The year was 1990 and baggy culture had truly taken hold. While the movement saw the indie and dance streams merge, Ride from Oxford cut a furrow down the Shoegaze route. A blazing guitar backdrop with vocals intermittently drowned out and then coming back to the fore defined their sound. Ride had an incredibly cool persona and boasted 2 great songwriters. Mark Gardiner had the choirboy vocals, while Andy Bell (who went on to join Oasis) on guitar provided the ammunition. While their relationship was all things harmonious at the beginning by the time 'Tarantula' was released in 1996 things had soured considerably.

Nowhere's artwork contains a drawing of a cool blue sea with a large swell building. The scene is a good analogy for the goings on throughout the album. 'Seagull' sweeps in with incredible power, a mountainous soundwave of shearing guitars, bass tumbles, backward loops and that unique bi-vocal supplied by Gardiner. When 'Kaleidoscope' carries on the assault it's almost enough to shake your boots. Ride's tact changes considerably over the next 2 tracks. 'In a Different Place' has a subdued momentum and that early nineties guitar trickle that sounds positively historic but cool in a Doors hammond sound sort of way. 'Polar Bear' is still immense, its circular guitar structure a much loved Shoegaze technique. Gardiner sounds ethereal at times and the song's energy is powerful enough to induce cloudbursts.

On side 2 (no cd's in 1990) 'Dreams Burn Down' is a quilt of buzz-saw guitars, a searing sound that will melt your ears and put the fear of God into small household pets. 'Decay' and 'Paralysed' are probably the 2 weakest tracks on the album but are pleasing in there own way. Things improve markedly with 'Vapour Trail', which is nothing less than beautiful. Gorgeous melody and the cleverest guitar strums combine with a drumbeat that jumps out at you. A fitting climax to an album that could take your breath away. When I bought the cassette back in 1990 Nowhere had only 8 tracks but the CD has 11 including the single 'Taste' and 2 of its B-Sides 'Here and Now' and 'Nowhere'. 'Taste' was born in Pop heaven, it has lived there ever since. It can only be heard on the sunniest of days, by the happiest of people in the coolest Joe Bloggs ever. 'Here and Now' is completely of its time and is full of fender rushes suffering a little by being a bit too echo and not enough bunny.

'Nowhere' is not a perfect album by any means but it has a jagged sound and vision that is hard to resist. When you hear it first you'll probably wonder what all the fuzz is about but hang around and it will start to make sense. It is a landmark album from the Shoegaze scene, up there with Slowdive's 'For A Day', Chapterhouse's 'Whirlpool' and My Bloody Valentine's 'Loveless'. KD

Rating: 8/10

More Info: Official
Buy Album: [UK] Nowhere: Remastered [US] Nowhere
Year: 1991

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What do you do when the world forgets to listen to your bands second album. Well, you go about attracting people's attention the only way you know how. First of all you write some sublime tunes and then you invite some superstars of the underground music scene around to help you record it. And that's what Snow Patrol's Gary Lightbody decided to do. Snow Patrol's 'When It's All Over We Still Have to Clear Up' may have had the critics salivating but it hardly set the world alight. A bit of a shame really because songs like 'Ask Me How I Am' were pretty darn special. Lightbody's seized his opportunity at a drunken gig in Glasgow when he approached his mates from some other local bands about the possibility of recording an album together. A positive response had him penning over a dozen songs in lightening quick time. The album was subsequently recorded in the Ca Va studios in Glasgow in 10 days. He and the other 14 artists who collaborated with him became collectively known as the Reindeer Section. 'Y'All Get Scared Now Ya Hear' became one of the unexpected delights of 2001.

'Will You Please Be There For Me' is the terrific opener. Fragile, simple and stripped of electricity Lightbody's vocals sound like they have been recorded in the hull of a submarine. The gentle strumming wouldn't be out of place in Honolulu and as such don't deflect from the intimate wording. 'The Opening Taste' is similarly lavish in its skeletal approach. It has a remarkable hushed beauty and a simple melancholy that is truly haunting. Jonny Quinn of Snow Patrol provides the nervous drumming, scared that his interruptions could somehow deflect from the tunes subtle intricacies. This is surely music to watch the squirrels go by. Gill Mills, a presenter on BBC radio Scotland sings on '12 Hours It Takes Sometimes'. His voice is coarse and the composition has Will Oldham written all over it. Scattered and loose it is frequently touching especially when the piano keys tinkle delicately in the background. 'Deviance' is equally erratic, kind of shambolic but never enough that you lose interest. Failure was never on the cards anyway with Richard Colburn's (Belle & Sebastian) on percussion and Willie Campbell (Astrid) spinning bright chords.

'If There Is I Haven't Found It Yet' is the first real signal of Mogwai's John Cummings significant involvement. It may be lo-fi but there is intensity in the chord progression that smacks of deep rooted rock action. As Gary Lightbody sounds lost and forlorn Eva's Jenny Reeve sweeps in with a consoling violin. Jenny Reeve takes over on vocals on 'Fire Bell', a beautiful ballad that benefits from the most tunesome of keyboard doodles. 'Fire Bell' would be right at home on your collection of the best Gentle Waves songs ever. The fact that it's all over in 2 minutes makes it even more precious. 'If Everything Fell Quiet' has that by now familiar ramshackle rhythm that is infectious. From 'I've Never Understood' on things start to gather momentum. Gareth Russell of Astrid pummels out a bass line while the wheezy guitar sound seems almost neanthrathal when compared to the innocent vocals. Colin Macintyre of the Mull Historical Society duets with Lightbody on 'Raindrop'. The drumming becomes more assured and the distinct riff gives the whole operation an unprecedented groovy feeling. As it turns out 'Raindrop' is only the warm up act for the albums centrepiece 'Sting'. Where the early album basked in it's simplicity, 'Sting' develops into a jangling opera, a multi-faceted beast that is sure to become one of the singles of 2001. Mick Cooke of Belle & Sebastian adds a jaunty trumpet to seal matters.

