In 1996, Doctor Who returned to television screens for the first time since its cancellation in 1989. The revival took the form of the made-for-TV movie, simply titled Doctor Who (with The Movie often colloquially added on), and featured a perfectly-cast Paul McGann as the Eighth incarnation of the iconic BBC hero. The Doctor was not the only Time Lord the production resurrected, however, with Eric Roberts stepping into the role of the Doctor’s arch-nemesis, the Master. With previous incarnations having been portrayed on-screen by the likes of Anthony Ainley and the great Roger Delgado, Roberts had big shoes to fill, and the general consensus in the years since has been that he didn’t quite fit them.
However – spend long enough in fan circles and you’ll soon realise that Roberts’ portrayal of the Master is often judged on a single line in a single scene of Doctor Who: The Movie, his only on-screen appearance as the character. The Doctor is being held captive inside his own TARDIS by possessed surgeon Grace Holloway (Daphne Ashbrook) and misguided gang member Chang Lee (Yee Jee Tso), both of whom have fallen under the influence of Roberts’ Master. As the Doctor tries to plead with his two would-be companions, the Master interrupts the scene by descending a flight of stairs in full, lavish Gallifreyan ceremonial robes, relishing every step the staircase has to offer. As he reaches a level midpoint, the Master turns to face the Doctor and his victims, declaring in no uncertain terms and with a theatrical flick of his wrist: “I always dress… for the occasion”.
This scene (until the ongoing revived series arrived under the stewardship of Russel T. Davies) represented the camp peak of Doctor Who and, as such, has been the subject of intense scorn and mockery in the twenty-three years since the TV movie’s broadcast. It’s near-impossible to find a decent opinion piece on Doctor Who: The Movie without a cheap shot being taken at Roberts’ Master and that particular line. As is often the case in fandom, it has become far too easy to focus on one easily-digested surface-level criticism of a character (or text) in order to run with the popular crowd and enjoy easily-won reverence. It’s very easy to ignore, for example, that Roberts is an accomplished, dependable character actor with an Academy Award nomination under his belt. If one looks beyond first-impression aesthetics, Eric Roberts’ Master does not deviate from the history and mechanisms of the character. Instead, cleverly and with deceptive subtlety, his interpretation honours the performers and portrayals that preceded him in the role.
The Master, despite being a Time Lord from Gallifrey in the constellation of Kasterborous, has always quintessentially been an upper-class aristocratic villain in the mould of Professor Moriarty, Fu Manchu, and Dracula. Indeed, the character begins Doctor Who: The Movie in this guise: an unidentified but altogether familiar previous incarnation is exterminated by the Daleks and subsequently (and without much explanation) takes on a parasitic, snake-like form on the hunt for a new body. In this form, the Master eventually encounters and possesses the body of Bruce, an ambulance driver from modern-day San Francisco; thus, a new American accented incarnation of the Master is debuted. Much criticism of Roberts’ Master focuses on the character’s lines and their delivery. Statements and quips such as, “I never liked this planet, Doctor”, “Life is wasted on the living”, and, “I have wasted all of my lives because of you, Doctor! Now I will be rid of you!”, take on a somewhat bizarre quality when delivered by a scenery-devouring Roberts in an accent somewhere in-between his native Mississippi drawl and an Edward G. Robinson gangster. However, one wonders how strange these lines would sound delivered by, say, a Roger Delgado or an Anthony Ainley. Indeed, delivered by those two performers these lines would sound very much like classic, prototypical Master dialogue, giving us as viewers an opportunity to look a bit closer at Roberts’ performance and his incarnation’s characterisation: in Doctor Who: The Movie, the Master is literally a prototypical upper-class English aristocratic villain trapped within a Twentieth Century working-class American body. This is what grants Roberts’ dialogue – and his delivery of it – such an eccentric, theatrical, and delightfully weird quality. Both within the fiction of the piece itself and meta-textually as character and performer in symbiosis, the real Master within is the same Machiavellian schemer viewers have always known – the casing is simply new.
