it better as the music from the Moneyball movie. READ MORE The music played over footage of mysterious footsteps in the shadows. Smoke swirling around eight headless mannequins decked in red. A silhouetted figure stood before the camera, his head bowed, his face obscured. 'Finally, it's time,' growled Scottish actor Gerard Butler , laying the accent on thicker than a cranachan layer. 'It's Lions o'clock...' Ah, no. Please no. Not this stuff. Not again. Alas, yes, indeed, it is time for this stuff again. Regular as clockwork, like a naff Halley's Comet, the rugby industrial complex has started picking up speed. The Lions series is upon us, which means that rugby's comically overblown way of selling itself is cranking into gear. Even in the dead of night when we're watching the golf. Especially in the dead of night when we're watching golf. Gerard Butler is seen during the pre-2023 World Cup warm-up rugby union match between Scotland and Georgia at Murrayfield. Photograph: Andy Buchanan/Getty 'Gggggrraaaaggggghhhh,' Butler offered, scratching at the back of his head. 'Goosebumps,' he said, in case we thought he was selling dandruff shampoo. 'It's ... it's Barry,' he stuttered over footage of Barry John in 1971, as though he himself couldn't believe he was ploughing through this nonsense. On and on, through clips of old tours, old tests, old fights. For some reason, footage of Daniel Craig popped up at one stage, 007 visiting the Lions dressingroom after the third test in 2013. 'Actors, eh?' Butler winked, conveying some class of inside joke. Your guess is as good as anyone else's. All of it was mere preamble to the final 20 seconds, whereupon Butler rose himself to his full height and unleashed various lines from Shakespeare's Henry V. Part of the once-more-unto-the-breach speech repurposed and Tik-Tokified for the digital generation. 'Stiffen the sinews. Summon up the blood! Show us the mettle of your pasture, boys [he was shouting by now], for we doubt it not. And if it be a sin to covet honour, be the most offending souls alive [he was whispering by now].' Look. I can't wait to watch the Lions. You can't wait to watch the Lions. In a world where everything has had its edges planed and its knobbly bits lopped off, the continued existence of the Lions is a miracle. Nobody sitting down today with a blank piece of paper and the sport of rugby union to plan from scratch would dare to dream it up. It's too far-fetched. It makes no sense. The Lions tour is one of the only bankable entities in a sport that struggles for mass appeal. Photograph: Billy Stickland/INPHO Yet, somehow, one of the maddest and best ideas from rugby's amateur days has been preserved. Not just that, it has thrived. It has survived the Covid nadir, it has endured endlessly lengthening seasons, it has kept on as one of the only bankable entities in a sport that struggles for mass appeal. It's here and it's magnificent, one of the absolute highlights of the sporting year. So why can't rugby let us enjoy it for what it is? It's just a sport, lads. Indeed, it's one of the purest forms of any sport, anywhere. Nothing about it matters except the matches and the results. Never mind your ersatz Agincourt cosplaying – sell that. A Lions tour is like the Ryder Cup – you're immersed in it, completely and faithfully, for every last second that it's on. And when it's over, it's gone until the next time and you couldn't care less. Apart from the players and the staff involved, nobody's day is made or ruined by the result. It is its own thing, a glorious mayfly, here and gone in a finger snap. We've spent more than 30 years watching Sky sell sport and other events in every overhyped, overblown way imaginable. Photograph: Billy Stickland/INPHO And that's a good thing. That's what gives the Lions its own unique energy and momentum. The 40,000 or so who will go to Australia for it over the coming weeks are all chasing that once-in-a-lifetime buzz, that feeling of being right there among it when the planets align. There's a lot of mythmaking around the Lions and there's no harm in people wanting to attach themselves to it. Plenty are going for a right good jolly-up – and there's nothing wrong with that either. All of which raises the question: who is that Sky ad for? And why do they only ever use this kind of guff to sell rugby? We've spent more than 30 years watching them sell football in every overhyped, overblown way imaginable. Other sports and events too – the revitalised darts is a triumph of hype and publicity, the aforementioned Ryder Cup will be undeniable come September. And yet they wouldn't be caught dead trying to evoke a 400-year-old play based on a 600-year-old battle to gin up publicity for those sports. So why rugby? It's not just Sky, either. Plenty of pre-Six Nations montages on RTÉ and BBC come infused with this carry-on as well. It's as though somebody somewhere decided that rugby can only be sold to lizard-brained Game of Thrones acolytes, waiting for the mist to clear the mountains so a ball can be thrown into a lineout. Of course, there was a more immediate – and far duller – answer on Sunday night. As soon as Butler finished caterwauling, the golf commentator Andrew Coltart dutifully informed viewers that How to Train Your Dragon, starring Butler, is in cinemas now. Just happened to have been released two days earlier, in fact. If it be a sin to covet bums on seats at your nearest Odeon...

