Why I sacrificed a goat for Charli XCX on Thursday: The BRAT Remix Review

Sometimes I’m not sure how much I know about myself. In our age the self is punctured again and again by identity politics, late-stage capitalism, the cradle-to-casket conveyor belt we ride. Some nights I snap out of a haze and find myself staring into the steam-gauzed frame of my bathroom mirror. What am I looking for? I don’t know. Maybe a remix album. Because if there is one thing that is pinballing around in my ears as I’m stood, tears streaming down my face, looking for a reflection in the mist, it is this: I am a slut for a remix.

It’s true. At midnight on Thursday, 10th of October, Charli XCX’s long-considered-mythical, feverishly anticipated Brat and it’s completely different but also still brat dropped on streaming platforms, constituting the latest in a chain of acid green dominoes that have been falling since early June. Boasting an array of left-field features including Ariana Grande, Julian Casablancas, and Bladee, the 9 long months between the original BRAT drop and the remix album seem to have settled a receptive sweet spot online, with equal parts cynicism and diva worship infecting everything from Headrow House to presidential campaigns. 

Power lies in a remix. And let me clarify, by remix I do not mean Cardi B’s verse on Despechá (foul) nor Ice Spice’s… noises …on Karma (wheelie bin on fire). Power lies in the risk of an artist taking their own record, shattering it on the ground and reassembling it with chewing gum and reverbed air horns. If I’m listening to a remix album, I’m expecting more than a rap verse. I want record-scratching, screaming, disharmony, jangliness, broken glass, animal noises, clashing melodies, hype tracks refigured as piano ballads and piano ballads as nu jungle. In all honesty, part of me gave into fear, holed up in my house for days with my door barricaded and my windows boarded up to avoid the leaks that any outdoor time might risk me hearing. But how silly I was! Rejoice! Brat and it’s completely different but also still brat is really weird. My heart sings. 

From the first new track, “Club classics” with Spanish enemy of the people Bb trickz, the listener gets a sense of the space Charli is creating with this remix album. The track takes more from “365” than “Club classics”, painstakingly stacking sounds one-by-one until you’re smacked with the crescendo of a speed-increased, echoing verse which functions more as an accessory to the pace and rhythm than a Madonna-style “look! I am global!” token Spanish-language feature. But this is an album of dichotomies: in violent contract, “I might say something stupid featuring the 1975 and jon hopkins” takes shape as a subtle piano ballad that builds into a glitching, atmospheric thumper, an ode to loneliness that evolves the original record’s diary-style lyricism into layered, vulnerable curation. Matty Healy’s ‘I eat alone like a fly’ is pitted against Caroline Polachek’s ‘free bleeding in the autumn rain’ on a newly verdant and spooky “Everything is romantic”, against Casablancas’ ‘one for the abandonment’ on a risky, vocoder-heavy retune of “Mean girls”, and so on. The record unravels before you in a performance so erratically and perfectly brat that it’s difficult not to roll your eyes.

One thing which stands out in the remix record is the uncompromising and sometimes uncomfortable union of offensively experimental production choices and heartbreaking, cutting existentialism. In this sense, as far as I’m concerned, the remix record has only doubled down on the BRAT modus operandi. The self-abasement, the dirtiness, the anxiety, the intertextualism, the facade of languor distorting a sourdough starter of squirrelling creative restlessness, everything is amplified in a way where the testing the boundaries of ‘good taste’ that the original record represented is mutated into line-crossing, spasmodic creative freedom. 

It’s easy not to have faith in this type of music. The BRAT methodology, being the composition of sparse sonic elements strung thinly together like a scavenged tarp over a rainforest shelter, does not inspire a wealth of passion when its recalibration is announced. But listening to BAICDBSB, the sense of satisfaction I felt was sublime; my expectations were met and exceeded. Charli has taken the spaces between those sonic elements, cut, pasted, and dressed them up, and unloaded a record that, true to form, says exactly what it is. Completely different but still brat. The self-awareness is what makes it.