Once the serpentine Master possesses Bruce’s body, physical changes take place immediately. Cruel and cowardly, the Master strangles Bruce’s wife (presumably to death) while newly sporting snake-like eyes with a bright, sinister glow. It is no coincidence that in the Master’s last televised appearance before The Movie (in Sylvester McCoy’s final BBC serial “Survival”, and as portrayed by the late Anthony Ainley) also featured the character in a stolen body possessed of a malign influence, as well as bright yellow eyes. While perhaps not an intentional, direct homage, this nonetheless represents a serendipitous and pleasing consistency in the Master’s long, chequered character journey. Furthermore, once fully in control of Bruce’s body, the Master indulges in what all noteworthy Time Lords should, post-regeneration* – a costume change. His new ensemble includes a long, black leather coat with matching gloves, and a pair of designer sunglasses hiding those evil eyes. This outfit has been criticised as an attempt to update and “Americanize” the Master’s look. It absolutely is both of those things, but that’s not to its detriment, and I’d argue the costume is actually consistent with the character and his infamous fashion sense. The buttoned-up leather coat is somewhat evocative of the iconic Mao suit as worn by Roger Delgado when he squared off against Jon Perwee’s Doctor in the ‘70s (or was it the ‘80s?); however, it’s much more patently similar to the black velveteen tunic worn by Ainley in the 1980s. Especially evocative is how Roberts wears the jacket’s collar turned up, cloaking his head in a villainous black shroud and creating a strikingly similar look to Ainley’s in the twentieth anniversary episode “The Five Doctors”, in which he wore a black cape with an upturned collar. Roberts’ black leather gloves also pay subtle homage to Delgado’s incarnation, who was prone to wearing similar garments.
Throughout their entire televised history, a defining characteristic of the Master is a penchant for disguise and a desire to hide their face. While not a full-blown disguise, the Master’s sunglasses in Doctor Who: The Movie represent a continuation of this devious trait, providing a subtle way for the character to disguise their features and thus disguise their intent (much like how the character wore spectacles as part of their disguise in 1971’s “The Daemons”). Indeed, only when the character removes his sunglasses – revealing his true identity – does Chang Lee become beholden to the Master’s will. Taking all the character’s costume choices into consideration, one could reasonably argue that – within the context and fiction of the series – the Master dresses as consistently with his character as possible, given the limited means available to him in San Francisco in 1999. Only when he has access to the Doctor’s TARDIS does the lavish occasion dress make its appearance (even then, the robes are not entirely without precedent – the Master does wear a similar ensemble in the finale of “The Daemons”, which also deals with the character’s pursuit of prolonged life and higher powers).
Eric Roberts’ performance does pay tribute to what came before in one additional way that may represent an uncomfortable truth for certain factions of Doctor Who fandom – the show itself, but particularly the character of the Master, has always embodied a significant element of camp. Both Delgado and Ainley’s interpretations exhibited a penchant for the theatrical (complete with eyeliner), a flair for the dramatic, and relished any chance to don an elaborate – and often entirely unnecessary – costume in order to pull off a needlessly elaborate scheme. Delgado, Ainley, and Roberts’ portrayals also all parade an unhealthy borderline-obsession with the Doctor and gaining control of his body for their own nefarious purposes. Whether Doctor Who fans choose to acknowledge this, it is a defining aspect of the Master’s personality (bolstered by subsequent – and even more unconventional – portrayals by John Simm and Michelle Gomez), and one which Roberts’ performance reinforced fabulously.
Eric Roberts recently returned to the role of the Master for Big Finish Productions, appearing in the audio dramas The Diary of River Song and Doctor Who: Ravenous 4. On social media, calls have been made for Big Finish to “rehabilitate” and “redeem” this incarnation of the character, sadly proving decades-old criticisms persist. On the contrary, Big Finish should instead embrace how very different – and yet, entirely familiar – this version is, and lean into the delightful weirdness of the character and performer. Eric Roberts’ legacy on Doctor Who may very well be surmised by that one infamous line, but that’s not a bad thing at all, and should be celebrated. Roberts paid tribute to what came before, while paving the way for even more eccentric interpretations in the future. Literally, aesthetically, and by sheer strength of performance, Eric Roberts did indeed dress for the occasion – he is the Master.
*The author is aware that, according to the rules of Doctor Who, the Master’s possession of Bruce does not technically constitute a regeneration. Please don’t point that out.
Two radically different artists, legendary hip-hop producer Madlib and 37-year-old Indiana rapper Freddie Gibbs, follow up their critically acclaimed 2014 collaborative project Pináta with Bandana, a project that cements their status as one of the best rap duos working today. Without much of a unifying concept, apart from Gibbs’ signature gangsta bars and Madlib’s delicate celebration of the obscure cultural past, their effortless chemistry becomes the driving force of the album. Gibbs’ consistently impressive flow grounds Madlib’s eclectic beats, as in the hypnotic ‘Crime Pays’ or the soul-infused ‘Freestyle Sh*t’. It’s more musically contained, too, with the notable exception of the abrasive and hard-hitting ‘Flat Tummy Tea’, while the features are fittingly more sparse to allow space for the duo to shine through. Killer Mike offers a memorable hook on ‘Palmolive’, as does Anderson .Paak on the Bollywood-sampling banger ‘Giannis’. ‘Education’, featuring Yasiin Bey and Black Thought of The Roots, explores racial injustice throughout history, from slavery to institutionalisation. The final cut ‘Soul Right’ sees Gibbs growing more mature and introspective: “Mama told me it’d be alright, yeah/ I broke it down and it was all white, yeah/ I pray the Lord to get my soul right.”