After this high, the quality temporarily dips on 'Billed As Single', a diluted effort that is a bit of a chore to endure. 'Toute Le Monde' is slightly better and drifts a little closer to the Snow Patrol blueprint of crashing guitars and flailing cymbals. With the brief aside into sonic mayhem dispatched it's left to Arab Strap's Aiden Moffat to restore the generic Reindeer Section sound. 'Nightall' is a perfect vehicle for Moffat's almost lazy patter. The summer breeze instrumentation that shuffles round his warblings is the perfect cocktail. ‘The Day We All Died' comes complete with a flock of pigeons, put there intentionally to mask the singer’s flight of fond farewells. Once again the song's inspiration is simplicity itself and its execution is close to masterful. With some many cooks involved, this particular broth could have failed to catch the imagination. Luckily the myriad of performers go out of their way to give the album a unique blend. 'Y'All Get Scared Now, Ya Hear' is an album of disparate parts that will doubtless enthral everyone who owns it. It provides an intoxicating listen and much credit must go to Lightbody who took a big risk with the project. His risk taking took him close to the precipice, where for once the final straw didn’t come close to breaking the camels back.

Rating: 7/10

More Info: The Reindeer Section
Buy Album: [UK] Y'all Get Scared Now Ya Hear [US] Y'all Get Scared Now, Ya Hear

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After producing something as special 'The Bends', Radiohead really had a task on their hands with the follow up. OK Computer, however, is majestic and proved beyond doubt that they were (at this stage in their careers) incapable of producing anything that was slight and easily forgotten. 'Ok Computer' pays homage in no small part to Douglas Adams' classic sci-fi novel 'The Hitchhikers Guide To The Galaxy'. Read the opening pages and you will note several references that appear throughout this album. In fact why not set up 'Paranoid Android' in the background while you're doing it and perhaps it may all make sense. The book flies at every angle with weird and wonderful ideas highlighting a fertile imagination struggling to control the urge to get all the ideas down on paper, Radiohead simply paint the aural backdrop.

'Ok Computer' opens with the guitar driven glory of 'Airbag', full of atmospherics making its point with the efficiency of a sharpened needle. This mark of greatness continues right through to the sombre candy that is 'Lucky' near the end. In the process Radiohead produce a royal flush at every turn but it is far from an easy listen and unknowing ears could be turned away quite easily. The strength of the albums early moments almost eclipse the quieter moments that creep in as the album progresses. This is by no means an indication of an album running out of steam, it is a band with a full grip on how the listener should be treated. The jewel in the albums crown is undeniably 'Paranoid Android'. This is a two-part masterpiece that sucks you in with its delicate beauty and then when you think you're safe a large burst of chords strangle your peace to create a chaotic frenzy that is almost as attractive. The accompanying video was heartfelt and hard-hitting in a clever understated way. It added nothing to the fog of confusion that the song evoked but that doesn't matter because you know that the digs are been made and the guilty have taken note.

'Subterranean Homesick Alien' is expansive, vast and is musically similar to early Verve movements (go see). 'Climbing up the Walls' is a frightening vision. Thankfully then 'No Surprises' and 'Let Down' resemble Radiohead circa 'The Bends’, which is no bad thing because as simple pop songs they provide a bit of relief from the aural challenges that are thrown out in abundance all over the album. 'Ok Computer' is rock opera of epic proportions. It’s genius remains undimmed to this day, gloriously underlining Radiohead’s worth and proving conclusively that contemporary music still had the power to furrow new and exciting ground.

Rating: 8.5/10

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Anyone can play guitar eh? Anyone it seems except Radiohead. Amnesiac was recorded at the same studio sessions that produced 'Kid A' and in reality, this album is the sorry sequel to that mixed up affair. Where Radiohead could have developed on that tatty mess and produced something more worthwhile they instead opt for an altogether disjointed approach yet again. Sequels should show some progression but inexplicably Radiohead have conjured up a monument to regression. From the word go something is amiss. 'Packt Like Sardines In A Crushd Tin Box' could easily be a cut from a chilled out trance album. Why Radiohead would ever wish to outdo someone like Ferry Corsten is beyond me. Are they simply bored by their musical roots, are they trying to cash in on the dance craze, have they completely lost the plot? So many questions, so few answers.

The reworking of 'Morning Bell' is utterly pointless. Thom Yorke had spoken of a radical departure from the version on 'Kid A' but it sounds pretty much the same. 'Morning Bell' was one of 'Kid A's better moments but hearing it again adds nothing to Amnesiac. The first single 'Pyramid Song' has all necessary paranoia required to make it a winner but it lacks that robotic charm required to leave a lasting impression. It is one of those songs that takes aeons to sink in but watching the video for it certainly boosts its charm. One of the mild successes in an album of wretched failures. 'Pulk/Pull Revolting Doors' is surely the most nondescript pieces of music that Radiohead have ever produced. It is made from an idea that the Boards Of Canada would have quickly discarded. With Thom Yorke sounding like he's swallowed one too many helium filled balloons, it is an unrivalled duck egg. 'You and Whose Army' is slightly better but Yorke again sounds freakish. Without trying to be cruel it could easily be the elephant man on vocals. Matters are not made any better when the piano accompaniment sounds like it has drifted eerily from the back room of Bates Motel.