Lorde on weight loss and body image: ‘It's this evil little rite of passage for a lot of women'
Lorde on weight loss and body image: ‘It's this evil little rite of passage for a lot of women'

Irish Times

time6 hours ago

  • Irish Times

Lorde on weight loss and body image: ‘It's this evil little rite of passage for a lot of women'

There is a note of sadness in Lorde 's voice as she thinks back to her last visit to Ireland . 'I was deep in the weeds,' she says. 'I was about a week post break-up of my long-term relationship and I was really stuck. I had sort of just come off my birth control. I was having this crazy kind of hormonal swing.' This was August 2023, and Lorde – aka the songwriter and pop star Ella Yelich-O'Connor – was headlining the All Together Now festival in Waterford. On a gorgeous blue-skied evening, her performance was typically confident and cathartic, as she moved, quicksilver-fast, between hits such as Team and Green Light, the effervescent 2017 banger that she wrote with Taylor Swift's producer Jack Antonoff . [ Lorde at All Together Now: Knockout performance underscores singer's star power Opens in new window ] Behind the scenes, though, she was reeling. She had split from her partner of nearly a decade, the Australian record executive Justin Warren, and was also working through the emotional aftershock of a brief eating disorder – subjects that she addresses frankly and viscerally on her brilliantly propulsive new album, Virgin. 'This record is a byproduct of an insane personal quest of the last couple of years,' she says. Lorde has never held back as a songwriter: her debut single, Royals, for example, from 2013, took aim at the music industry's history of prioritising commerce over art. Still, even by her own highly confessional standards, the honesty with which she talks about body image on Virgin is striking. 'I cover up all the mirrors … make a meal I won't eat,' she sings on the single What Was That, a bittersweet disco onslaught that blends euphoria and emotional torment. READ MORE Smiling softly, she explains that working on the album was part of the process of making herself whole again – and of reflecting on her issues around her weight. 'It was actually really hard for me to accept. I almost still can't accept it. I'm lucky in that it wasn't very long,' she says. 'It could definitely have been a lot worse. For me, any kind of restriction of who I am supposed to be just does not work. It completely blocked my creativity and cut me off from a life force. 'It took me quite a long time to realise that was happening. It's also like this evil little rite of passage for a lot of women. I don't think it's a unique experience I had. It felt algorithmically predestined or something.' Yelich-O'Connor was a 16-year-old kid from the Auckland suburbs when Royals became a global number one; the follow-up album, Pure Heroine, went on to sell more than five million copies. Her megastardom endures: tickets for her first stand-alone Dublin show, at the RDS this November, sold out in a heartbeat. That journey – a rollercoaster with no emergency brake – has left scars. Virgin is, in part, a reckoning with that painful transformation from everyday teenager to international chart-topper. 'You form totally differently when people are looking at you from a young age,' she says. 'I still dream probably once a month that a man is taking a photo of me with a long-lens camera. It's deep in my subconscious that someone might be looking at me and capturing something that I'm [not ready] for them to see.' But she was ready to show a vulnerable side last year when she and Charli XCX , her friend and fellow star, collaborated on a remix of Charli's song Girl, So Confusing. The crowning moment in Charli's 'Brat summer', the track was also a red-letter moment for Lorde, in that it flung the veil off a period of immense turmoil. Girl, So Confusing, which thrillingly combines Charli's Day-Glo mosh-pit energy with Lorde's elevated goth vibes, had its origins in a low-key rift between these close acquaintances. Lorde was going through her issues, and Charli was aware of a growing distance between the two. She wondered if she had said or done something. It was, as Charli sang, 'so confusing'. On the remix, which confirmed internet speculation about the identity of the 'girl' in the lyrics, Lorde sets her straight, singing, 'for the last couple years I've been at war in my body. I tried to starve myself thinner, and then I gained all the weight back. I was trapped in the hatred.' 'It felt super scary and vulnerable for me to be expressing on that level,' Lorde says about the song, which she joined Charli XCX on stage to sing at Coachella earlier this year. 'But I had been working on Virgin for a good while at that point and was trying to make this statement about femininity that was uncompromising and very truthful.' [ Charli XCX at Malahide Castle review: High flying pop star brings Brat to Dublin but never quite achieves lift-off Opens in new window ] Lorde talks about embracing 'discomfort' as a tool for personal growth. That was point of Girl, So Confusing and the two singles she has released from Virgin, What Was That and Man of the Year, the latter a stark unpacking of her 2023 break-up. 'I'd come to this realisation as an artist that my personal discomfort is … I'm not going to let my fear stand in the way of making an expression of truth that feels really important to make,' she says. 'It might, I don't know, be helpful for other people to hear. Just doing the scary thing – I was, like, just see what happens if you do it. And [it was] so cool that I had been working on this album and then, kind of unbeknownst to me, Charli had been processing her own uncompromising womanhood, trying to become that sort of woman also. 'It felt like the right moment to test the waters of the direction of some of the subject matter I'd been writing for my own record and [meet] her vulnerability with my own vulnerability. There had to be something on the line for it to really land. It was freaky – but beautiful too. I felt something release in me when the song released.' Testing the waters included talking about her feelings about gender. She told Rolling Stone recently that she is 'in the middle gender-wise' – a point she reiterates in Hammer, her new album's opening track, singing, 'some days I'm a woman/ some days I'm a man'. (In recent public appearances she had been dressing in androgynous grey slacks and tees.) Lorde clarifies that she still identifies as a woman but has always felt a masculine energy within her, something she has historically pushed down, feeling that society would judge her. On Virgin she is learning to embrace it. If men are allowed get in touch with their feminine side, why can't women celebrate their inner masculinity? 