Thom Yorke’s third solo album (not including last year’s excellent soundtrack for Suspiria), ANIMA, which is accompanied by a beautiful short film starring Yorke and directed by frequent Jonny Greenwood collaborator Paul Thomas Anderson, is the Radiohead frontman’s best and most fully-fleshed solo effort yet. For the first time, a Thom Yorke album no longer feels like a side project in the same vein as Atoms for Peace. Produced by long-time collaborator Nigel Godrich, ANIMA is the most accomplished expression of Yorke’s eclectic electronic influences, this time seeped into a sea of emotion, unconscious dreams and fears, which give the album a wondrous, and sometimes menacing, quality. It is an album composed of imagistic fragments; rarely does Yorke evoke a clear message, and when he does, it’s usually about the horrors of technology or society at large (‘The Axe’, ‘Not the News’). But the record is at its most profoundly beautiful when it looks inward: reminiscent of ‘Daydreaming’ off of A Moon Shaped Pool, ‘Dawn Chorus’ might as well be one of the most perfect songs Thom Yorke has ever written: “If you could do it all again/ A little fairy dust/ A thousand tiny birds singing/ If you must, you must,” he sings. But there are none of the lush orchestral arrangements that permeated Radiohead’s latest album; instead, Yorke has found his own unique way of approaching this solo project, which feels simple yet intricately layered, but equally complete.
Last week I talked about the recent pattern of rock bands going back to basics. And if this isn’t what The Black Keys are doing with this one, then I don’t know what it is. Let’s Rock is the band’s first album in a decade that is produced by them and not by long-time collaborator Danger Mouse. Recorded in Dan Auberbach’s Nashville studio, the album features a simple arrangement centred around the electric guitar, with only a few female backing vocals here and there. There’s a lot of swagger to the fuzzy guitar licks here, and the tight, pop-infused songwriting leads to high points like ‘Eagle Bird’, ‘Lo/Hi’,
Kim Petras might occupy same mainstream-adjacent space of artists like Charlie XCX and SOPHIE (both artists with whom she has collaborated), who take the pop formula and turn it in on its head with subtle, and sometimes bold, experimentation. But as she makes clear on her debut full-length album, she has nothing but appreciation for unapologetically straightforward pop music. Petras is no big pop star – not yet – but she sure sounds like one, and the songs here are a testament to that. Fans of her abrasive Turn Off the Lights Vol. 1 EP last year might be slightly underwhelmed by Clarity’s more conventional and arguably generic approach – but that’s not to say that it’s not filled with well-crafted and confidently performed pop songs – ‘Personal Hell’ fuses dark new wave synths with a light summery mix, ‘Icy’ is empowering and downright infectious, while ‘Do Me’ is a sultry banger that expertly mixes elements of contemporary experimental pop in a way that’s almost unnoticeable yet incredibly effective. There’s an uneasy cloud hanging over Clarity, as it was produced by Dr. Luke, who was accused of sexual assault by Kesha, and while his production is accommodating and tight in some places, it becomes too safe and commercially-friendly in others (see ‘Got My Number’, ‘Blow it All’). It’s not a perfect or artist-defining debut record – it still feels somewhat constrained – but there’s no denying that Petras can only go up from here.
Portland rock band Summer Cannibals return with a new album following 2016’s Full Of It, their first for legendary punk label Kill Rock Stars. But the entirely self-engineered and produced Can’t Tell Me No sees guitarist/vocalist Jessica Boudreaux exploring a different sonic pallet following a tumultuous personal relationship, somewhere between the alternative rock melodies of Wolf Alice, the defiant energy of riot grrrl, and the raw emotion of grunge. It’s not quite as ferociously energetic as Full of It, which might leave some fans disappointed, but it’s more mature, and the impact less short-lived. There’s the absolutely infectious single ‘Can’t Tell Me No’, which features pretty much everything that makes a great Summer Cannibals track: Boudreaux’s powerful vocal performance, tight riffs, and an excellent bass line. But thankfully, it’s not just the single that delivers: ‘False Alarm’ is reminiscent of Sleater-Kinney while ‘One of Many’ takes a more light-hearted, pop-adjacent approach. The slower-paced experiments ’Behave’, ‘Spin’, and ‘Into Gold’ reach ethereal new heights for the band. If you’re into alternative rock with a punk flair, don’t miss out on this one.
Thom Yorke, ANIMA: Thom Yorke’s third solo album is an accompaniment to the 15-minute short film of the same name directed by Paul Thomas Anderson, who has frequently collaborated with none other than Radiohead guitarist Johnny Greenwood. Produced by Nigel Godrich, the 48-minute album is set to be quite different from Yorke’s piano-led soundtrack for Suspiria, and more akin to the strange electronic sounds the Radiohead frontman has been experimenting with for a while.
