The Gothic in Children's Literature. Anna Jackson. Modernist Star Maps. Aaron Jaffe. Dark Places. Barry Curtis. International Companion Encyclopedia of Children's Literature. Peter Hunt. Modern Dramatists. Kimball King. Encyclopedia of Humor Studies. Salvatore I.
The Gothic World. Glennis Byron. Expanding the Gothic Canon. Andrzej Slawomir Kowalczyk. Art, Ethics and Provocation. Anna Suwalska-Kolecka. Roger Luckhurst. Dominic Head. Grasping Shadows. William Chapman Sharpe. Justin Edwards. The Gothic and the Everyday. Speaking of Monsters. Caroline Joan S. Who's Who of Twentieth Century Novelists. Tim Woods.
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The Transnational Beat Generation. Brian Stableford. R 59, On Repetition. Eirini Kartsaki. Andrew Stott. Body Gothic. Xavier Aldana Reyes. The Changing Room. Laurence Senelick. The Crafty Reader. Robert Scholes. The Modern Supernatural and the Beginnings of Cinema. Murray Leeder. Screen, Culture, Psyche. John Izod. Encyclopedia of the Novel. Paul Schellinger. Eric Sandberg. The Gothic and death. Carol Davison. All that Gothic. Agnieszka Lowczanin. Film Stardom, Myth and Classicism. Matt Cardin. Gothic Landscapes.
Sharon Rose Yang. Spectrum of Emotions. Amo is a way of exploring that, even down to the title itself. This self-titled record, a loose but beautifully crafted collection of folk-rock songs, explores the kinds of anxieties intrinsic to the modern age — the longing to be at once noticed and invisible; the paralysing effects of limitless information, and the desire to do good versus the desire to be seen doing good.
Alexandra Pollard. Helen Brown. The perma-brilliant James Blake has flooded his fourth album — Assume Form — with euphoric sepia soul and loved-up doo-wop. His trademark intelligence, honesty and pin-drop production remain intact. The variety and scale of ambition on this album is breathtaking. Fans will be surprised to discover Tracey sings almost as much as he raps, in pleasingly gruff tones. The album title of the year gives us an image of Brexit Britain trashed by Old Etonians David Cameron, Boris Johnson and Jacob Rees-Mogg, but the fifth studio work from the punk duo has more than social commentary to offer.
The tension is stormy: imagine a mid-period Fleetwood Mac song, covered by Cat Power. The album takes in everything from jazz, funk and soul to punk and heavy rock, plus three carefully chosen features. Solange Knowles has never been coy about the intent behind her music. Beautiful arrangements and seamless production notwithstanding, you get the sense, each time she drop a project, that it serves a distinct, zeitgeist-shifting purpose. And where better to dream than from the comfort of your own digs? Kuba Shand-Baptiste. Mark Beaumont. Tracks are at once astute and deeply personal in how they capture vignettes of everyday life and spin them into important lessons.
Dave spends Psychodrama addressing issues caused by the generations who came before him.
By the end of the album, he sounds like a figurehead for the hopeful future. At her best, Sigrid throws out precision-tooled high notes like icicle javelins into vast, blue Scandi-produced skies. Then she growls like an Icelandic volcano preparing to disrupt western civilisation until we sort ourselves out.
Lux Prima was born just over a decade ago from a drunken phone call from Karen O to Danger Mouse — real name Brian Joseph Burton — during which the pair vowed they would work on something together. Danger Mouse is known for genre-hopping collaborations with artists such as Beck, the Black Keys and CeeLo Green, and he applies that approach here, too: the album is an impressive mix of blissed-out synths, psych-rock guitars and trippy hip-hop beats.
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Lux Prima is an accomplished record — proof that two wildly different minds can work seamlessly together. This is an ambitious creation, meticulously crafted and assembled. For a start, the range of guest performers is a cornucopia of contemporary soul and hip-hop collaborators: vocalists Moses Sumney, Roots Manuva, Heidi Vogel, Grey Reverend and Tawiah; strings player Miguel Atwood-Ferguson, and keyboardist Dennis Hamm — both of whom have worked with Flying Lotus and Thundercat.