'We have these containers, some of which are really helpful and work really well for us, and some of which just don't do the job. And for me, understanding that I am a woman, that's how I identify … I don't see that changing,' she says. 'But there's also something in me that is masculine, and I've always been that way since I was a child. There was a 'bothness' to me. And being okay with that, not being easy to be boxed up, you … It can be a bit uncomfortable to not have the tidiness. But I think that it's worth it for me to be true to myself and see what comes as a result.' Born in 1996, Lorde grew up on Auckland's North Shore, the daughter of a poet mother of Croatian heritage and a civil-engineer father of Irish extraction. When she was six she was identified as a 'gifted child', though her mother vetoed her attending a school for children of exceptional intelligence, fearing it might impact her social development. She was undoubtedly precocious: she was a keen poetry reader before her 10th birthday; at 14 she was editing her mother's master's thesis. Her musical breakthrough was the result of talent, luck and perseverance. A friend of her father's saw her perform at a school talent contest, in which she sang songs by Pixie Lott and Duffy. Impressed by her haunting voice and natural stage presence, he tipped off Universal Records, which paired her with the veteran indie musician Joel Little. Hitting it off immediately, they would work together during weekends or when O'Connor was on school holidays, capturing in music the experiences of being a teenager: the intensity of adolescent friendship, the big dreams, the anxiety about the future. All of those were poured into Royals, an overnight hit that knocked Miley Cyrus's Wrecking Ball off the top of the US charts and made Lorde, at 16, the youngest woman to have a US number one since Tiffany, with I Think We're Alone Now, in 1987. Virgin is in many ways a continuation of Royals and Pure Heroine, in that it is immediately catchy yet has an aura of mystery. What's new is what Lorde identifies as the record's 'visceral' quality: it feels like a body-horror movie in reverse. The cover image is a blue-tinted X-ray of a pelvis that shows a belt buckle, a trouser zip and, referencing her decision to come off birth control, a contraceptive coil. Her lyrics talk unflinchingly about women's bodies: ovulation, piercings and the cutting of the umbilical cord. It oozes emotional gore, but in a way intended to celebrate rather than shame or stigmatise. 'I felt I didn't have a document, or a piece of art, that expressed to me the visceral, intense, gross ... but also beautiful ... glory … all these elements to being in a female body. I need them all to be present. 'There's something pretty unsparing about how I do it. I believe that is a statement of value. When I was making the album I was, like, 'I don't see women's bodies, I don't see the fullness of a woman's body online…' It feels important to me to show this.' Virgin arrives four years after Lorde's previous LP, Solar Power . A departure from her more zestful pop, the album had a languid, lulling quality that threw much of her audience. It was mesmerising, but there were no bangers. Some fans are still conflicted about it. Lorde adores the record – and believes she is a stronger artist for putting out a project perceived as not having done as well as its predecessors. 'I love that album. I'm so grateful for it. I'm so proud of myself, actually, for making it, because it required a big step off the path or on to another path, maybe,' she says. 'It changed me as an artist. I'd been sort of this like golden child, and I had had this experience of having the first things that I put out being met with such a glowing response in a lot of ways. 'Having a response that was different to that was super, like, informative. It made me realise that you have got to be making work that, no matter what the response is, you just love … 100 per cent, because that response' – public adulation – 'isn't guaranteed, and it can't be what's going to fill you up.' Lorde would like to think that Virgin will be received differently – but she won't be devastated if that's not the case. 'I really remember saying that I wanted ... to feel, no matter what happens tomorrow, this is everything I want. I'm so proud of this. There's nothing I would do differently. I remember saying that to myself and totally feel like that … This could get panned, God forbid, but it could – and I would [still] love it so much.' Solar Power 'taught me a lot. I do love that album. It's beautiful and sweet.' Famous her entire adult existence, Lorde has experienced both the highs and the lows of life in the spotlight. Does she ever feel in competition with other women artists? That's how the industry often works, after all, setting women musicians against each other, making them feel that, for them to thrive, others must fail. 'I was talking to Charli about this, actually. She said, 'Yeah, we all have our fragile eras.' Sometimes you're just in your fragile era, and I think particularly when you're forming a statement, like when I'm making an album but it's early days, and I don't really have any architecture that I'm living underneath, that can absolutely be the moment where the kind of competition – or, sorry, the comparison – can creep up.' Her way of working through those doubts has been to acknowledge that there's a certain sound only she can make: to embrace the pure, heroic Lordeness of who she is and what she does. 'Honestly, the last couple years I've just been on such a mission of trying to really understand what it is that only I can do, because there's just so much value in that, and that really has shifted my mindset away from, like, 'Oh, but I can't do this as well as she can do this.' I'm, like, 'No … you're one of one. You're the number-one expert in the world at doing your thing.' She pauses and smiles again. 'It's helpful.' Virgin is released on Friday, June 27th. Lorde plays the RDS, in Dublin, on Saturday, November 22nd