And truthfully, the backlash we immediately saw bubbling up in reception to this record is what defines it, too. BRAT was always about being uncomfortable, uncompromising, artificial. The lyrics face-value and the production scratchy and aching. A Bon Iver remake languishing in the face of time passing against a choral background and a brief, eardrum-raking reincarnation of what was once the album’s cinematic, voyaging closer “365” was the only way Charli could keep her claws in the wriggling, mercurial, sardonic caricature she’s carved for herself in the pop landscape. This remix album was never made for the fans, nor the public – it was made to elicit groans and criticism, to underwhelm, to offend. Charli XCX’s celebrity profile is one that cannot be sustained without the enfant terrible approach that manifests her. A nicotine-fuelled, rag-wearing, ephemeral djinn smirking from your peripheral in the corner of the club as you jerk to the music, to satisfy would be to desecrate what she represents. To dissatisfy, for her, is to please. 

If I could write a letter of thanks to this woman for this record, I would. I would fill an envelope with the blood of a sacrifical goat, and in the blood would be a Club Shy condom, and in the Club Shy condom would be a copy of Sartre’s Nausea I stole from my dead great aunt’s Bolton terrace, and on the contents page of Nausea would be a splodge of McDonald’s sweet chilli dip, and when you wiped away the dip there would be a shooting star and when Charli wished upon the star the entire world would dissolve into spacy metallic clanging and bisected guitar strings and whatever the fuck Henry Adams was writing about in The Dynamo and the Virgin (1900) and we would all learn what it means to love again. 

BAICDBASB is beauty. BAICDBASB is grace. And if one of you bastard trust fund baby DJs in Hyde Park don’t bump this at a house party this winter I will accidentally pour a pint over your Hercules Inpulse 300 and I will drunk shit in your ensuite. Take heed.

Words by Kyle Galloway.

CRASH celebrate 1 Year of The Next Big Thing

Bored of the monotony of today’s big names in music, leaving you looking for the next big thing? Well, look no further than what’s on your doorstep. The team at Crash Records have been way ahead of you in spotlighting the best emerging talent, every week across their platforms and offering them free/donation based gigs in store. What was once a place of just buying black PVC has now turned into an eventful artistic showcase, squeezing drum kits, congas and tripping over wires in the clutter of musical memorabilia. 

A 1st birthday calls for a party, so how should we celebrate? Evacuate the shop floor and put on a sold-out show. The 1 year anniversary gig at Oporto not only commemorates the running of this honourable title bestowed on almost 100 artists, but has a rich line-up composed from their roster of Next Big Thingers. Names like Coal Mob, Private Reg and Eva Kiss all brought their individuality, with some pounding their tunes into your ears while they selfishly wore massive ear muffs, while others chose to bring more of an unplugged, intimate vibe. Some were swinging off the Oporto’s mirrorball… not quite, but we were almost pouring into the rest of the bar from the quaint gig room. Surely, this is a statement on our close-knit music scene.

Speaking to the creator Matthew himself, he stresses for both local artists and avid music fans to get involved. ‘It’s really important to support local talent. This opportunity brings them into a community of really supportive artists who help each other out. Without community all these people wouldn’t be here’ as he refers to the sell-out gig. Follow Crash and get involved!

Words by Eszter Vida

The Warehouse Project’s Repercussion: A Joie De Vrie of Jungle

You’re spinning. Slowly and sort of to the beat to the vaguely distant pounding that emanates deep within the cavernous walls. Depot Mayfield. Bodies bathed in burnt orange lights press against your hot skin and then push away into the masses. There is not even a blur of faces; as you can only see your own gazing reflection in their shining wraparound sunglasses – similar to the ones your dad wore when he tried out cycling a few years ago. You love them, they love you, hold their hands, hold their hair back. Shine alongside them and swallow all that is around you, before the dark tendrils of The Warehouse Project sink into your soul. 

