Cheeky and rebellious, the Netherlands’ own brand of ‘ludiek’ zaniness thrived in the 1960s protest era. Now, the New Dutch Naivety movement is bringing it back with songs about chocolate, good transport and no-smoking policies

Imagine a song about the noisy centre of Amsterdam turning magically into chocolate, prompting children to go wild and eat it. The edifice then melts away, once you get the train from Amsterdam Lelylaan to Haarlemmermeer. This is the story of Amsterdam is opeens van chocolade (“Amsterdam is suddenly chocolate”), a song written by the young alt-pop musician, Thor Kissing. It is an example of a cheeky and rebellious aspect of 20th-century Dutch popular culture, ludiek (“playfulness”), which may be on the rise again.

Kissing is a central figure in a new project that tries to capture what ludiek music means in the 21st century: two compilation albums called Nieuwe Nederlandse Naïviteit (“New Dutch Naivety”), promoting a disparate bunch of contemporary alternative Dutch-language pop artists. In October 2024, the first volume was launched in a spartan youth centre in an out-of-the-way Zaandam suburb. Volume two is set for release this March, in “hip” Amsterdam.

Championed by the BBC’s John Peel and signed to Rough Trade, the band were punk when that meant DIY, psychedelia and prog as well as screaming chords. What’s more, they loved Pink Floyd …

Swell Maps were a punk band, but only because that word meant something different when they started making records in 1977. It didn’t mean bands called Knuckleheadz or Gimp Fist; it meant unfettered freedom, curiosity rather than rage. Theirs was a music that wandered off in unexpected directions, where songs barely hung together before falling apart, punctuated by peculiar sounds made by whatever happened to be around. It was psychedelia and it was prog and it was krautrock, every bit as much as it was punk. Most of all, it was DIY.

So Swell Maps’ descendants weren’t the kind to get sleeve tattoos and don leather. They, like Swell Maps, were nerds. Sonic Youth’s Thurston Moore described them as “part of my upbringing”. Stephen Malkmus noted that Pavement formed, more or less, as a tribute to Swell Maps and their kindred spirits Desperate Bicycles. Now add all the bands who have tried or still try to sound like Pavement or Sonic Youth, bands who may never have heard of Swell Maps. That’s how you map the scope of their influence.

Fronting punk and ‘grungegaze’ bands while making dozens of rap albums, Bontana is a great British one-off. He explains why he’s working towards a world of peace

In the weeks after his mother died, Tony Bontana sequestered himself in the apartment that doubles as his studio, located in an office block in Selly Oak, Birmingham. There, he worked on his album L’Humanité, often through the night, tussling with his grief over a symphony of manipulated gospel and quiet-storm loops.

“I remember recording Sittin’ on a Star (Freestyle), unable to get through a verse without crying,” he says today, over a cup of tea in a London cafe. “It was literally all I could do. Writing and performing give me that instant outlet, and it really helped. It’s vital to my survival, to be able to work through these emotions, to talk about them.”

From bold anti-Nazi posters to an acid-drenched take on Jean Cocteau, a new exhibition, curated by writer Philip Hoare, shows how influential the DIY designs of the 70s and 80s became

Half a century ago, the famed New York venue run by a former marine and folk singer was ground zero for the punk and new wave scenes. Now the bands who played there are being celebrated on a 101-track box set

Fifty years ago, a dive bar in New York’s East Village started to attract attention as a new hub for rock music. Initially, this was a whisper conveyed in a handful of small-circulation music magazines. Then, celebrated musicians, record label executives, hip journalists and photographers, followed by the influencers of that era, began making a beeline for 315 Bowery, the home of CBGB.

Inside, an array of young, unknown artists were making music that would change rock’s sound and look, attitude and aesthetic. These outsiders created a template for punk, spoken word, powerpop, new wave, no wave, mutant funk, hardcore and so much more besides.

