Sourhouse Tunes of the Year 2024

It’s far too soon in history to lust too hard over the recent past – and I say that despite me having a Tumblr themed birthday party this year – but it’s not wrong to say that we are missing something of the joy brought from swapping songs over Bluetooth. How we managed to cram so many on the tiny capacity of memory cards back then (remember the M2 format? Good lord) is quite incredible in hindsight. ‘Cheerleader’ channels much of the sentiment and feel of the time, a poppy hybrid-emo cut run along computerised grooves with its staccato drums and screaming synths. Its production dunks everything in-and-out of a condensing, digitising filter that makes it impossible to tell what’s real and what’s generated at any one point. 

Even down that cover art, the whole thing behaves like a song you come across courtesy of the internet, and not because you’ve ever seen a Porter Robinson gig on a promo poster. It checks out when his history is collaborations with Skrillex and a strong influence of video game music across his discography. ‘Cheerleader’s subject matter, however, is firmly in the present, an adrenaline-laced fable on stan culture, which coincidentally traces its roots to the same spaces the song’s Scene culture inspirations come from. Few tracks this year possess the immediacy Robinson achieves on this thing, and none compare to the brightness with which he illuminates tragic undertones.

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I fretted for a moment with O Monolith, Squid’s last album. It didn’t hit like their past work. They got a bit too complicated for my liking, and lacked the gut-punch takes on the contemporary of their previous work. Whether addressing any of that factored into the making of ‘Crispy Skin’ seems unlikely – they shouldn’t give a shit what I think afterall. I do, however, give a shit that one of my favourite living bands has managed to land on yet another moment of brilliance. Their new single interns modern society’s endless ability to market another version of you, and beyond just criticising the myopia it creates, cuts to the truth that all of us can’t help but carry it in ourselves. 

Birthed from Tender Is The Flesh by Agustina Bazterrica (check out the cover of the first edition by the way, wow), nothing in the instrumentation matches the violence of the cannibalistic topic of the book. But that’s not something that Squid have ever needed to rise to; their talent has always laid in presenting the absurd with disciplined clarity, leaving the shock and emotionality in your reaction. For all of us who’ve tried to stop using social media so much, it speaks to the diseases of our time. Most astonishing of all, however, is that they’ve found a piano. Utilised to macerating affect, creating a minute sense of tragedy as it flicks along its near-devastating little melody. Squid yet again wield the impossible questions of right and wrong in the digital age to produce some of its most riveting, forward-thinking music.

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I’ve had few doubts that Sabrina Carpenter would be on this year’s list in one form or another. Man has the trail she blazed in 2024 been wild. A magnetic presence in my listening from the moment I first started properly paying attention, appearance like a pin up girl for the 21st century, every word an innuendo. Pop is as exciting as it is right now in large part to what she’s broken through with. 

Amongst that material, ‘Taste’ is by far her brightest moment yet. ‘Espresso’ may end up being the one everyone remembers, and ‘Please Please Please’ will hold its place in pop culture history thanks to its hard launching of her relationship with Barry Keoghan. But ‘Taste’ is the pinnacle of the lot, her comic elements sitting more flush with the rest of the track, rising sonorously with how gorgeous that instrumentation is. Those old enough will draw similarities to the wicked ‘I Touch Myself’ by Divinyls, and if it was her and her producers intentions to refashion the 90s classic for a new audience, they’ve passed with distinction. The same big, punchy feel of its production is given more bite in its bass, strung together more tightly with a tad less reverb, resulting in something space-filling and hip-shaking. Rocking with that inspired off-beat chorus and decorously catchy selection of hooks, Carpenter feels truly at her strongest here.

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Soft Play will always have a place in my heart. They really are one of the only bands to hail from Tunbridge Wells, ever. Indeed, make that all of West Kent, with its scattering of identityless commuter towns and absurd wealth disparities. One of the ways I’ve managed to make peace with growing up there is through their music. No other band captures the need to represent somewhere so forthrightly despite how insipid its experience can be.

Every artist who makes it far enough writes a song about loss at some point. Isaac and Laurie suffered unimaginable personal tragedies shortly after their critical peak with Acts Of Fear And Love, for which they ended up taking a hiatus, and it’s where this gobsmacking, outstanding cut comes from. 

