MEEK

MEEK is not a work in progress. She is fully formed, earned her stripes, comes from nothing, nepo-baby baiting execution of timeless pop brilliance. While sounding directly descended from the DNA of famed countercultural misfits and bona fide pop aces, all strewn across the decades, her music is a no messing, straight shoot for the top. Georgia Meek understands that people like her only get one chance to make a first impression. Frequently, her songs will open out with a stringent big note, a walloping guitar figure, the best hook in her almanac of songwriter-ly resources. Because they have to. “I’ve never had the option to ask,” she says. “I’ve always had to take. I’ve always had to force my way through closed doors. That’s what shapes my sound. Yes, we will start with a huge vocal note to make people turn around and listen. Yes, I will say in the studio, give me some hair-raising guitar windmills. Let’s do that. You waste thirty seconds and you’ve lost it.”

Alongside Fabulous, there is a whole battalion of one-shot pop genius songwriting magic hidden up MEEK’s sleeve. Songs that intimate the Sparks back catalogue were definitely meant for a shop assistant’s kid from the Home Counties. There is Poor Face, the Common People for a generation of privileged try-hards (“fuck them”). As Gay As It Gets, the long awaited anthemic tribute to the relationship between women and their gay best friends (“a relationship, a love affair really, as old as time, yet not one with a song attached to it? What?”). Or Even The Rich Die Young, a reminder to all the pretty people, well, “that we all look the same in the grave”, she laughs. MEEK’s raucous laugh is about to become a very familiar pop trope. Mordant humour is her thing.  

Yet underneath all this big thinking, high concept, broad talking pop philosophising is a distinct, almost tear-jerking moral issue that should sit comfortably, refreshingly against the societal injustices of a cost-of-living crisis that refuses to disappear. “I don’t think having no money should mean you look plain. I don’t think it means you shouldn’t have access to brilliant entertainment. I don’t think class should dignify expression.” 

The best thing about MEEK? There is a point to her. She is as if the comedy queen, Daisy May Cooper stumbled into a charity shop, found a bunch of glittering second hand couture, dolled herself up shamelessly in it, injected the raw spirit of Freddie Mercury and emerged, Mr Ben style, as a fully-fledged MEGASTAR in the making out of the changing rooms, then lead a troubadour of misfits singing down the high street. There is not what you might call a shortage of self-confidence in MEEK. As she sings herself, on a calling card anthem which is sure to become the earworm of the nation once unleashed upon its airwaves: “I’m so fucking fabulous.”

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