To Believe, however, feels more expansive in reach.
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Elisa Bray. There are moments that recall her Communion labelmate Ben Howard, on his latest album, Noonday Dream, and others that nod to the quiet stoicism of Joni Mitchell and Neil Young. Patrick Smith. Here, Lewis does what she does best: adds the glossy sparkle of Hollywood and a sunny Californian sheen to melancholy and nostalgia, with her most luxuriantly orchestrated album yet. Slide guitars give way to violas, which usher in eerie synths.
Organs crop up throughout, evoking both Renaissance music and a fairground attraction. The title track is pure euphoria, as restless synths of a Utah Saints or Orbital rave break into swelling bass and melody. Six months after the release of Oxnard, Anderson. Paak returns with another Dr Dre-produced record, Ventura. Where the former was overflowing with choppy, experimental sounds, guest appearances and clumsy attempts at Gil Scott Heron-esque revolutionary lyrics, the sequel — recorded around the same time — streamlines.
Rather than being an album of Oxnard offshoots, Ventura instead borrows heavily from. Considering how few artists have such command of their craft as.
Gothic Landscapes: Changing Eras, Changing Cultures, Changing Anxieties (ebook)
Jack Shepherd. Familiar faces and themes serve as his trademarks. Over all of it, he raps with an easy flow in gruff yet honeyed tones. Above all, he is conscious of what family means to him, and so bookends the album with a poem from him to his mother Jean, and one from his mother to him. No one could accuse Lizzo of holding back. Not when it comes to her voice — which is raw and rowdy, so laden with personality even the vulnerable moments are a joy to listen to — and certainly not when it comes to her message of unabashed self-love.
When Lizzo played Coachella earlier this week, her set was plagued by technical problems. It seems as likely as Old Man Steptoe dining with the Rees-Mogg, but this new tactic of burying their confrontational gruesomeness beneath a veneer of alt-rock respectability for album three works well for Fat White Family. Tarantino bossa novas and Velvets drones are all imbued with a luminous, cultured seediness, like the entire Cannes Film Festival owning up to its social diseases.
Wonderfully unsettling. Assisted by producer John Hill, whose previous credits include co-writing Portugal. Social Cues is an album where Shultz bares his soul, and apparently shakes off a few demons in the process. SOAK reaches to outsiders once again on her new album. In a way, Grim Town portrays the journey from adolescence into young adulthood — with all the introspection, resignation and wide-eyed forays into love that entails.
She was deeply affected by the deaths, and would no doubt have been devastated by recent events in Northern Ireland as well. It sounds like The Cranberries found some kind of closure in this last record.
Hopefully fans will, too. On her third record, Aldous Harding combines the gothic folk of her self-titled debut with the dramatically intimate tones of her follow-up album Party. The New Zealand artist seems to derive a particular glee from unsettling her audience. At an age where the pressure is on to have everything worked out, Harding sounds delightfully free.
Her whispering, spectral delivery and deeply personal lyrics are the key to this. Throughout, Collard exhibits his extraordinary voice, which swoops to a devilishly low murmur or soars to an ecstatic falsetto. Dedicated covers the full, but generic, spectrum of relationships: dizzying love, lust, and break-ups. It is the perfect upbeat end to an album of polished pop.
Perhaps this will put her at the top where she belongs. The production here is superb. But it was worth the wait. A track masterpiece, the album features the likes of Anderson. Paak, Little Dragon, David Lynch, and Solange, and serves up a hot, textural mix of hip-hop, psychedelia, funk, soul, jazz and electro.
Ellie Harrison. Instead, his cold grime sonics are rendered down to their no-frills essentials — brutalist blocks of sad angular melodies and hard, spacious drums. The result is a quintessentially London record, as dark and moody as it is brash and innovative. Bruce Springsteen seems to have told almost every tale in the grand old storybook of American mythologies, except perhaps one: a wide-eyed Californian dreamer finds the Golden State turns sour and flees back east, to some romantic speck of a town, to pine and rehabilitate. Where most rock superstars sink into trad tedium by 69, Springsteen is still crafting sophisticated paeans of depth and illumination, a rock grandmaster worthy of the accolade.
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