Except of course it’s not unimaginable, because growing older means experiencing tragedy. Bailey Churchill, the subject of the song’s lyrics, is memorialised through its existence. Read through the YouTube comment section for the song, however, and see how many other names people put in the same place. My Bailey is Leo Baltazar, and lord knows we miss you every day.

‘Everything And Nothing’ is as apt a title as it gets for a song like this. There is no conceivable way to convey the injustice, the anguish, the unrelenting love and urgency that fills someone’s place. Nothing ever takes their shape again. Yet, astonishingly, the accuracy with which so many moments and little intonations on this thing visualise that pain leaves you as awed as the devastation it is birthed from. What a way to use a mandolin, eh? 

Holman’s voice strains every single line, screaming in the face of grief, and makes a place for his band’s fans to scream back. Just as they have always done, Soft Play reach out and tell you you’re not alone. 

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Amongst the enormous scenes of rage that pervade much of I Got Heaven, right in the middle sits this tripwire of a cut that ravishes and demolishes all in its path. ‘I Don’t Know You’, much like its subject matter, seems innocuous at first, until before you know it, you’re ensnared in the sense of impending sense of catastrophe. Mannequin Pussy wait until you’re right on the edge before crashing at the ground and sending you off the cliff at that 1:32 mark. Alternative rock sometimes struggles to achieve the cinematic, but this most certainly does.

Delicacy gives way to despair, as Dabice’s continued repeating of those verses strike deeper with every decibel she adds. I’ve cried more than once this year to this exceptional creation, even one time on a train in true music video style, and its catharsis is all too necessary. Unresolvable situations created amongst the stirring of human emotions. In the face of hopes versus reality, feelings confronting feelings, it is perhaps one of the most pertinent summations of the tragedy of finding out that you’re not on the same page.

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Big, horizon-filling megasongs rarely fail to find favor with me. Even then, ‘Death And Romance’ does the numbers and then some. Turn the prism, and its form morphs wildly. From one angle, its ethereal vocals and neon synth affectations take you to pure Art Pop heaven. Twist it another way, however, and those bright pianos and punchy drums give it A* FIFA soundtrack credentials. Seriously, imagine listening to this on the menu right before a title decider. At the very least, it’s getting pride of place on my Football Manager playlist.

Football really has nothing to do with its substance, however. Like many cuts from their exceptional second studio album, Magdalena Bay are dealing with the indescribable and unplaceable. The sheer, unboundless enormity of love in the context of whatever the fuck life is supposed to mean, you say? Oh yeah, I reckon that can be distilled down to a 5 minute song. No, seriously, it can. The duo nail a sense of feel-good ominousness so well that it almost aches, every hope bursting through the stratosphere no matter how strong the pull of second thoughts. The future isn’t utopian here, it’s realistic. Every moment of joy has to be earned, but you’re not subject to how you behaved in past traumas. Nothing is impossible. Love, as always, is the answer.

Music nerds and those with great sound systems will rejoice in the monumental depth of the production here. No single instrument isn’t resonating with texture and life. Special shoutouts must go to those deep bass flourishes backing the chorus, the gravity-nulling airiness of that bridge, and every single damn use of layered vocals. Lord knows what this must be like to listen to on drugs when it vibrates every nerve ending even when sober. 

Personal favourite

In our divided world of internet subcultures and algorithm feeds, it’s rare that we actually get to decree something as the pop culture moment of the year. But here it is, folks, your edition for 2024, and by far the most wholesome one in a hot minute. Rap beef makes for good comebacks, but it’s not so fun when it drags women under the bus. Charli and Lorde prove there’s no need for such dunking-ons, and that the quotable lyrics it produces are better anyway when they don’t use any homophobic language.

But ‘Girl, So Confusing’ is about far more than just the beef between two artists. It’s an antidote to a decade of social media battles, rumours run through stan circles, chart battles carried out with special edition releases of albums, amongst the relentless shit throwing of who associates with who and what’s been said in what situation. “Let’s work it out on the remix” isn’t just a call for change, it’s a mindset. Brat itself already goes so far against the hyper idealised Kardashian-esque fame-derived beauty standards that have become the norm, but this is without question its figurehead, bordering on the political in the statement it makes. For us conflict-phobes too, I hope it’s inspired you as much as it’s inspired me to keep trying to be honest when people piss you off.