Dressed in Sunday school apparel and singing exclusively in Dutch, this unorthodox five-piece embrace clinical chaos

From Kapelle, Holland
Recommended if you like Black Midi, King Crimson, YHWH Nailgun
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Tight-fitted in scrimpy Sunday school apparel, Grote Geelstaart – Dutch for great yellowtail fish – make music that’s decidedly less orthodox than appearances suggest. Drums skirmish with frighteningly efficient, jackhammer velocity; synths and guitars buzz and ring like fire alarms; the bass rumbles like a jammed freighter engine. Grote Geelstaart’s clinical chaos goes hand in hand with vocalist/guitarist Luuk Bosma’s primal punk dramaturgy, reminiscent of Nick Cave, James Chance and underrated Dutch punk thespians De Kift. This MO translates wonderfully to Grote Geelstaart’s Zeelandic roots, a place where an intricate network of dykes is built and maintained to keep the unforgiving North Sea at bay: human ingenuity v lawless elements.

He crossed paths with William Burroughs, Terry Gilliam and Spitting Image while whipping up almighty grooves with his band Blurt. Now 82, he’s back on tour – and bracing for a warts-and-all documentary made by his many children

The big bloke in the khaki suit speaks quietly these days. We are nestled in the corner of Ted Milton’s studio above a rehearsal space in Deptford, London, cocooned by record boxes, poetry books, plus a single big, bright suitcase, and I have to nudge the recorder closer to pick up his voice. Milton – a saxophonist, poet, countercultural survivor and one-time avant garde puppeteer – is 82, and uses a couple of sticks to get around, yet he is once again going on the road across Europe with his long-running band Blurt, as well as releasing a new album with his duo the Odes.

Today, he is making record covers destined for the tour merch table with the help of his old woodblock setup. “That orange suitcase?” he points across the desk. “I just bought it.” He booms out a massive laugh, as if to prove he still has the lung power to command a room. “I’m a fetishist about luggage. I know how to survive touring. Haha!”

The president called the ceremony ‘garbage’, but in reality it was a celebration of artists whose commercial success was matched by boundary-pushing boldness

Donald Trump, it seems, did not much enjoy the 2026 Grammys. Shortly after the conclusion of the ceremony’s live broadcast in the US, there he was on Truth Social, calling it “the worst”, “garbage”, “unwatchable” and threatening to sue host Trevor Noah.

Perhaps that was the reaction the Recording Academy wanted. You could, if you wished, divine a certain Maga-baiting intent not just in the decision to give the album of the year award to Bad Bunny – a Puerto Rican who attracted criticism from the Trump administration after he was booked to headline the SuperBowl LX half-time show – but the choice of the Buena Vista Social Club, a Broadway hit based on the 1997 album of the same name featuring veteran Cuban musicians, as the best musical theatre album: the latter two weeks after the New York Times reported that Cubans settled in Florida are being deported in record numbers.

A new book and podcast tell the story of a 1 in 12, a venue that used community and artistic passion as bulwarks against poverty and grim politics. Its founders and key acts recall gigs, plays and pranks on the NME

“Things were getting grim,” says Gary Cavanagh, reflecting on Bradford in the early 1980s. “There was a hell of a lot of unemployment, and people were thrown on the scrap heap.”

Cavanagh was working for Bradford’s claimants union in 1981, helping the city’s poor and unemployed get benefits, when a government report stated that one in 12 dole recipients were defrauding the state. So he and some friends reclaimed this statistic – which they thought was ludicrous – as an identity. “We became the 1 in 12 Club,” he says.

An appetite for self-destruction left Dave Vanian, Captain Sensible and Rat Scabies hugely influential but financially insecure. They’re back with a big show and their first album together since 1995

‘There isn’t one songwriter, and so the flavour of the band is always going to change,” says Dave Vanian, reflecting on 50 years of the group of which he has been the sole constant member, the Damned. “Captain Sensible is a great fan of syrupy pop music and prog and glam rock. So his writing is very poppy, melodic and quite wonderful. My writing is more melodramatic, more theatrical. And Rat Scabies was a mod who really loved bands like the Who. That melting pot would either not work at all, or be an absolute firecracker.” As the history of the Damned attests, it has, on occasion, been both.

There have been three break-ups: in the late 70s, late 80s and early 90s; Sensible and Scabies have had repeated spells out of the band; Scabies only started working with them again in 2022, after 27 years away. “The rift was really between him and Captain,” says Vanian, though at one time or another, it seems as though each of the three principals has been in a relationship-ending rage with one or both of the others.

