Destroyer - Kaputt

Despite the remnants of a few broken Rubik's cubes and several packets of Pop Rocks, experts have found it near impossible to visualise what life was really like in the 1980s. Some have even debated whether the 80s really existed. Most knowledge of the era is based around legend and hearsay, folk tales passed along by battle scarred warriors and elderly Medicine Men around the 3D family campfire. And as we post-1990s kids huddled close together, occasionally feeding the fire with old vinyl records, the wizened sages would tell us tales of mystery, imagination and how good MTV used to be. Seeing the skepticism in our expressions, they would smile knowingly at each other and reach for the cracked and worn Destroyer record, the nearest recreation of an era lost to the fires of Time. With each twist of swirling synths and driving bass, entire sonic civilisations materialised, the numbness within us melted, an era was resurrected. Then, culminating in a truly magnificent finale, the last notes faded, leaving the elders with glistening eyes, making our cave seem all the more empty.

Although hardly a new trend, these last few years have seen a resurgence of retro sensibilities, be it 60s surf rock from the likes of Best Coast, the Britpop inspired Smith Westerns or the 90s hazepop of the Pains of Being Pure at Heart. Bands have increasingly begun re-appropriating the sound of a bygone era and injecting some of their own personality into the mix. This nostalgia fascination society has recruited a new member to the club with Destroyer's latest release, Kaputt. Mastermind Daniel Bejar has played with various influences in the past, but never has one of his albums felt more cohesive and comfortably unified in its sound. Although this is a near perfect stab at early 80s synth rock, the music transcends age boundaries, finding a common ground amongst widely differing people. Escapism, young love, and other universal themes slide in an out of focus. At times this record is a night of rampant partying, being drunk on life and cheap wine. At others it's the peaceful languor of the morning after. More often than not it's both at the same time. Also, if you're not sure of the quality of a given album, you can usually gauge it by observing the sheer amount of trumpets and saxophones used. Kaputt certainly fulfills that requirement, ending up more horn-y than a goat and a rhino getting intimate at a Kenny G concert.

But the shiny 80s synth pop veneer is only the tip of the ice berg. Scratch away the surface and you'll find Destroyer just keeps on giving. Bejar's lyrical content is often stuffed with oblique poetry, sometimes completely indecipherable but always memorable. Whether lamenting racial discrimination on Suicide Demo For Kara Walkeror amusingly insulting the press on Blue Eyes, Bejar approaches it with sincerity and intelligence. What at first appears to sound like a starry-eyed plea about life or love turns out to be, after repeated listens, a list of passionately crooned music magazines. Who thought music journalism could be so emotionally affecting? And there are only so many people alive that can utter the words "I've seen it all", and make you believe it in every sense of the phrase. You can jump into the Destroyer hole and fall as deep as you want to.

So we continue to live through other people's memories, combining them with our own and making something truly unique. And as the plastic from an old 7" bubbles and hisses in the flame, dimly lighting the cavern, it feels like our only means of survival. Take the best of our past, unite it with what little we have, and forge our own personal future.

The Weeknd - House of Balloons

In the name of transparency, I'm going to make my biases perfectly clear. I've had little to no experience with what the kids are calling 'rhythm and blues'. The sickly smooth auto-tuned vocals, that mind-numbing drum machine and synth repetition, the overused clubbing vibe... I can't exactly pinpoint what it is exactly, but it's there, and it takes all my self control to prevent a 'nam flashback whenever Chris Brown or Usher pop up on the radio. Although these artists are hardly representative of the genre, the damage has been done, and I've had little hope for reparations. Until now.

Enter Abel Tesfaye, aka The Weeknd. Virtually emerging from the ether in the back half of 2010, the Toronto-based R&B singer quickly garnered the attention of a broad and diverse audience. All it took was a few plugs from Drake, a likably strange name/album art combo and an intangible sense of mystery surrounding the project to turn up the hype-meter. The music was also pretty great. While it walks the tightrope of atmosphere versus songwriting with commendable skill, often it teeters towards the former, which isn't necessarily a bad thing.

The album's strongest allure lays in its manipulation of feelings, it's ability to transport the listener to other locations, experience others emotions. These places and people are instantly familiar with those who've experienced the urban nightlife, but taken to extremes few dare to tread. It drags you through the seedy underbelly of the city, has you gazing through bleary eyes at the streaked lights through the window of a taxi. It's the glamour of penthouse apartments mixed with lines of coke and meaningless sex. Elevating a smorgasbord of vices to an art form, it feels so sinister and dirty you'll need a shower after listening. Abel Tesfaye really sells it with his often malicious, at times vulnerable vocals, alternating between taking pleasure from debasing himself — and others — and feeling regrettably shitty about it. One moment he may sound incredibly distant, untouchable behind a drug induced haze; words sounding like they came from the bottom of a well, echoing and distorted. Other times he'll soberly utter a simple phrase with crystal clarity. Fragmented glimpses of scenes tumble through your mind with the same stilted rhythm of his singing/rapping.

Stripping away the ambiance of the record, there's still plenty to enjoy about the music on offer. The production is dense and complex, with more nooks and crannies than your average prostitute. It's got the traditional nine-car genre pileup, with influences ranging from dubstep to indie rock. Beach House and Siouxie samples may surprise some listeners, but they somehow perfectly match the nocturnal mood rather than feeling jarring or alien. Memorable moments come thick and fast, making it impossible to catch all of them in the first couple of listens. The gunshot in The Party & The After Party, the barely audible whispers in Coming Down, the warped underwater distortion inLoft Music — it's these details which prolong the record's lifespan when the ominous atmosphere starts becoming stale. One of the more diverse and enjoyable pieces which shows this is the ambitious Glass Table Girls. Consisting mostly of a fracturedHappy House by Siouxie & the Banshees, Tesfaye swiftly makes it his own, with scary-as-hell vocals, sound effects like a plummeting 8-bit spaceship and a thrilling transition into something else entirely. It still sends chills up my spine when he sings in a menacing voice "I'm a nice dude, with some nice dreams, and we could turn this to a nightmare, Elm Street".

There's much to enjoy here, whatever your taste. Many have admired it for its unification of the underground and mainstream, with both sides of the musical divide being satisfied. Even with the frequently crooned "guuurls" and the lyrics about "sexin' up bitches and pluggin' niggas", pale white boys can listen to it in their isolation chambers just as well as your neighbour can blare it out at his post football game hootenanny. But really, though, all these discussions about taste and it's supposed crossover appeal cheapen the music. What House Of Ballons does do is tap into a perhaps universal urge to let it all go, the temptation to stop acting prim and proper for once. Some may empathise with it, or others that control this urge daily may just see it just as an acceptable release. It's popping drugs like bubble wrap. Sex like scratching an itch. The pursuit of pleasure above anything else. Nihilistic, fractured and haunting. Waking up at 6:45 am with a pounding head, seeing near lifeless bodies sprawled on couches and floors, knowing there's no future in this, that it's destructive and toxic, and smiling.