There seems to be this obsession with pinning (excuse the pun) Matty down to a flat surface of multiples: a moodboard, avatar, placeholder for automatic cancellation. > Now, letвЂ™s not turn this into a discussion about who wears pinstripes better (we can leave that to readers - these are total Notes from the Watercooler levels of quiche). Why not join forces to exploit this label, to put out a message? IвЂ™ve always thought of pop music as a kind of potential broadcast, a hypnotic, smooth space for desireвЂ™s traversal and recalibration. Both Matty and Greta, for divergent yet somehow intersecting reasons, suffer the troublesome, universalising label of voice of a generation. Come to think of it, it makes sense for The 1975 to draft in Greta Thunberg to read her climate speech over the opening eponymous track.

So far, so postmodern, so elliptical, so everything/yeah/woo/whatever/thatвЂ™s right. вЂThere areвЂ™, writes Dan Stubbs for The NME, вЂas many Matty Healys here as there are musical stylesвЂ™. вЂDivisive motormouth or voice of a generation?вЂ™ asks Dorian Lynskey with (fair enough) somewhat tired provocation in The Guardian, as if you could have one without the other, these days. > It seems impossible to begin this dialogue without first addressing the FRAUGHT and oft~problematic question of Matty Healy, the bandвЂ™s frontman, variously described as вЂthe enfant terrible of pop-rockвЂ™ and вЂoutspoken avatarвЂ™ (Sam Sodomsky, Pitchfork), вЂenigmatic deityвЂ™ (Douglas Greenwood for i-D), вЂa charismatic thirty-one-year-oldвЂ™ and вЂscrawnyвЂ™, rock star вЂarchetypeвЂ™, not to mention вЂavatar of modern authenticity, wit, and flamboyanceвЂ™ (Carrie Battan, The New Yorker). And well, it would be rude of me not to invite you to contribute to this conversation, as a thank you for the ticket but also because of your fortunate (and probably unusual) positioning as both a classically trained musician (with a fine-tuned listening ear) and fervent fan of the band (readers, Scott messaged me with pictures of pre-ordered vinyl to prove it). Those slogans, the theatrical backdrops, the dancers, the lights, the travellator! Everything so EXTRA, what a JOURNEY. IвЂ™d been up all night drinking straight gin and doing cartwheels and crying on my friendвЂ™s carpet, and the sleeplessness made everything all the more lush and intense. Scott, you and I went to see The 1975 play at the Hydro on the 1st of March, my last gig before lockdown. When my friend Katy slid into my DMs on a Monday morning with вЂomg the 1975 album starts with greta?вЂ™ and then вЂwhat on earth is the genre of this album ?!вЂ™ I just knew it had to happen, this writing-listening, because I was equally alarmed and charmed by the cognitive dissonance of that fall from GretaвЂ™s soft, yet urgent call to rebel (вЂThe 1975вЂ™), into вЂPeopleвЂ™ with its parodic refrain of post-punk hedonism that would eat Fat White Family on a Dadaesque meal-deal platter вЂ WELL, GIRLS, FOOD, GEAR Yeah, woo, yeah, thatвЂ™s rightвЂ™. I want writing right now to feel a bit like listening, so I write this listening. IвЂ™m really excited to be talking with you, writing you both about this itвЂ™s an honour to connect our thoughts. I like that I donвЂ™t even need a boat, just a half-arsed WiFi connection and a will to download. Can you have a long world, a sprawling fantasia, when вЂthe worldвЂ™ feels increasingly shortened, small, boiled down to its вЂessentialsвЂ™? LetвЂ™s go around the world in 80 minutes, the band seem to say, take this short-circuit to the infinite with me. I have been traipsing around the various necropoli of Glasgow on my state-sanctioned walks this week, listening to the long meandering 80-minute world of it, disentangling my headphones from the overgrown ferns, caught between the living and dead. So we have agreed to write something on The 1975вЂ™s fourth studio album, Notes on a Conditional Form (Dirty Hit/Polydor).

The 1975 albums in order