Not a bad fate actually, if you have an ear for good music at all you won’t be able to deny the insane levels of talent that grace the Depot’s halls. Whilst I am being a tad melodramatic (yes the toilets are shit but they won’t actually eat you), it is, in the best way, absolutely a place you will get lost. No matter if you have a ‘great sense of direction’ or whatever the chronically in the loop crowd always says. You can’t fight it – just enjoy it, drown in the lights and the genuinely friendly, albeit sweaty, crowds and listen. For Repercussion, the night was dominated by Jungle, a giant band amongst dance music tycoons – beautiful in their art form, and unexpectedly even better live than they sound through my crackling Marshalls. Don’t believe me? Tough. You probably won’t if you weren’t there. Which begs the real question – why weren’t you? 

The Warehouse Project seems to exist as a cosmos that is altogether separate from the North’s infamous clubbing nightlife, and its avid music scene. Potentially a purgatory that feels exclusive to reach – with names like Berlioz, Honey Dijon and Bonobo, it seems almost too good to be true. It also exists to give everyone else a sense of FOMO – expertly engineered to agitate your reflex to believe that every TikTok is actually factual – at an age where critical thinking appears to be almost mythical. It’s elusive, yet everywhere. Growing up from catching the last x43 home from Piccadilly Gardens so I could catch just one more song in 42s – two-stepping blindly in a venue I would say rivals London’s revered raves. Who needs to when WHP is gnawing on our doorstep? Romanticise it all you like – at the end of the day it’s class music that you breathlessly try to hold a tune to (and we all know Tom McFarland’s dulcet tones are not ones that can be replicated). 

With a spotlight on excellent female artists, led by Honey Djion and Jayda G –  I was glad Repercussion ran from day into night. To catch Mancunian neo-soul duo Children of Zeus, and Manchester/Berlin-based experimentalists Space Afrika. With 7 stages there was still always something to see, another corridor to get lost into, and another stage to discover yet another ray of talent amongst a sky of such.

Rave New World – The Vibrant Pulse of Cosmic Slop: A Celebration of Diversity in Leeds?

Maya Bhogal explores Leeds’ rave culture through a queer, poc lens.

I heard about Cosmic Slop a few months back, when a few friends of mine had first found out about this almost exclusively allusive club night. The name alone, ‘Cosmic Slop’, instilled me with a certain intrigue that no other club in Leeds has, however when the concept was explained to me, I needed to get my hands on a ticket.

As explained to me, Cosmic Slop is a diverse club space, intended to make the marginalised groups of Leeds feel more included in the nightlife scene. Great! – I thought, thinking that Leeds was in desperate need of a more diverse and inclusive space for people of colour and the queer community. Months passed and I finally got my hands on a ticket for the end of freshers week and was mentally preparing to venture back into the nightlife of Leeds. We bought tickets on the door, which meant we had to queue for a while (which is honestly a great indicator that things are great inside).

On arrival to the club, I initially noticed a disparity between the image in my head and the reality before me. Understandably, I was under the presumption that Cosmic Slop was a diverse, queer space yet the crowd was majority white and majority male. To be fair, I wasn’t necessarily expecting to be greeted with dhol drums and pride flags, yet this wasn’t the inclusive space I and some of my friends were promised. However, it didn’t derive from the energy and atmosphere of the night, which is the only thing that matters when searching for a good club night. Overall, I would recommend Cosmic Slop – but don’t go in expecting a reformed Leeds nightlife, but instead go in with open minds and enjoy the tunes!

Words by Maya Bhogal

Failing Threequel’s: Will Paddington in Peru suffer the ‘third movie fate’?

On the 8th of November, our well-known friend in his big blue coat and red hat will return to our screens. Paddington in Peru will be the third instalment of the Paddington universe and will follow the Brown family navigating their way through Peru to find Aunt Lucy. I can only imagine how ridiculous this adventure will be, and I can’t wait.

