Let’s be real: true pop genius is scarcer than Louis Walsh’s hair follicles. And no, Gaga – a copy of a copy ad nauseum – doesn’t count; any privileged twat with business nous and third-party cash can social network herself to stardom.
Instead, think brilliant innovators, the true musical artists who mint previously unguessed sound and mind-scapes with each album.
Now, unquestionably, the king of zeitgeist chameleons is Bowie, but the queen? None other than Kate Bush, who, since 1976’s awesomely spook-adelic Wuthering Heights, has ploughed her stunningly singular road. Barely glance at her album releases, and they form an iconic, imaginative archipelago unparalleled in modern pop – even by Bowie.
You see, the keywords, my dears, are brilliant inconsistency, and Kate – our very own, secular burning Bush – thrillingly, unexpectedly, recreates herself with every album.
The endlessly regenerating Time Lord of ArtPop, Bush has ranged from desperate, aching glory – The Hounds Of Love – to the fruity, cod-Arthurian loveliness of Lionheart and the perversely abstract Aerial and perplexing, but enthralling, 50 Words For Snow.
No, Bush won’t grant believers endlessly recycled breakbeats, mush-mouthed idiocy masquerading as R ‘n’ B, or so-called ‘songs’ written with all the emotional insight of an retarded baby, but darlings, she’ll thrill, chill and even permanently kill your tolerance for lesser talents.
So she should; Bush comes from a time when even pop(ular) music carried a cultural cachet and content. Exploring personal aesthetics with a communal, sonic palette, the best pop articulated pain, frenzy, heartache and pure artistry with a breezy finesse that poxy, paid by the word show tunes never did. So please, don’t scratch, dumb, non-comprehending heads when she serenades a washing machine – it’s Kate’s perkily unique take on metaphysical, mechanical purity.
Losing the plot? Not at all; Kate’s virtually the only artist in pop – besides her near-equal maverick Bjork – who doesn’t so much ignore other musicians’ work as act like it doesn’t exist, which makes her magnetically compelling.
You want the proof? See her this August and September, she’s playing the Hammersmith Apollo, her first tour in 35 years, and Katie virgins should expect a legendary spectacle worthy of Bowie’s peak, Ziggy Sardust gigs, and beyond!
Still, if you prefer ingesting vocal tripe, please continue – there’s enough to feed a billion Slumdog Millionaires.