The pressure to conform in Japanese society made being a punk risky – even before you factor in the flamethrowers. As a new rash of reissues arrives, 80s stalwarts Lip Cream, Death Side and the Nurse recall the thrills and threats

A few short years after punk’s initial shock-and-awe inspired thousands of teenagers to spike their hair and learn three chords, the genre mutated into hardcore: a leaner, meaner and fiercely independent hybrid that would soon be tearing up squats, church halls and dive bars around the world.

Forty-five years on, hardcore is enjoying a moment in the mainstream thanks to bands such as Turnstile, Speed and Knocked Loose. There are hardcore bands on talkshows, in fast-food ads and on $40 T-shirts – all things that the 1980s artists would probably have gobbed at.

Her post-punk trailblazers were a key influence on riot grrrl. Now, after decades working as a lawyer, she is taking the name – though, contentiously, not the rest of the band – back on the road. ‘I haven’t given the best of me yet’, she says

At the height of her music career in the early 1980s, Lesley Woods got accustomed to dealing with irate men. As the singer and guitarist of Au Pairs, the Birmingham post-punk four-piece, she recalls “guys being aggressive purely because you were a woman on stage”. At one show, the band were on the bill with UB40 and the Angelic Upstarts, only the latter didn’t turn up. “So the audience, who were 95% skinheads, were gobbing at us and throwing anything they could get their hands on – which included a bin.” Was she scared? “No, I was bolshie back then. I just went to the front of the stage and said: ‘You missed.’”

After the band split in 1983, Woods hoped her days of dealing with overt misogyny were behind her. But then she retrained and became a lawyer. “When I came to the bar [in the 1990s], women couldn’t even wear trousers. I used to get men saying: ‘What colour knickers are you wearing today, Lesley?’ It’s better now, but back then law was way worse than music in how it treated women.”

The Pretenders bandleader answers your questions on her friendship with Morrissey, her love of Van Gogh and why her cameo on Friends ruined her school run

Wondering if you saw the [music-filled 1996 comedy drama] film Grace of My Heart and whether it influenced your decision to record an album of duets? GiniMarie
I didn’t see the film – Duets Special came about after a conversation with Rufus Wainwright’s husband when I impulsively suggested doing an album with Rufus. Rufus wanted to do Always on My Mind, and I looked at the list of nine other songs I’d sent him and thought: why don’t I ask some other people? Like, Low are one of my all-time favourite bands and when I first met Mimi Parker she immediately seemed like someone I’ve known all my life. I told her I’d done one of their songs with Debbie Harry and she looked at me and said: “Why didn’t you ask me?” I thought: touché, Mimi. I suggested [Cass McCombs’s] County Line but she wasn’t well. I told Mimi I’d wait as long as it takes. Then she died. Alan [Sparhawk, Parker’s husband] sang it instead and it’s absolutely amazing.

The Pretenders covered Morrissey’s Every Day Is Like Sunday and now Duets Special features The First of the Gang to Die. As one of Morrissey’s oldest friends, how often do your conversations reach a philosophical, political or moral impasse? McScootikins
My relationship with him started because we were both vegetarian and he sent me a postcard asking to meet for tea. Thirty-five years ago most of my mates – Linda McCartney and so on – were friends because of vegetarianism. Morrissey does stuff for Peta and he’s an amazing songwriter. A few nights ago I had dinner with a couple of girls he’d worked with. I sent him a picture of the three of us and he immediately sent back a picture of three women from Coronation Street. He’s always true to himself and no, we’ve never reached an impasse.

The Australian rock band are ‘legit now’ with their second album, Glory. They talk about performing while underage, playing with Dave Grohl and the ‘girl band’ label

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“If you want to rock, you’ve gotta break the rules. You’ve gotta get mad at The Man,” a wise man (Jack Black) once said (in School of Rock). And in 2015, four 15-year-olds in Canberra watching the Richard Linklater film at a sleepover decided they wanted to do just that, forming a rock band the morning after that has become one of Australia’s most exciting acts: Teen Jesus and the Jean Teasers – a joke name suggested by one of their uncles that stuck.

The four teenagers had enough punk brio that they were soon being booked to play venues they weren’t old enough to enter unchaperoned. Adults around them would assume they were in their early 20s, when they were actually 16 or 17.

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