Y seems to be rather digitally elusive—searching their name online will yield plenty about Y for YouTube, Y chromosomes, and Y, the penultimate letter of the alphabet, but significantly less about Y, the new south London five-piece born from the isolation of the pandemic. It doesn’t feel appropriate, let alone possible, to try and pinpoint their genre, as everything from rock to jazz oscillates playfully across their discography. But don’t mistake this for amateurism—individually, the quintet has already established strong roots in the fertile ground of London’s experimental music scene, with members also involved in bands such as Fat White Family, Meatraffle, and Pregoblin. Coming together to amp up the ambiguity, Y’s self-titled debut EP is a glorious fever dream reveling in its rebelliousness.
If you find yourself confused by the band’s eclectic composition, or are perhaps asking yourself why they reject genre rules so vehemently, the album’s opening track “Why” flings the question right back at you. It’s fuelled by a frenetic saxophone melody soaring against manic disco-esque synths, punctuated by frantic shouts of “why.” On first listen, the chaotic instrumentals might come across as hasty, nonsensical even, but there is an underlying existentialism burrowing into your ears, driving the album forward in a simultaneously angsty and exuberant way. Perhaps what we should be asking is “Why not?”
The band broadens their lyrical horizons in “Marianne,” where vocalist Sophie Coppin’s haunting tone leans into prophetic spoken word territory: “on the tightrope to Bethlehem, blistered under sun like an Englishman,” she half-sings, half-proclaims, spotlighting the band’s capacity for evocative, almost apocalyptic lyricism. “Marianne” has a more cohesive jazzy groove to it, courtesy of saxophonist Harry McHale, but still retains the ingenuity we were introduced to in “Why”—the ingenuity that seems to lie at the core of Y’s multifaceted musical identity—as the track is underscored by thumping percussion and, in the latter half, funky futuristic synths. “Ladies Who” exemplifies their creative spirit, as Y teases us with sharp lyrical dissonance. Singing of “ladies who kill,” Coppin’s gritty, commanding vocals shine against a jaunty beat, with saxophone flourishes adding a touch of sass. It serves as an assured reminder that we can only expect the unexpected, or perhaps that we should relinquish expectation altogether and just come along for the ride—the latter option certainly makes for a more liberated, engaging listening experience.
Y defy the rules until the very end, closing the project with a twisted love song, “Hate.” The opening percussion and guitar strums are a little more subdued but are soon joined by smooth, swaggering saxophone melodies. Against these leisurely instrumentals, the natural vocal chemistry of Coppin and guitarist and vocalist Adam Brennan truly shines; they harmonize with ease, singing of everyday malaise with a touch of wryness: “I found my way, and I lost it again, then I found hate.” With a more mellow groove and a slower tempo, there is a sense of finality to “Hate” that leaves Y feeling like a well-rounded, purposeful body of work seeking to experiment and excite.
Indeed, having been sucked into the album’s brilliantly wacky world after my first play, Y resembles a sonic hurricane: huge, unpredictable currents circulating around a more stable eye. Elements of jazz, post-punk, and pop swirl around each track, chaotic and frenzied, but, at their core, Y are clever and intentional, carefree but not careless—everything comes together with consistent confidence and creative flair. Their dizzying debut release doesn’t just throw the musical rulebook out of the window; it makes you forget there was one in the first place.
