The XX
>> xx
>>Young Turks
Music and geography, two disparate school subjects but in pop music often impossible to separate. The Kinks, The Clash, The Libertines; none could exist without London as a conception, a city seemingly populated with colourful characters in Waterloo/Hammersmith Palais/The Cally Road. But their London is a lie, a Dickens v Doherty mish-mash where all is either rose-tinted or rebelled against. Today the streets of London echo with fear, of unemployment, violence and ruin, not poetry, which is why The XX couldn’t have existed at any other time. Their haunting, yearning emptiness is the sound of the burning suburbs who know there are no jobs or prospects left for them to aspire to. ‘xx’ is a time-capsule for the era we are living through.
If Burial is an obvious reference point there is a reason for this; the four kids who make up The XX formed at London’s Eliot School which counts Joe Goddard (Hot Chip), Kieran Hebden (Four Tet) and Burial as alumni, and there’s an invisible thread which links them all: a disrespect for set boundaries and a complete distancing from their peers. Make no mistake, The XX sound like nobody else – take the delivery on ‘Crystalised’ (whoever realised that the vocals of best friends Romy Madlet Croft and Oliver Sim could work is a fucking genius) which is pure Massive Attack R’n’B, but the bass is staunchly post-dubstep and the guitar lines intricate and minimal.
As a collection ‘xx’ demonstrates intricate shades of pavement grey; ‘Shelter’ is a requiem from the high-rises, the loss and longing palpable in the plea “can I make it better/with the lights turned off”, and the final, sweeping movement of ‘Islands’ is heart-breaking but dazzlingly beautiful. There’s enough room around each sound to comfortably live in; you lean forward and listen for the pay-off which hits you right in the stomach every time. And before you know it’s under your skin, sound-tracking the night bus and the interminable journey home. Essential.
5/5
