MJ Lenderman

I have nothing but admiration for those men who burn a candle for the music of 1966. Partly because, like them, I believe 1966 to be pop’s greatest year, but mainly because being a psychedelic hipster requires a commitment that invites ridicule. It’s one thing to be an ageing fella who likes rock’n’roll – sharp denim and a well-tended quiff can look just fine. And you can never really tell the age of a metalhead – they just look like a metalhead. But to wear your hair in an outgrown bowl cut, and to strut around in tight red trousers as Seeds singer Paul Kopf does, is inevitably to invite catcalls of ‘Oi, Austin Powers!’. You have to really believe in it to go through life like that.

Grade: A+ In a desperate wish to avoid the appellation of a derided genre, this young man from Asheville, North Carolina has been described by the press as Americana, slacker rock, indie and alt-country. But we at The Spectator will call it how it is: this is country rock, pure and simple. And if country rock isn’t slacker, indie and a little bit alt, then it’s the Eagles – and nobody wants to start going down that road. Of the four albums generally thought to have been the best of last year across a vast number of publications, I’ve reviewed three of them for you – Beyoncé, Fontaines D.C. and Charli XCX’s meretricious, boring brattery. This is the fourth and dang I wish I hadn’t missed it, because it’s the best of the lot.