I remember hearing 'The National Anthem' and all I could hear was a good riff and precious little else. 'I Might Be Wrong' is in the same category. Here the riff is not as encompassing (but I guess at least it's a riff) and the electro beats take from it's listenability. Yorke again plumps for vocals that are close to being hallucinogenically detached. There are sparse moments on 'Amnesiac' that befit the Radiohead of old. 'Dollar and Cents' lives and breaths cruel intentions, the chopping guitars providing a perfect backdrop for Thom Yorke's voice which for once is given license to showcase it's quality. 'Knives Out' is laced with a smooth groove, the underdone but wholesome drumming is joined by an intricate guitar progression and a solemn vocal delivery. Both Ed O’Brien and Jonny Greenwood are largely unemployed throughout the whole of the proceedings. It's the sort of album that could have been created quite easily by a single person in a home studio. 'Like Spinning Plates' for example, has a tune that is playing in reverse. The surreal space noises that float in and out of the mix certainly sound different, but rather than being challenging you get the sense that the whole thing is meaningless rubbish imagined by a recluse who should get out more. 'Like Spinning Plates' could have sounded better if that little thing called melody had been introduced.

'Hunting Bears' is the sound of a lone guitar and some shards of bass slowly concocting a Ry Cooder studio jam. It's not too bad but then again put in the context of this album it is entirely worthless. 'Life In A Glasshouse' closes the album. A hybrid jazz funk piece with a skewed trumpet coursing through its veins it is not particularly interesting unless you're into that sort of thing. A pretty mess is the closest one could get to describing it. As it and the album peters out the pain of disappointment is hard to dispel. I'm all for innovation but in Radiohead's case they seem to have totally forgotten what made them so incredibly special in the first place (hence the title?). With a genuine tear in my eye, 'Amnesiac' gets the thumbs down. The lyrics 'Oh no Pop is dead, long live Pop' now seem truly apt.

Rating: 5/10

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Devoid of Ok Computer's intricacy, lacking the killer hooks that so propelled 'The Bends', Pablo Honey still resembles a veritable treasure throve of lost gems. Packed in sardine-like the tunes straightforward approach create a dizzy aural feast. It was Radiohead’s first long player and it introduced a band with the craft to write perfect pop songs. Forget the fact that there were more cerebral Radiohead packages on the way; just feel the noise. The album wakes up with a cranky 'You'. It's more than a little spirited with Thom Yorke's vitriol contrasting with the ever so twinkly guitars shards. There are fractured glimpses of something more complicated on 'Anyone Can Play Guitar' that directly spits in the face of most of the other simpler, more accessible tracks on the album. Yorke's vocals are at times a little ropy (is that John Lydon on How Do You?). He was still in the process of honing one of the most distinctive voices in modern rock but his grip on what it took to create sublime guitar/vocal nuances is touching. If ‘Stop Whispering’ does not blow you away you need to return to the Blade Runner set. Hushed vocals, struggling to stay afloat on sea of shimmering guitars, somehow rising phoenix-like to a point where you can almost hear the tears cascading down the singers face.

The next track 'Thinking About You' just bleets sadness, the acoustic interfacing with that natural human spirit riding in on Yorke's heart breaking words. The melody is open, inviting and devoid of the intricacies that would later propel the band. Play this song to a young child, as a Montessori building block to the later challenges that lie ahead in the discovery of this most important bands music. 'Creep' could have easily become a heavy shackle around Radiohead's ambition because of the ferocity with which it shoved them into the glare of U.S. interest. It is special of course, but Radiohead's ability saw them break free from an audience baying for its loser charm. Radiohead had it in their power to offer greater canvasses of sound.

Radiohead's direct approach doesn't always find its target with the result that one of two cringeworthy moments pop in from time to time. 'Ripchord' and 'How Do You' are complete fodder that take a simple half idea and turn it into something with much less cop. 'Pablo Honey's true heart lies in the triumvirate of tracks that make up the latter stages of the album. 'Prove Yourself' is several layers of simple riffs, rolled over by an angst ridden Thom Yorke whose lyrics resemble a contemporary's over Seattle way. Thankfully Yorke's words were an effective valve as opposed to a declaration of intention. 'I Can't' has astonishing intensity, like a beleaguered man searching for some worth, it somehow raises its own stakes to succeed against the odds. Of course, the searing, jangling guitars add able support but the vocals are at the same time underachieving and powerful. 'Lurgee' has that alarming quality coming forth at will. Decidedly more lo-fi but no less affecting, the 3 minutes it fills are among the most beautiful you'll ever hear. 'Pablo Honey' is a frighteningly good album with strong songs popping out at its strained seams. It works as a superb antidote to the bands more electronic noodlings that require a lot more patience and an almost forensic approach to discovering what was intended. This is Radiohead telling you how it is, master storytellers with the best soundtrack colouring in the already vivid scenes.