Haim switch dial from 1970s to '90s (and back) for their most eclectic collection yet
Haim switch dial from 1970s to '90s (and back) for their most eclectic collection yet

Irish Independent

time9 hours ago

  • Irish Independent

Haim switch dial from 1970s to '90s (and back) for their most eclectic collection yet

Besides the collective, each of the sisters has carved out their own particular niche: Lead singer and guitarist Danielle Haim is very much a go-to guest vocalist, most recently on Bon Iver's Sable Fable album; multi-instrumentalist Alana Haim has shown serious acting chops and took the lead in Paul Thomas Anderson's '70s-set feature Licorice Pizza; bassist Este Haim was the music consultant on TV drama series, The White Lotus. Haim are leading lights of LA culture now, almost as celebrated for their fashion sense as they are for their music. Their fourth album, I Quit, arrives freighted with considerable expectation, but can it live up to the highs of earlier work? Down to Be Wrong is vintage Haim. A sultry, evocative song that will remind many of Sheryl Crow It certainly sounds subtly different to their previous albums. While '70s influences continue to abound, the 1990s plays a significant part too. That's apparent on opening track, Gone, which liberally uses George Michael's Freedom 90. And it's there again, on closer, Now It's Time, which takes the abrasive beats of U2's Numb and does something intriguing with it. If I Quit doesn't have quite the proportion of strong songs as debut album Days Are Gone, or indeed a single to match that of the peerless The Wire, it's comfortably their most eclectic collection. While some may lament the lack of focus, others will delight in the way the songs hopscotch from genre to genre with abandon. There's plenty of classic West Coast pop, fey balladry, excursions into indie rock, dalliances in funk and some soulful leanings, too. And it's a reminder of what an affecting vocalist Danielle is. She sounds effortless and yet you hang on to her every word. Down to Be Wrong is vintage Haim. A sultry, evocative song, its chorus soars. Not for the first time, it's a Haim song that will remind many of Sheryl Crow. One could imagine it taking pride of place on her 1993 gazillion-seller Tuesday Night Music Club. It is one of several songs that explore relationship break-ups. Danielle may well be writing about personal experience. Her nine-year relationship with Ariel Rechtshaid ended in 2022: he produced each of the previous Haim albums, but beyond a writing credit on standout song, the playful, seductive Relationships, he's nowhere to be seen here. Instead, Vampire Weekend founder Rostam Batmanglij, who had a part in the production of their two most recent albums, steps up to the plate here. The siblings are in good hands with Rostam — as he is now mononymously known — at the tiller. Guest vocalists are eschewed, and it would have been intriguing if Bon Iver's Justin Vernon had lent his voice to the giddy, commercially smart Everybody is Trying to Figure Me Out. After all, he is credited as one of the song's writers and composers.

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