War Child Records - HELP(2) Review
A star-studded and cross-generational compilation where political urgency and musical ambition collide, sometimes awkwardly, often beautifully.
Over thirty years after the original Help Album, Help(2) arrives at a moment when music feels particularly powerful again amidst global unrest. The compilation carries the weight of its predecessor but stakes its own claim, bridging generations and offering established artists room to experiment, sometimes successfully, sometimes like they’ve had one too many coffees before the session. It’s a little messy at times, as production slips or loses its pulse and a few tracks slightly miss the mark, but the record thrives on its peaks. These moments of emotional resonance and political bite make it well worth sitting through the occasional lull.
Arctic Monkeys kick things off with ‘Opening Night’, the lead single and obvious headline grabber. A re-recorded demo penned over a decade ago, it’s the band’s first new material since 2022, and it lands with the kind of drive that their more recent work has often missed. Turner’s vocals are smooth and slightly menacing, threading through a sound that recalls Disintegration-era Cure with whispers of Nick Cave. Matt Colton’s percussion propels the song forward, giving it a momentum that feels like Humbug and AM, but updated with a maturity that suggests the band finally remembered how good they actually are. It’s one of the album’s defining moments, serving as proof that big names can still evolve and deliver depth.
‘Flags’ by Damon Albarn, Grian Chatten, and Kae Tempest is lyrical brilliance with a side of “Damon could’ve slept in”. Chatten’s Dublin-infused lyrical wit shines: “Well, I remember the dealers keeping coins in the speakers // Choked up on the chic of having hair like Jesus.” Yet, Albarn’s feature feels like the ticking off of another household name rather than a necessary creative addition, and the track risks drifting in places. However, the child choir brings a sweet harmonic warmth, whilst subtle vocal cameos from Johnny Marr, Jarvis Cocker, Declan McKenna, and members of Black Country, New Road are a nice subtle easter egg for more attentive listeners.
Black Country, New Road’s ‘Strangers’ delivers intricate folk-pop textures, as Beabadoobee’s tender tribute to personal hero Elliott Smith on ‘Say Yes’ highlights her soft, intimate vocals, preserving the original’s delicate melancholy with a sharp sense of reverence. Similarly, The Last Dinner Party’s ‘Let’s Do It Again’ channels Leonard Cohen’s vintage elegance, and Beth Gibbons’ rendition of The Velvet Underground & Nico’s ‘Sunday Morning’ is serene enough to almost make you briefly forget the current state of the world.
Political resonance hits hard with Fontaines D.C. 's ‘Black Boys on Mopeds’. Covering Sinéad O’Connor’s 1990 protest song, the band channels her fearless stance during a time when political activism could get you publicly blacklisted, like her infamous SNL scandal. Lyrics like “These are dangerous days // To say what you feel is to make your own grave” are still chillingly prescient, and the track bridges past and present with a balance of both outrage and artistry. Ezra Collective and Greentea Peng’s ‘Helicopters’ continues this thread, whilst Young Fathers’ ‘Don’t Fight the Young’ delivers a chaotic energy that lives up to its name. By contrast, Geese frontman Cameron Winter’s ‘Warning’ is uncomfortable and inaccessible in a way that ultimately alienates – a shame as the band’s recent meteoric rise made this one of the most anticipated tracks. Sadly, the anxiety-inducing strings and tense production fail to deliver, as its risk-taking approach overshoots its mark. However, indie nerds will still find something to enjoy, as Big Thief’s original ‘Relive, Redie’ is a lovely moment, King Krule’s ‘The 343 Loop’ offers a brief instrumental interlude and Wet Leg’s offering ‘Obvious’ charms.
Pulp’s ‘Begging For Change’ is a full-throttle apex and could double as a motivational chant for surviving the apocalypse. Jarvis Cocker’s original is primal and unrelenting, and the children’s choir, featuring Albarn and Chatten, turns it into an anthem. The cheerleader-style “B-E-G-G-I-N-G” is absurdly catchy, unnervingly insistent, and perfectly embodies the urgency of the cause. Driving guitars and dense production make it feel like the compilation’s heartbeat, and by far its most exciting offering.
Other highlights include Arooj Aftab and Beck’s ‘Lilac Wine’, which honours a frequently covered classic without unnecessary innovation, and Sampha’s ‘Naboo’ brings a gentleness to the record. Bat For Lashes’ ‘Carried My Girl’ and the Anna Calvi-led ‘Sunday Light’ deliver ethereal peaks, the former with sparse production accentuating the tragic empathetic lyric “All our babies / They’re all our babies,” with the latter building to a climactic, wordless vocal ensemble. Wolf Alice frontwoman Ellie Rowsell’s vocals soar here, basking in the ethereal, emotive glory that is found in her band’s own projects.
Olivia Rodrigo’s quietly devastating cover of The Magnetic Fields’ ‘The Book of Love’ closes the record. Her first release since 2023, Rodrigo channels the melancholic ballad sound that made her debut Sour so venerated, evoking the same fragile wistfulness of its chart-toppers ‘Drivers License’ and ‘Traitor’. Soft strings underscore her vocal delivery that seems to teeter on the verge of tears, making the romantic optimism of the song’s lyrics feel bittersweet rather than saccharine. It’s subtle, it’s devastating, and it’s one of the compilation’s most commanding moments.
Taken as a whole, Help(2) proves that charity albums can be more than mere goodwill gestures. Its highs are thrilling, take Arctic Monkeys’ hypnotic drive or Rodrigo’s tear-soaked intimacy, Fontaines D.C. 's political grittiness and Pulp’s euphoric anthem, whilst its occasional drifts and slightly skippable moments never overshadow the record’s heart. Connecting generations and genres with a shared purpose, Help(2) is a worthy and emotionally resonant follow-up to a legendary predecessor.