He lit up Europe with bands ranging from Peachfuzz to Kings of Convenience. But it was The Whitest Boy Alive that sent Erlend Øye stratospheric. As they return, the soft-singing, country-hopping sensation looks back
If you were to imagine the recent evolution of music in Europe as a series of scenes from a Where’s Wally?-style puzzle book, one bespectacled, lanky figure would pop up on almost every page. There he is in mid-90s London, handing out flyers for his first band Peachfuzz. Here he is in NME at the dawn of the new millennium, fronting folk duo Kings of Convenience and spearheading the new acoustic movement. There he is strumming his guitar in the vanguard of Norway’s “Bergen wave”. Then he’s off spinning records in Berlin nightclubs during the city’s “poor but sexy” post-millennial years. By the 2010s, he’s driving a renaissance of Italian chamber pop as part of La Comitiva, his bandmates hailing from the southern tip of Sicily.
It’s hard to think of a figure more musically cosmopolitan than Erlend Otre Øye, connecting the dots across a continent where national scenes rarely overlap – and making magic happen. No wonder his debut solo album, with 10 tracks recorded in 10 different cities, was called Unrest. Of all his reincarnations, though, the one that has best endured (if you go by Spotify) is his four-piece, The Whitest Boy Alive. And this spring and summer, they’re reuniting for a tour of South America and Europe to celebrate the 20th anniversary of Dreams, their debut album.
The groundbreaking singer, actor and athlete became a victim of McCarthyism and saw his shining career destroyed and his legacy tarnished
In August 1972, the front page of the New York Times arts section published a story titled, Time to Break the Silence on Paul Robeson? The legendary bass-baritone spent the first half of the 20th century as one of the greatest talents the US had ever produced, and its second, both in life and in death as an outcast, the greatest casualty of the second Red Scare period to which today’s current attacks on liberal and progressive politics draw comparison.
This week marks 50 years since Robeson’s death and the silence remains. His erasure from the lineage over the decades shows that what Robeson’s political opponents did not take from him, the years have most certainly. Robeson’s decoupling from the story of African American culture has been so complete that in the half-century since his death, even generations of Black Americans have never heard of him.
Katy Perry makes her first major public appearance with boyfriend Justin Trudeau at Davos summit, holding hands and supporting his speech on global diplomacy.
They published a raunchy book inspired by the Guardian’s Owen Jones; broadcast interviews with obscure punk legends; and make calendars to navigate the world of underground art. Now they’re going global
Stuart McKenzie turns towards a fan on a makeshift stage so his long brunette hair blows in the wind. The artist is dressed in a power suit with thick rimmed glasses, flamboyantly smoking a cigarette as he performs the confessional poetry he’s been writing since the 80s. “Stuart is this fantastic London staple who is just coming out of the woodwork now,” says Emily Pope, the director of Montez Press, who hosted the fundraiser where McKenzie performed to support their queer, feminist press and radio.
McKenzie is a typical Montez Press collaborator: an experimental artist who doesn’t fit neatly into either art, literary or music spaces (although he did recently support the indie band Bar Italia). He’s later in his career than some of the emerging artists they collaborate with but he has Montez Press’s “desire to push boundaries and ask questions,” as Anna Clark, one of the organisation’s founding members, puts it.
Ored Recordings documents chants, laments and displacement songs of the Caucasus threatened by erasure. After the invasion of Ukraine, its ‘punk ethnography’ has never been more urgent
In May 2022, a few weeks after the start of Russia’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine, musician Bulat Khalilov was attending a demonstration in Nalchik, a southern Russian city in the foothills of the Caucasus Mountains. As he joined a group congregating around the monument to the Circassian victims of Russo-Circassian war, Khalilov was approached by a policeman and sensed trouble. To his surprise, the officer asked: “Are you from Ored Recordings? I follow you on Instagram. You’re doing great.”
Their gathering still had to be dispersed, but the enthusiasm that Ored Recordings inspires even among enforcers of the law speaks volumes about the power of what Khalilov and his friend and label co-founder Timur Kodzoko call “punk ethnography”: the recording of religious chants, laments and displacement songs at family gatherings, local festivals, in people’s kitchens, to fight against the erasure of Circassian culture.
The club, Vendôme, was hosting several right-wing influencers, including Andrew and Tristan Tate, the brothers who are being investigated in Europe in connection with human trafficking.
