We won’t be reviewing the new My Bloody Valentine record. Aside from the fact that we’re still not entirely certain it genuinely exists, and probably won’t be convinced until the vinyl rests in our clammy paws, it’s all too soon, you know? Records that have the potential to be significant in the extreme – you need to give them the time to breathe. The space in which to coil its way around your heart. No sleight upon those who have reviewed – in the fairly narrow window between waking up and writing this, we’ve stumbled across quite a few already, the first impressions buzzing like machinery. Yet first impressions only take us so far. It’s all about multiple contexts; listen to an album first thing in the morning, then last thing at night. Listen when happy, when tired, on a grey Tuesday with nothing on the TV, on the day after your cat has died. Listen to it until you know it intimately, until it knows you intimately. Listen until every cadence connects in so many different ways. Because it’s only then that you can fully understand the depth of your relationship.
Also: it’s no Ke$ha, is it?