Rating: 8/10

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With enough good material to surpass most compilation albums Screamadelica redefined these Glaswegian rascals and in the process became one of the seminal albums of the 1990’s. It’s one of those all encompassing albums that takes in strands as diverse as dance, rock and dub and blends them into a heady mix that titillates every time. As one of the tunes so eloquently puts it, as you listen you must not fight it, just feel it. Fronted by the elegantly wasted waif Bobby Gillespie Primal Scream certainly had the creative spark to mark them out from the crowd but lacked the nuance to communicate their ideas. So when they recruited producer Andrew Weatherall the alchemy that up to that point had eluded them poured forth like a monsoon. Within the space of 12 blissed out classics Primal Scream transformed from indie upstarts to genre defining dance gurus. Weatherall’s steady hand is stamped over three quarters of the album, for the rest Primal Scream delightfully revert to type.

Things get off to an energetic start on ‘Movin’on Up’, as Bobby screams ‘I was blind, now I can see’ you get the feeling that this may be the beginning of something a bit different. ‘Movin’on Up’ bleeds the sound of the Stones, with an unfiltered energy percolating through every octave. Within the blink of an eye, the band completely change tact. It’s as if the drugs were finally starting to kick in. ‘Slip Inside This House’ is the Happy Mondays with trademark lazy vocal delivery over a bulging beat. With your headphones on it almost feels like your head is about to spontaneously combust. The requisite piano riff was a nod to the dance scene at the time where no production was complete without a trip to the ivories. Taken from the same template but with several tablespoons of acid thrown in for good measure ‘Don’t Fight It, Feel It’ is a chariot ride through the Hacienda. Denise Johnson takes the helm as the motley crew of whistles, drum machines and several hundred cosmic sounds from Jupiter combine to spring clean a path through your cranium. It never fails to light the fire at any party. After that electric trip comes that very rare beast, the glorious comedown. ‘Higher Than The Sun’ has been remixed, spliced and reinvented many times but the results generally come knocking on the originals door. This is what those nudies would have bathed in had Woodstock occurred in a particularly dry spell. Finding a piece to outdo ‘Higher Than The Sun’s complete ascent into altitudes normally frequented by kites would be an onerous task were it not for ‘Inner Flight’ and its spaced out demeanour forever finding unique ways to colour your imagination.

‘Come Together’ remains Primal Scream’s greatest gift to us. Over 10 minutes Malcolm X tries to get his words in edgeways over some of the sweetest processed beats this side of a kilo of sugar. This is an album worth of sounds by itself, a true original that so often meant that Primal Screams shows resembled quasi-religious experiences. As Malcolm holds hands with Denise Johnson’s 32 ‘Come Together’s it’s as if no other piece of music will ever reach this sonic exuberance. If that wasn’t enough Andrew Weatherall turns the raw materials that was the Scream’s single ‘I’m Losing More Than I Ever Had’ into a fully functioning dance classic. At this point the album changes tact as lush valleys of sound replace mountains peak highs. ‘Damaged’ reintroduces the guitar into proceedings, as a backdrop to Gillespies plundering of his own emotions. It’s a case of steadying the ship before we flashback to the enormous rushes of before. ‘I’m Coming Down’ is almost self explanatory save to say that the lazy brass interludes drift so perfectly into the mix it seems that the ensemble at this point were incapable of putting a foot wrong. To ram the point home ‘Higher Than The Sun’ is given a second airing but this time it comes as a dub symphony in two parts. Jah Wobble furnishes a pummelling bass line and Bobby supplies a voice riding a pirouetting feather. For 7 minutes you’re likely to lose the plot but rereads always reward in the most unexpected of ways. Before you snap out of the carnival of sound ‘Shine Like Stars’ perfectly tags the preceding contents with the neatest of endings.

Perhaps in flying so close to perfection Primal Scream burnt themselves out as the follow-up 'Give Out But Don't Give Up' was an unmitigated disaster as they returned to their rocky roots. Over time the band have made up good ground but the sustained beauty of Screamadelica has yet to be eclipsed. The unadulterated joie-de-vivre that pours forth from the albums grooves is the sound of one of the best albums ever produced. This is a piece of work that ebbs and flows with an intoxicated glee. You’ll slouch, you’ll groove, you’ll shake and finally, in true Gillespie style, you’ll make like a flapping penguin. It’s one of those rare treats that never grows tiresome, it’ll be something to play to your kids to have them retracting those cruel ‘has been’ taunts.

Rating: 9.5/10

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Sometimes a song hits you square between the eyes. The sound is enough to stop you in your tracks; enough to have you pressing your ear against the radio to ensure you catch the name of the band, enough to have you sending cash in unsealed envelopes to Fat Cat executives in the vain hope that a certain limited e.p would make the return journey. When 'Summer Babe' found it's way into my heart, the craving was near unsustainable. It’s lo-fi ebb sat well with a newly post-graduated ambition not to fall into the 9 to 5 trap. Here was a song that was so laid-back and melodious you can almost see it hanging in the air. Who cares about clocking on when there‘s an ice babe to entertain?

Fast-forward to 1994 and the release of Pavement’s second album Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain. At this stage Stephen Malkmus and Scott Kannberg writing partnership had matured to somewhat iron the kinks and outrageous detours of their gloriously ramshackle debut ‘Slanted & Enchanted’. Not that any of the charm was lost; this progression meant the wholesome ideas that were once buried in a fog of musical sketches now came to the fore as grand masterpieces. As ever the playing is akin to a band of genius insomniacs, cajoling the noise from their instruments, nothing is hurried and the hopelessly beautiful music comes forth at will. Pavement created tunes where the essence wasn’t confined to the chorus, you often have to sit through the lot before you’re appetite was slaked. ‘Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain’ succeeds in the consistency with which it throws out winning ideas. At least half the album is made up of classic pop songs. Like 'Gold Soundz’, which is perhaps Pavement’s defining moment. As infectious as ebola and twice as incurable it is one the sweetest things to emerge from the 1990’s. Steve Malkmus’ eternally youthful exuberance goes into overdrive, his lyrics are dispassionately lovely (‘So drunk in the August sun, And you’re the kind of girl I like, Because you’re empty and I’m empty, And you can never quarantine the past’) and in the midst of all this the guitars tumble over each other in an ever-increasing pool of redolence.