The Grammy-winning artist and actor discusses body standards, romance, motherhood, music and the time she spent dancing with Prince, in the latest episode of the ‘Good Vibrations’ podcast
Mark Ruffalo, Brian Eno and Abigail Disney sign letter timed for WEF in Davos saying wealthy are buying political influence
Nearly 400 millionaires and billionaires from 24 countries are calling on global leaders to increase taxes on the super-rich, amid growing concern that the wealthiest in society are buying political influence.
An open letter, released to coincide with the World Economic Forum in Davos, calls on global leaders attending this week’s conference to close the widening gap between the super-rich and everyone else.
The number of small venues shrank by just nine in 2025, but more than half of them reported making no profit, while employment in the sector dropped almost 22%
The number of grassroots music venues (GMV) in the UK shrank in effect by just nine in 2025, the lowest rate of annual decline since 2018.
Thirty venues closed permanently between July 2024 and 2025 and 48 ceased functioning as GMVs, citing financial viability, change in ownership and eviction or redevelopment. However, 69 spaces that had previously ceased operating as GMVs returned to the sector.
Having just released his debut album, Bloodline, the singer discusses his fractured identity, survivor’s guilt and how he took solace in Mumford & Sons
Long before he started packing out theatres and earning millions of listeners with his poetic folk-pop, Mon Rovîa began life in Liberia at a time when many of his country’s youngest were armed with assault rifles and forced to fight as child soldiers in a brutal civil war. After his mother died, his grandmother needed help raising his sister, brother and him, and placed him with a white missionary family from Florida. He was the only member of his family to escape the war. “That is something that weighed heavy on me as I grew,” he says. “Why was it me? Why couldn’t my siblings come, or why wasn’t it one of them?” It would be years until he knew what became of them.
Today, his stage name – he was born Janjay Lowe – is a stylised version of the Liberian capital Monrovia; his songwriting addresses his fractured identity, and the spectre of colonialism that surrounded him in Liberia and the US, applying emotional intimacy to global realities. His approach, he theorises, “starts with people trusting that you’re not afraid to be vulnerable in your own way. Then you start talking about the bigger picture.”
Shepherd’s Bush Empire, London Despite never being a huge pop force after her years as Disney star Lizzie McGuire, fans come from Brazil and Saudi Arabia for Duff’s charming, self-deprecating return
It’s fair to say that US actor-singer-writer-entrepreneur Hilary Duff has never been a force to be reckoned with in pop music. Her songs and albums have neither been particularly critically acclaimed nor commercially dominant; many people would know her only as Lizzie McGuire, hero of the Disney Channel sitcom from the early 00s. But for the 38-year-old Duff’s first live performance in 18 years, she’s met with a sold-out crowd screaming back every word of her music like they are all universally adored hits. Duff seems overwhelmed by the rapturous reception. Fans have come from Brazil, Saudi Arabia and all over Europe, and they are often so loud you can’t hear the woman on stage.
But after the shock wears off, Duff shows no signs of rust and her fierce sincerity combined with girl next door charm infuses the night with euphoria and escapism. When she jumps up and down on the stage’s sofa singing Why Not, you get the sense that this is how everyone in the crowd once sang the song in their adolescence. She’s also not afraid to poke fun at herself and her past: she brings three fans on stage to recreate the low-energy dance choreography of her 2007 single With Love that went viral on TikTok in 2021.
The 17-song set expertly sprinkles five new numbers from forthcoming album Luck … Or Something in between fan favourites such as 2015’s criminally underrated Sparks and 2003’s So Yesterday to keep the mood elevated. Time has made Duff’s voice more textured and refined, adding new depth to songs like Fly and Come Clean, though the twee Someone’s Watching Over Me, a ballad about self-acceptance, is cloying.
The biggest noise of the night comes with the one-two encore of her new single Mature and the Lizzie McGuire classic What Dreams Are Made Of. A wild singalong ensues complete with pink butterfly confetti as a giddy Duff jumps for joy on stage. It’s an emotional conclusion that takes this devoted crowd to new levels of noisy rapture and proves that Duff could easily put music at the centre of her portfolio career.
The Number of the Beast lights up an unforgettable scene in 28 Years Later: The Bone Temple thanks to director Nia DaCosta expertly blending ‘craziness and romance’
There were laughs of surprise around me in screen three of the Everyman in Muswell Hill, north London, as 28 Years Later: The Bone Temple drew to its conclusion. Without giving too much away for those who haven’t seen it, Ralph Fiennes dancing semi-naked among piles of human bones to Iron Maiden’s The Number of the Beast is not how you expect one of our greatest thespians to deport himself on screen.
“Alex Garland chose that song,” says the film’s director, Nia DaCosta. “He wrote it into the script. And you can’t get better than that in a film about satanists.”
Connexion
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