The Black Keys, Let’s Rock: The title of The Black Keys’ latest album is straightforward, and so, it seems, are the songs on it. Let’s Rock is the band’s ninth studio album and the first since 2014’s Turn Blue, which saw them experiment with psychedelic and soul music. Employing a stripped back rock n’ roll sound composed of just guitar and drums, it’s the first time in a decade that they’ve made an album without the help of producer Danger Mouse. Drummer Patrick Carney called it “an homage to electric guitar”. Let’s hope it’s a good one.
In some ways, The Raconteurs’ long-awaited follow-up to 2008’s Consolers of the Lonely feels like the exact opposite of Jack White’s latest solo output. His 2018 album Boarding House Reach was his most experimental, and his bandmates here, including singer-songwriter Brendan Benson, seem to be containing some of White’s eccentricity. Nevertheless, their chemistry is palpable and the energy is there, making Help Us Stranger something more than just an exercise in classic rock nostalgia. There are bizarre, electrifying moments like the Led Zeppelin-infused ‘Don’t Bother Me’, memorable hooks (‘Bored and Razed’), and understated yet expressive ballads (‘Only Child’). But more of often than not, Help Us Stranger sounds like run-of-the-mill, uninspired rock music that lacks the band’s usual knack for narrative storytelling and interesting songwriting – to the point that the title of ‘Somedays (I Don’t Feel Like Trying)’ may be more telling than it should be.
Up-and-coming Australian singer-songwriter Hatchie combines the hazy, ethereal sound of shoegaze with the smart pop songwriting of the likes of Carly Rae Jepsen. A follow-up to the Sugar & Spice EP which saw her fully embrace her pop influences, Keepsake blends the two to produce an endlessly engaging dream pop album that benefits from the tight focus and emotional clarity that so many nostalgia-driven dream pop bands today lack. The catchiness of tracks like ‘Obsessed’ is, excuse the pun, something to obsess over, while the earnest, heartfelt lyricism of ‘Stay with Me’ or ‘Without a Blush’ showcases the true, modern heart of the album. These are songs about growing up and discovering yourself (‘Her Own Heart’ would be an excellent accompaniment to a coming-of-age film), being in love and getting lost in it. And this album’s one to get lost in too.
Although Hot Chip has been a band for almost 20 years and its members are pushing 40, they still sound as youthful as ever on A Bath Full of Ecstasy. The synth-pop group once again prove to be one of the most reliable bands in indie dance pop, and their seven full-length album is a danceable, joyful mix of well-produced electronic tunes. There’s the catchy ‘Hungry Child’ and the anthemic opener ‘Melody of Love’ that looks for hope in the darkest moments, while other moments find Hot Chip at their most introspective and surprisingly soulful, like the nostalgia-infused ‘Positive’ and the ethereal ‘Clear Blue Skies’. The album ends just as strong as it starts with ‘No God’, which, in frontman Alexis Taylor’s own words, is “a euphoric song about love for a person rather than God”, and a great one at that. The album may not sound like a bath full of ecstasy, but it sure sounds like a glimmer of hope.
Prolific pop producer Mark Ronson has been around for a while, but he’s been getting more and more attention recently following his smash hit ‘Uptown Funk’ and his contribution to the A Star is Born soundtrack. As a result, his latest solo album is filled with big-name collaborators including Miley Cyrus, Camila Cabello, Alicia Keys, and Lykke Li, but as is to be expected with an effort like this, it risks being a less than a cohesive project. But that’s not the problem with Late Nate Feelings – if anything, it’s an unexpectedly conceptual album about the feelings that come after midnight, when the throbbing beats give themselves away to mid-tempo grooves. Rather, the album often lacks the emotional delivery that would take this to another level, while the production is so polished it almost becomes indistinctive. More importantly, some of the tunes pale in comparison to others, as if in a rushed attempt to stretch an EP’s worth of good pop songs – including the surprising collaboration with Angel Olsen on ‘True Blue’ and the catchy ‘Nothing Breaks Like a Heart’ with Miley Cyrus – into a full-length album.
In the trend of normally adventurous rock artists going back to basics (look no further than the first album on this list), Titus Andronicus return with a new album following last year’s A Productive Cough. It may not sound like it, but at its core, this is the same band that produced ambitious, narratively interesting albums like The Most Lamentable Tragedy. But the band is going for a straightforward, no-bullshit punk-infused rock n’ roll sound this time around. An Obelisk is by no means a bad record – this kind of attitude suits them, after all, especially in contrast to last year’s mellower effort. The energy is there, and fans of classic punk will no doubt find it at the very least enjoyable. But it lacks so much of what defines Titus Andronicus, and very little of it sticks to you after the first few listens.