While his songs may come across as inoffensively as a Sky News presenter, Steve Malkmus is well able to pen the odd poison lyric. The countrified breath of ‘Range Life’ ambles along as only piano keys, gently tugged strings and hushed percussion can. Before you know it, the Smashing Pumpkins and the Stone Temple Pilots are singled out for some old fashioned bare knuckled bile. For the most part, however, ‘Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain’ is a joyful romp. I mean 'Cut Your Hair' is like a mint in a hangover induced mouth, all melodic chords and refreshing vocals. This album has so many hip shaking raptures it's futile to pick out holes. 'Elevate Me Later' has such a lazy drumroll it could send infants within earshot to sleep. The slow tempered guitar progression is ably conjoined with Malkmus’ stoned delivery and several perfectly sequined la’s and ah’s. Similarly, 'Unfair' is dedicated throwaway pop, a mosh-friendly stomper that devours rickety timber floors. A potential template for all bands looking to be asymmetrical. Surely it must end there you think, but tracks like ‘Silent Kit’ and 'Heaven is a Truck' are so flagrantly effortless you'll down tools and sway like a coconut tree on a balmy Caribbean eve.

There are nods to the early days when the thrills didn’t come so easy. ‘Hit The Plane Down’ has Mark E Smith’s influence all over it, dirty chords and the general feeling that it should have landed somewhere else. ‘Fillmore Jive’ is detached, aloof and flagrantly in need of some shuteye. And they even find time to slip in a Jazz mood piece ‘5-4=Unity’. Despite these interludes ‘Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain’ is fabulously tangible, a rare populist excursion. While there’s no doubt that Pavement could have engineered a successful formula for mass appeal they were consistently led by their inner voices. ‘Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain’ was the closest they got to progressing beyond the wings. The promo for ‘Cut Your Hair’ got extended airplay on MTV and for a time it seemed as if all the great forgotten bands of yesteryear had at last found a champion. This is a no less an important album than, say, Nevermind or Screamadelica. History will, no doubt, revisit ‘Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain’ and it will rightfully be revered by a different generation.

Rating: 9/10

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The Hartnoll’s used to be punks and once in a while they drop their guard to reveal the anger that so beautifully propelled that movement. With a vast electronic discography behind them you'd have thought that their rebellious side might have diminished. Listening to the Altogether however, it is obvious that there is still a big fire burning in their collective bellies. Take the album's opener 'Tension' as an example. Painting a fraught picture of bleak landscapes, the tunes driving beat careers out of control while the nondescript harsh vocal splices emits skinhead anger. While this may all sound quite interesting the reality is that 'Tension' leaves the listener somewhat detached and cold. Perhaps this was the intention because the next track 'Funny Break (One Is Enough)' is much more amiable. Ok, it may clatter along like an alley with too many trashcans but everything is glued wonderfully together by Naomi Bedford's feisty vocals that intermittedly descend from the heavens.

'Tootled' is rather disappointing. As skeletal as the skulls on the album's cover, it just about gathers the bare essentials without ever coming close to being inventive. Like 'Tension' there is a sinister undercurrent that is periodically exposed when the raging vocal vents its spleen. The song is apparently Orbital's homage to US metal band Tool with whom they've toured with. Thankfully 'Oi!' is a bit more meaty. The heavy bass like riff sets the scene and the assorted bleeps and cackles add generous spicy accompaniments. Nothing groundbreaking but groovy all the same with a minute Ian Dury sample thrown in for good measure. Midway through the album the quality quotient is bolstered by the impressive 'Doctor ?'. Perfectly evoking the aura of space travel it is the pillar in an album desperately seeking a tune that reaches for the stars. 'The Altogether' too often drags it's heels but 'Doctor ?' sounds genuinely exciting. Pity then that the best tune on the album is in fact a cover of the Doctor Who? series theme. 'Last Thing' takes the traditional Orbital template of big beats being swallowed whole by bursting rhythms and augmenting it with some beautifully serene female vocals. One can only marvel at how swell this would sound on stage. 'Shadows' is the sound of an adventure taking place in some underwater plankton forest, the frolicking chimes just bubble nicely along with playful keyboard waves adding a degree of mystique.

If 'Waving Not Drowning' was released as a single it could become the weirdest summer anthem ever. It has a huge dance potential and a skewed trippy beat that is positively intoxicating. Imagine the wackiest piece of Irish music you've ever heard put through a Hammond and you'll get the idea. 'Pay Per View' is pedestrian and limp, lounge music for people who couldn't care less. Things get even worse when 'Illuminate' rears it's nostalgic head. Sounding like a latter day Giorgio Morodor track with realistic MOR leanings it seems totally out of context. The ubiquitous David Gray (the Hartnolls brother-in-law!) provides the vocals and sadly the tune is forgotten as soon as it fades out.