However, this new adventure brings a plethora of high expectations. Paddington currently has a 97% score on Rotten Tomatoes, and Paddington 2 reaches even further to 99%, so fans are hoping that this threequel does not disappoint. 

Despite this, one thing that is almost always guaranteed from a Paddington film is that the overall casting will be incredible. I’ve had full faith in the casting directors ever since hearing Ben Whishaw as the voice of our favourite bear; the awkward bumbling British accent could not be produced by anyone better. Look at the actors in the previous casts: Peter Capaldi, Hugh Bonneville, Hugh Grant, and Jim Broadbent – accompanied by actresses like Nicole Kidman and Julie Walters. The casting of Paddington has delivered every time. Paddington in Peru has been no exception to this rule. Introducing Olivia Colman to the Paddington universe as The Reverend Mother is something I never knew I needed.

There has been some question as to why Sally Hawkins will not be returning to the franchise. She told Variety that “It has felt the right time to hand the reins over to another” and called the new Mrs Brown, Emily Mortimer, “extraordinarily special” – but to this we will just have to wait and see. Still, it has made some fans feel a little uneasy since Sally Hawkins embodied the role so well. It reminds me of the outrageous casting change of Rodrick in the Diary of a Wimpy kid series (but I don’t think any casting change can ever be as disappointing as that one).

Another interesting detail of the third film is the change of directors, with Dougal Wilson taking over from Paul King. King has been responsible for bringing Paddington to life for the first two films, yet it is Wilson who will take the reins on the third – something I’m weary of. King understood the character of Paddington so well that it’s disappointing he won’t have the opportunity to showcase this once more. Although, ever since I discovered that Dougal Wilson is the man responsible for directing those John Lewis Christmas Adverts, the only thing I’m worried about is how many tissues I’ll need to bring to the cinema.

With Paddington’s clumsy, kind-hearted persona and an already devoted fan base, it would be hard to create a film that disappoints. It would be more of a challenge to create a bad film instead of a good one. Perhaps all these cast and production changes is the refreshment Paddington needs to keep him relevant – bearing in mind, he is 62 years old. 

This adventure seems to be in safe hands, but can anything ever really exceed Hugh Grant singing Rain on the Roof wearing a pink prison uniform with full choreography? No, it can’t. But I’ll let them try.Paddington’s new adventure arrives in cinemas on the 8th of November, so just under a month to wait for our favourite bear. In the meantime you can watch the full trailer here and see what you think for yourself:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lKgitu25ZAg

Words by Hannah Crouch

Exploring The Cure’s Legacy: A Fragile Thing

Joseph Macauley dives into The Cure’s new single and his hopes for their upcoming album.

The new Cure single A Fragile Thing arrived on Wednesday in the shape of a luscious piano
led ballad. Its fuzzy front and centre bassline feels modern, alongside instrumentation that
wouldn’t feel out of place on Disintegration. Their quintessential sound finds itself as
comfortably at home in the 2020’s as it did three or four decades ago.


And of course, this acts as the velvety-black backdrop for Smith’s lamenting vocals, which
once again show his knack of making deep melancholy catchy. In his own words, A Fragile
Thing is ‘the love song on the album… it is about how love is the most enduring of
emotions… and yet at the same time incredibly fragile.’ This balance can certainly be felt in
the delicate arrangement and fantastic production, courtesy of Smith and Paul Corkett.
‘There’s nothing you can do to change the end’ sings Smith, and yet the band seem
resolutely in control of their own fate. Alone, released last month, proved a vintage Cure
opener of grand proportions. A Fragile Thing strikes while the iron is still hot, providing fans a
second indulgence in as many months.


For the aging goth rocker, this single may well anticipate one more eyeliner and hairspray
adorned tour date, or else inspire experimental first time looks for a new generation of eager
fans. Until the arrival of the band’s new album Songs Of A Lost World next month, these two
new tracks will have to suffice. But to all the Roberts and Siouxsies young and old, keep the
hairspray on hand. Goth’s saviours are almost back!

Words by Joseph Macauley.