Will Varley is an interesting chap. I've been a fan since stumbling upon his first album Advert Soundtracks. Political, humorous and always very honest, it's the sort of song writing that can connect viscerally. Yet, despite my earnest attempts otherwise, it was also the type of song writing that not many people seemed to be taking much notice of.
One of the greatest things about travelling in Iceland is the unavoidable sense of adventure, arriving on something akin to a moonscape, unsure of what lies ahead. Departing knowing that no matter how many times you return the butterflies will never fade. Everyone has a different adventure when they travel here and no matter how many times they return the journey is never the same.
Matt K Von and Johnny Castro also known as Parachute Youth, the electro-dance music group hailing from Australia have tasted rapid success many bedroom producers can only dream of. Topping the charts in 5 different european countries, picking up awards for best remix and signing a major label deal in less than 18 months.
There exists a place where sounds build to magical effect, forming imaginative landscapes of psychedelic pop. Orchestrating such a colourful convergence of sound is Boise, Idaho based Youth Lagoon (moniker of Trevor Powers) whose previous album The Year of Hibernation, impressed with minimalist charm.
Pecorino cheese drizzled with truffle-infused honey and a glass of pinot grigio; a standard start to a day at Giulio Benuzzi's house on the Tuscan hillside. It is a Sunday morning, 11.00am by the chime of the church bells next door, and Giulio's guests are beginning their day with the truffle hunter.
It's big. It's got tall buildings. It speaks French. It has strange red flashing traffic lights that confuse the hell out of us. It's like a cross between a North American city (which it is), a Scottish city like Aberdeen or Edinburgh (which it isn't), and in some strange way (and I'm really gonna get lambasted for this one) - Sydney. Where am I?
Throughout British rock'n'roll history, the USA has been an elusive, tantalising territory. Rather like an enormous, vertically rock-faced mountain with a finger-lickin' banquet hot and ready at the top, but with a steaming inferno populated by ravenous fire-resistant crocodiles lying in wait at the bottom, it has both lured and repelled practically every half-successful UK act since The Beatles first cheesily waved from the tarmac at JFK in 1964.