Orbital have a glorious history of closing off their albums with an epic number ('Attached', 'Belfast' and 'Out There Somewhere' being prime examples). This perhaps applies a greater sheen to their long players than they truly deserve but who cares when climax's like these are so perfect. 'Meltdown' is the latest instalment but unfortunately the X factor is missing. Normally the disparate parts seamlessly gel to beguile the listener. On 'Meltdown' there is so much going on it is hard to stitch the piece together. So in the end it all gets a little raggle taggle leading to a confusing rather than a joyous listen. 'Meltdown' is not without its moments though. The computer keypad beats are wonderful and the last 2 and a half minutes contain some dazzling digital beats. 'The Altogether' is never more than a satisfactory listen. It needs one or two more genuinely thrilling tracks to make it memorable. It's just a case of the Hartnoll Brothers standing still when what the world needs is that unrestrained masterpiece they have threatened to produce for almost a decade. So with precious little progression and a lack of tunes that really cut the mustard 'The Altogether' ends up being a minor disappointment.

Rating: 6/10

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Orbital are true originals. The album's they create suggest a bigger talent than is obvious on their single releases. For over a decade they grabbed dance music by the neck and gave it the 3rd degree in how proceedings should be run effectively. To a large extent they cajoled previously disinterested individuals into believing that with a bit of imagination, anything is possible, even within the realms of a genre prone to large-scale anonymity. Snivilisation is wrapped in a grey cover with an oh so clumsy animation that hides the fact that on the inside the music is anything but. It’s hard to beat 'Forever' as an opener, flitting as it does between cool keyboard strokes and fluid spacey noises. It seems ready-made for its creators, the Hartnoll brothers, whose on stage persona of bobbing heads while tweaking instructions through banks of technology would have sat easily on Hal’s musical memory banks.

'Sad But True' best represents an industrial dance scene that has disappeared without trace but was quite prominent in the early to mid-nineties. This movement didn’t offer an awful lot but 'Sad But True' is a little reminder that it had some worth. 'Crash And Carry' is the token jumped up techno track with obligatory jungle sounding motif. Not too clever but a nice change of momentum for the album all the same. 'Science Friction' is a lot more pleasing. A delicate key arrangement tinkles in the background as a bumbling but plush synth movement carries the tune forward with gusto. 'Kein Trink Wasser' opens up with a piano hailstorm but changes tact, adopting a neat electro spin that sounds delicious before returning to its roots near the end. It is one of the few tracks on Snivilisation that is instantly accessible.

The convoluted vocals are the first thing that makes you sit up and take notice on 'Are We Here'. You might be asking the same question after sitting through its full 15 minutes duration. This is a mite excessive but when the song's power overwhelms you, it may not even seem adequate. At first 'Are We Here' conjures up scenes of slowed down cavalries of marauding robots, pillaging the land while we cower in underground bunkers. The beat that drives it has a trashcan type rumble. About half way in things go supernova as the super light gravity-defying chime dangles great slices of inventive rhythms. The scene changes as the steel carcasses we've slain are used to weld spectacular buildings that are surrounded by newly developed green belts.

The funny thing about Orbital is that tend to leave the best track on their albums until the end. At least that was the case on 'Insides' where the technocolour of 'Out There Somewhere' appeared. And who could forget the beauty of 'Belfast' so eloquently appearing at the end of 'Orbital 1'. So, somewhat on cue 'Attached' closes Snivilisation with glorious splendour. It a towering inferno of a tune resembling something sent back from an advanced race of people thriving in outer space. 'Attached' spits out laser guided blocks of sound while an electric derived choir shapes the tunes beautifully formed contours. It demonstrates the Hartnoll's ability to somehow shatter their own universally high standards. ‘Attached' raises the stakes on an album that may have suffered a little without its ability to put a perfect seal on proceedings.

Orbital are one of the purest purveyors of intelligent dance beats. Snivilisation will never have you shaking your body uncontrollably; a mature salsa romp is a more likely outcome. At times you may feel cheated by its complicated stand but there is so much to enjoy once you've become familiar with its subtleties. Snivilisation was made possible by technology but made wonderful by a very human inventiveness.

Rating: 7.5/10

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Who would have ever thought that an album of acoustic Nirvana songs would work? The release of this album in the wake of Kurt Cobain's suicide no doubt boosted sales but it proved without doubt the inherent power of Nirvana's music. It also highlighted how gifted they were in interpreting other peoples music. It's hard to shift the image of Cobain crouched on that stool in the middle of a stage littered with flowers. A captive audience sitting doe-eyed on the floor in front of him. Compare this scene with the uproarious video for 'Smells Like Teen Spirit' and you see that by the unplugged album Nirvana had come full circle. By November 1993 Nirvana were the complete band even though Kurt Cobain's inner turmoil would overhaul him within 6 months.

Normally the very notion of an unplugged album makes me nauseous. It just conjures up images of that old goat Billy Joel on his piano, crooning through a back catalogue that should have been put out to pasture decades before. This album is different; even though it is recorded without much wattage the performance is dare I say it, electric. You can almost feel the enthusiasm from the crowd who knew they were witnessing history in the making. Kurt Cobain voice sounds particularly gravely on the stunning opener, 'About A Girl' from the ‘Bleach’ album. The spaghetti strand drumming of Dave Grohl bolsters the constant chord changes. 'Come As You Are' holds on to its distinctive guitar twang even in its stripped down state and Cobain's vocals are as robust as ever. 'Jesus Doesn't Want Me For A Sunbeam' has some wonderful accordion playing from Krist Novoselic and Cobain voice sounds incredibly vulnerable. The lyrics are sadly prophetic and the song is an apt lament for music's great loss. In an album of touching moments, pride of place must go to final track 'Where Did You Sleep Last Night'. Music as heartbreaking as this is rare, so handle the experience with care.

