James Blake
Dubstep, a relatively young genre created in East London by black youths out of dub reggae and electronic dance music like drum & bass, has always had a bit of an obsession for American pop and R&B. Its first close call with crossover appeal was a guy named Burial, who used distorted and pitched-to-oblivion samples of 90s R&B to create original, spooky and very memorable hooks. James Blake is 22 years old and has made a few dubstep EPs in the past year or so. But until his debut self-titled album no one has made either as strong an attempt at genuine mainstream audience OR as strong an embrace of the very-personal, introspective songwriter shtick as a dubstep artist, ever. It shows that dubstep, like hip hop in the US, has had a strong influence on a generation of young British songwriters, and Blake may have just been the first to marry great songwriting and infectious melody to the genre.

Brits have a long history of appropriating American black music, so it’s not that surprising that the first possible mainstream star to emerge from dubstep sounds like a digitally shredded version of a singer you might hear on Hot97 right now. But what is a bit surprising is that it’s his songs and singing, in addition to the dubstep production, that will make Blake a star and dubstep crossover to the mainstream. A few decades ago Blake may have played pub rock like Elvis Costello or “trip hop” like Porrtishead, but in 2011 it just so happens that Blake’s musical upbringing has taken place at his laptop, chopping up vocal and piano samples and weaving them into stuttering, pounding drum samples. It’s a completely new musical brand, with the DNA of countless old forms.

He’s not that far from the typical barely-indie fare of today - think the ttype of stuff you may be introduced to by a movie trailer, an iPod spot or a modd video we might make here. The reason you’re going to hear Blake soundtracking TV dramas is because of his piano playing, the sickeningly catchy tunes and his moody, raw love songs. To push this point home even further, the first song above is a cover of Feists’ “Limit to Your Love”; over dramatic piano chords and his moaning, Blake layers heaps of his own sampled voice and bass deep and full enough for the best Jamaican dub engineer. The cracking drums and reverb are straight from dubstep, but the singing is just a 22-year-old kid singing about being heartbroken. If the theme of loneliness and vulenrability weren’t apparent enough, “Wilhelm Scream” would be enough to make you sick - if it wasn’t for the synths and 20,000 league-deep bass and the swirls of vocals that don’t end.

Destroyer
Daiel Bejar, like Blake, is a disciplined singer-songwriter who’s as skilled witht he pen as he is with the piano. And like Blake, Bejar approached his newest album from the musical standpoint of a few decades of American Black music’s influence to frame his songs and his persona. But Bejar, under the name Destroyer, has been making great albums since the 90s and they differ in sound and feel but always serve to highlight his songwriting. He’s also much older, so when they both land on R&B and smooth pop Bejar and Blake come at it from completely different eras. It just so happens that Bejar’s late 70s and early 80s sound here happens to be en vogue right now, and that might have something to do with the way the detached, cool, reflective feel of bands like Roxy Music and Steely Dan always sounded like someone who had indulged a bit too much for too long. It also just so happens that this is a sound I happen to be something of an expert in, but I digress.

There are too many references and in-jokes here to explain everything, but the sound could be considered tongue-in-cheek: an indie singer-songwriter dressing up his songs in the costume of smooth, wise ladies’ man. But at the same time, Destroyer never chooses a concept at random, and the choice here could be seen to reflect something in our culture or in our music. We’ve gorged ourselves for a decade on media, and now the party, while still glamorous, is a bit empty. The plastic sheen and immaculate musicianship are a nod to the delicate and fragile songs; the synths are sharp and glassy and the guitars and saxophones are thin. It feels like it could break or shatter at any moment. And the songs, filled with references to other genres, albums, bands, songs, nights - whatever isn’t happening at the actual time in which the narrator is singing - could be a comment on an age when things feel artificial and de-valued. In “Savage Night At The Opera” Bejar sings, over and over, “Hey, infinite sense of value...I heard your record, it’s alright”. It’s funny and tragic, but feels and sounds beautiful, like a perfect snapshot of a time that merely reflects and fails to support itself as a worthy time to just enjoy for the sake of it.