Better Times

I've never really understood hammocks. I just don't find them very comfortable. I can't float on my back in the pool, I sink straight away. If it's a bright sunny day on the beach, I'll be inside, pacing around for no real reason. When I go on holiday I power around every single day and get off the plane back home completely exhausted. Relaxation is a foreign concept to me.

Even the music that I love can't sit still. All shaky hand-claps, wired whelping and a tweak rocker shuffle. Anxious Allistair & The ADHD All-Stars. So what kind of Ritalin would I have to be popping to stick up a picture of a dream-pop album. Surely it's just white noise to me. A 50 minute confusion that does not compute. But there it is, Teen Dream by Beach House.

Well, it turns out I can relax. It just takes the musical equivalent of T-Rex tranquiliser to do it.

And suddenly, I understand. You incense weirdos were onto something all along. Teen Dream is my only introduction but it's enough to make me want to sell all my clothes, pack a tennis raquet case full of wine and go find a Mexican beach to sleep on. Matthew is a tired concept. From now on you can call me Alejandro. Antonio Banderas will play me in the film about my life. Beach House will provide the soundtrack. Everything will be in slow motion, it's gonna be great you should totally go see it.

For all you jittery types: don't take my splendid summer comedown lightly. If you value your twitcher habits then you have to stay the hell away from this album. It will give you a tropical hammocking you won't soon forget. You could wake up in a silent snowy forest, or a Japanese zen temple.

And you will love it. You have been warned.

White Sky

It must be just awesome to be an infectiously nice person. Your entire life would be completely bipolar: everyone you meet will immediately either swoon around you or desperately want to punch your smarmy little face in. Every handshake is a coin toss, every greeting is a question. You'd never be bored.

There are nice guys, and there is Vampire Weekend. With almost no public fanfare, the collared New York Cityzens poked their heads out from behind safe university walls and said "Hey we're Vampire Weekend" in that adorable accent of theirs. And the world fell in love. Well, half of it did.

Luckily, since I'm such a positive guy and all, I was a swoonig like you wouldn't beleive. I say luckily because otherwise, in the alternate universe where I like to kick kittens, that band's second effort Contra would have gone by completely unnoticed. My friend, believe me when I say this: the world would be a much less nicer place without this album.

Ezra is right there, right up in your ear. Like he saw something amazing go down in the old town centre and he just has to tell you. A 40 minute deep-breathe-in. A wistful narrative spoken through trumpets, bongos, autotune and the rolling waves of a west African coastline. This album, I beleive, is a true scrapbook. Slices and snapshots of some other place, some other time, some other feeling.

Apparently I'm swooning so much that I can hear colours, because this album is so yellow that it hurts my eyes. If you give it a go, and your head feels a little bit funny afterwards, don't worry. The haters haven't punched you in the face.

Your cheeks just hurt from smiling.