On occasions the unplugged versions outdo their studio relations. 'Dumb' is bolstered by a wonderful cello arrangement and has a more wholesome sound than what appears on the million seller ‘In Utero’’. 'Polly' was an obvious choice seeing as it was already semi-acoustic but hearing it untutored, open to Cobain's mood on the day, is a joy. Not knowing the original version of 'The Man Who Sold The World' by David Bowie, before Nirvana did a take on it, was an advantage. I wasn't tainted by expectation and that powerful chord riff quickly won me over. Who cares if it contravenes the unplugged rulebook, this is one of the greatest reworkings of all time. Cobain rarely falters throughout the performance. He does struggle to get to grips with the vocal strains of 'On A Plain' at first but recovers admirably. His humour is very much in evidence highlighting the comfort he took from performing even when he was experiencing excruciating stomach pains. 'All Apologies' is the only track that lacks a killer edge. The version on 'In Utero' is one of Nirvana's crowning moments but here it sounds a tad tired. Nirvana perform 3 songs from the Meat Puppets 'Oh Me', 'Plateau' and 'Lake of Fire'. To add a taste of authenticity Curt Kirkwood from the Meat Puppets plays guitar on all 3 tracks. Each song seamlessly fits in with the unplugged notion. 'Lake of Fire' is particularly impressive, Cobain adopts a croaking southern drawl and the chugging guitar makes a delightful accompaniment.

The production on the album is exemplary partly due to Nirvana's intoxicating performance. There is the odd amplifier whistle and once or twice Cobain sings too closely into the mike but overall it is astonishing to think that the album was recorded in a single take. Listening now one could almost be transported back to that seminal evening. Unplugged in New York is a tonic for those interested in getting to know this bands music without having to struggle with the complexities of their studio albums. The album gives you the nuts and bolts, the melody without the white noise, a revealing insight into workings of some modern day classics. The fact that most bands would wither under such a difficult spotlight acts as a true testament to Nirvana's legend.

Rating: 9/10

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The genre defining Nevermind clearly set out the blueprint for grunge. Containing the epic 'Smells Like Teen Spirit' it capitulated lead singer Kurt Cobain into the spotlight and cast him as the quasi spokesman for Generation X. Cobain who suffered from excruciating stomach pains was a tortured soul unprepared for the baggage that the success of ‘Nevermind’ threw his way. Nirvana created a huge live presence; various members often left the stage bloodstained and instrument less. Pent up anger and adrenaline fuelled energy meant that no guitar, no matter how expensive, stood a chance. Nirvana were a product of disaffected youth entering the real world with no prospects. That is not to say that the band were all doom and gloom, 'In Bloom' had a very clever video with Nirvana's three members decked out in not so perfect hairstyles and ‘Nevermind’ itself had a cover design that intelligently punched capitalist America in the ribs.

Butch Vig (who went on to form Garbage) produced this album on the David Geffen record label giving it a fulsome sound without detracting from the aggressive playing. His enthusiam and willingness to experiment (witness the Cobain’s multilayered vocals on Teen Spirit) meant that Nirvana's creative force could be uniquely harnessed. ‘Nevermind’ is characterised by expansive guitar riffs and many of the tracks have Cobain’s strained vocal struggling to be heard above the glorious din. Never is this more evident than on 'Territorial Pissings' where Cobain literally tears his vocal chords such is the ferocity of the performance. The album also has its quiet moments; 'Polly' and 'Something in the Way' serve to prove why the 'Nirvana Unplugged In New York' album would work a treat. Both tracks lack the glorious bombast of earlier tracks but what they lack in volume they more than make up in their bleak messages. But, it will be the giant buzzsaw guitar sound that Nirvana will be remembered for. 'Drain You' is a gleaming diamond of a tune with a chord change to die for. 'Come As You Are' is in the same mould as 'Smells Like Teen Spirit' but its underlying theme of gun culture was tragically prophetic. 'Nevermind' is a bona fide classic and a searing testament to a unique talent.

Rating: 9/10

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You might feel a little sorry for The National. A few weeks back, they were supported by Clap Your Hands Say Yeah for a gig in their adopted home borough of Brooklyn. What happens? A chunk of the hipster crowd catches the latest indie child stars and leaves before The National come on stage. Not that the band seem to mind being upstaged by their cutesy baby brother, mind. They even took on Clap Your Hands in a soccer game during the bands' joint US tour. The National won 7-5.

Man of the match was Bryan Devendorf, The National's goalie and drummer, and he gives another star performance on the band's third album, 'Alligator'. His technical proficiency is impressive, but what grabs your attention is how the beat is suggestive of the mood of several songs: shuffly on 'Secret Meeting', chuggy on 'Friend of Mine', strutty on 'All The Wine', at least according to my scribbled first impressions. The other identifying characteristic of the band's sound is Matt Berninger's baritone, which imbues Alligator with a vespertine air, one that verges on the nocturnal on tracks like 'Daughter Of The Soho Riots', a melancholic narrative that floats on the pitter-patter of drums.

Stylistically Berninger shares a thing or two with Jeff 'I am an American aquarium drinker' Tweedy of Wilco and Kurt 'I've swallowed beer like a cartoon' Wagner of Lambchop. They each seem to spin songs from ragball loose threads, from peculiar turns of phrase, and to deliver them with a drawl, all laconic and world-weary. Berninger can drop lines of impeccable cool, like when he asks on opener 'Secret Meeting', 'Didn't anybody tell you how to gracefully disappear in a room?', though he is equally capable of some maddening blather. To wit, on 'All The Wine': 'I'm a birthday candle in a circle of black girls.' Sure you are. Still, why worry when the best moment of the album follows: the harmonies at the 'I'm so sorry...' bit that tee up a convoy of dirty chords.