It’s long been clear that subtweeting people and diss tracks do nothing to solve anything and simply feed the toxic elements of the hypetrain. Here then is a track with a beat that I’ve jumped around to more than once in a clubroom this year, whos lyrics I shouted along to on the Brat tour, who’s unifying power makes it more than just the fall of the Berlin Wall for gay music, but a clear before-and-after moment for how we conduct ourselves in our modern cultures. You can support the artists who still play dirty, or you can embrace the bolder, healthier, more constructive and most certainly more enjoyable way of doing things. The choice is very much ours to make.

Personal favourite

I can’t say that I foresaw Fontaine’s ever releasing something that could be considered an ‘indie summer banger’ – not a phrase I’m particularly keen on what with Spotify’s insistence of using such debilitating names for their categorisations. But if a song about growing up, where you’ve come from and the love you have for yer mates can’t be called that, I don’t know what can. Man does that riff send tingles down your spine; it’s clear just why the band have said this is their favourite thing they’ve ever written (no pun intended). ‘Favourite’ twinkles with an apt mix of sunshine warmth, distant nostalgia and heartfelt love, a big cascade of whirling guitars that echoes the techniques of Kitchens of Distinction or Ride in achieving similar effects.

Perhaps where it hits most of all, however, is within the band’s story itself. After four albums worth of poetic, inspired lyricism, and some of the best guitar music released in the last 5 years, something of a celebration probably is due. There’s plenty of love and romance (once again, no pun intended) within their discography, but it’s often been delivered with a bludgeoning caveat. Don’t get me wrong, that’s half the appeal of Fontaines. But for them to create a space truly free from any catches, any writing tricks, or any message other than outright affinity, proves that the heart at the heart of this incredible band has been real all along. They’ve been my favourite for a long time anyway.

Personal favourite

The last time FKA twigs sang “You’re not alone” was on ‘Darjeeling’, a soothing, close-knit, reassuring cut with the same qualities of a late night DMC with your best mate. The same words are the keystone of ‘Eusexua’.

But no longer does she sing it for comfort. Here, “You’re not alone” is like a call from the fourth dimension, a divine intervention reaching out from the dry ice of a warehouse club. Around it builds a pulsing cathedral of noise, anticipation, and an urgency to take the leap. Break free of whatever you’ve come to know as your world, and enter the Alexander McQueen-covered transcendental neospace of Eusexua.

One wonders how she hasn’t leant her voice to Trance cuts before; it’s like she was born to do it. So fantastically restrained and angelic against a beat that grows unstoppably bigger with every pulse. If she ever needed more recognition as a 21st century cyber-witch-cum-goddess, ‘Eusexua’ crowns her as a warrior leader of the movement to prioritise unearthly pleasure. To lose yourself in music, in love, and in trip. She rides the wave of that drop and mandates your body to jerk along with witchcraft-like ability.

As if the song itself isn’t enough already, say hello to that fucking music video. Dear god. After showing it to him, my flatmate asked “Is she always that scary?” Wrong; she’s not scary, she’s launching a campaign, 90s CGI raindrops and clothes-flinging choreography charging ahead at her command. To call this anything less than the most astonishing audio-visual moment of the year would be insulting. 
Even when we think we can pin her to something, despite how alien and ethereal she remains, twigs snaps the leash yet again. Pop has been turning to Disco and House for some years now, all of which I’ve welcomed. But in the emerging Eusexua era, twigs looks to be asking if we missed a trick in forgetting that Trance music is very much about the transcendental. She may just be about to give us the keys to true release. This track alone has sent me to the other side.

Personal favourite

A Friday evening back in May. Gorgeous late spring sunshine turning into an equally gorgeous late spring sunset. We’re at a birthday picnic in Roath Park for one of my best mates. I’d only heard ‘Good Luck, Babe!’ for the first time earlier that week, but being in charge of the Bluetooth speaker, I decided it should be on the playlist. Afterall, it was already stuck in my head. As the first chorus came in, a remarkable thing happened: something like half of us began singing along.