It is starting to get monotonous, this whole resolution nonsense. Every year we are all faced with the embarrassing task of evaluating our flaws, made to acknowledge our shortcomings, and forced to assess them. And every year we all make promises to ourselves to improve on our discoveries. Yes, I am becoming increasingly aware that with each RLF entry, I am sounding more and more like Mary Alice introducing the latest endeavours of a Desperate Housewives episode. This, however, is a flaw that I choose not to resolve. In fact the thought of sounding like a murdered housewife pervving on her slutty, over sexed OAP neighbours is rather comforting. What I do however intended on improving is this right here - Red Light Fever. And what better way to improve and grow than to observe what I anticipate to make two thousand and twelve, TWO THOUSAND AND TWELVE.
Back in November I thought someone had spat at me from behind my laptop. I soon realised that I had been watching Azealia Banks spitting out her 212 tune on youtube. This girl has a gutter mouth more putrid than Kerry Katona’s lapsing nostrils but a charm more admirable than Lady Di. I may have wanted to scrub myself clean after watching Banks performing her profanities, but approximately 1:46 into the 212 video I knew that 2012 will be the year that “c**t gettin’ eatin’”. 
There is something disgusting about bands that are bound by blood. The Osmond’s make me want to shit on my sisters head. The Nolan’s make me want to shit on my mother’s head. The Coors make me want to shit on my grandmother’s head. There are sometimes exceptions to the rule, and the exception this year are The Staves. Seeing these sisters live for the first time back in 2009 was like discovering the art of masturbation as a prepubescent teenager. I hate drawing comparisons between artists, but imagine if Joni Mitchell and Laura Marling fornicated, The Staves would be their subsequent love child. A lot of folk, a lot harmonies, a lot of hair and a lot of cable knit jumpers.
This year I have promised myself to spread my legs and open my ears to music that doesn’t generally fit my bill. This just so happens to be the case with A$AP Rocky. I know nothing of rap. I know nothing of hip hop. Drake who? What I do know however is that A$AP is a horny nineteen year old Harlem resident whose ‘groupies rush hold them boobies up, in my direction’. Well, isn’t he a lucky boy.
For me, it is always a sorry moment when at an airport looking down at my passport and seeing that my nationality is British and not Swedish. Why is it that one nation were granted the gob of an angel and the face of a cloud. And this just so happens to be the case with Niki and the Dove. Following in the footsteps of their foremothers and fathers, The Knife, this electro duo will undoubtedly continue tO escalate mass appreciation of Swedish music in Britain.I am just about as excited as Tom Cruise on heat to see what these Swedish babes have to offer. Find me a sofa!
Here here two thousand and twelve, here here resolutions!