Indeed, there are shades of Lambchop on 'Secret Meeting', with the lead guitar on overdrive and yet hovering below the intrusion line, alongside the background shouts and tingling strums, and there are hints of Wilco on the excellent 'Karen', with its piano and cello cycling through a soothing chord structure. On 'Abel' and 'Mr. November' The National rattle with a furious bluster, but the band sound more intriguing on 'Friend of Mine', the violins and guitars shivery, jittery and jangling, fraught with nervous tension like an Interpol tune. Take an extra listen to 'City Middle', a low-key highlight, rocking back and forth along random, common lamp-lit streets, a slow-burner that works up deep warmth.

The National may sound too staid and straightforward to be picked up on everyone's radar; they don't deploy gimmickry and they won't herald a new wave of copyists. It may be days or weeks later that they get to you, snagging you with an insistent melody or an itchy lyric. Take 'The Geese of Beverly Road', and the sleepy backdrop of clarinet and cello, against which the cymbals suddenly lash in with the susurrus of falling rain. The band offer us some respite. The downpour ceases at the chorus, and harmonies break through the clouds, the sky lit up with a big slice of lemon. And so, as the evenings become dark and impossibly cold, I'm going to retreat indoors, swoosh the curtains and stick on 'Alligator'. See you later.

Rating: 7/10

Tony Kelleher

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Don't let their name put you off. If you've imagined leather-clad hair balls shouting from the top of their lungs over a sprawl of loud and aimless guitars motions then you you'd be wrong. My Vitriol have a much clearer agenda; at their best they can create clean harmonious vocals with clever guitar accompaniments. The band was formed when Som Wardner and Ravi Kesavaram met at college in London in the late nineties and their music owes a lot to the sound of the early part of that decade. 'Alpha Ways' is the enjoyable instrumental that opens Finelines, the bands debut album. It could easily be an outtake from the Cure's 'Disintegration' sessions with a shimmering guitar at its core that is both feisty and appealing. As well as having a great title 'The Gentle Art Of Choking' possesses lots of interesting sonic avenues. There is an unbridled feel to the guitar directions and the ragged vocal tendencies merely add to its ragged glory. Other tracks like 'Static' and 'Losing Touch' bluster like a gale but the dust that frequently flies about is a golden colour.

When My Vitriol hit the jackpot they uncover a rich, almost endless seam of ideas. 'Grounded' is close to being the perfect pop song. Things start off innocuously enough in a sub jam type refrain, but then the cleanest of guitar cuts washes over vocals as fresh and untouched as falling snow. 'Always Your Way' was the perfect choice for release as a single. It exposes My Vitriol breathlessly following their own instincts with dramatic effect. 'Always Your Way' is furious in its pursuit of perfection, the guitar tomes are heavenly and the chorus is sweetly addictive. It's a shame that the band didn't follow this lead more consistently throughout the album. That early nineties feeling is alive and well on 'Pieces' (which lasts a meagre 19 seconds) and 'Kohlstream'. They both resemble the Cocteau Twins frazzled sound minus the eternal vocals. Striking from the same persuasion 'Under The Wheels' and 'Windows and Walls' inhabit unadulterated shoegaze territory. Initially they sound well past their sell-by-date, but repeated listens does pull you closer to falling for their unrequited beating hearts.

Unfortunately the album falls down badly on occasions. C.O.R. (Critic Oriented Rock) may have been written with an ironic shirt but it is music with so many creases, not even an industrial iron could sort it out. 'Taprobane' is so forgettable; it forgets to include a tune. The aptly title 'Cemented Shoes' plods along failing to twig any sort of reaction from the listener. 'Infantile' is less disappointing, those whispered vocals are an embarrassing mistake but at least the spiralling chorus is quite uplifting. A knowing, limited cull could have prevented these three non-runners. My Vitriol are definitely worth investigating. There's nothing revolutionary on show but they are capable of producing a deep fried indie noise. 'Finelines' is three-quarters a very good debut. With 16 tracks it would have been easy to separate the wheat from the chaff and still be left with enough to chew on. It's up to you to choose which course you skip.

Rating: 5.5/10

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Loveless is an album beyond compare. Layered with as much precision as a 18th century petticoat, its profound influence has crafted the musical direction of countless bands. The sound is staggering in its intensity yet its the underlying subtle melodies that marks it out from the crowd. Loveless resembles a wild stallion, unfettered but still magnificent. It is only when you have tamed the sound that the true genius appears through the fog. The fact that Kevin Shields spent several months trying to perfect its lush sound, almost going mad in the process can only be for the worlds benefit. Nowadays he occasionally slums it on stage with Primal Scream. Colm O'Ciosoig (drums) is now a Warm Invention with Hope Sandoval of Mazzy Star fame.

While a lot of the tracks on Loveless do employ a vocal, it is buried so deep in the mix that a lot of the time it takes quite an effort to pick it out. The heavenly sounding Belinda Butcher provides the voice alternatively with Shields. Opening track 'Only Shallow' may resemble the crunching noise of industrial machines processing at full throttle initially but My Bloody Valentines greatest trick is to follow this up with a streamlined blanket of lush vocals and exquisite guitar meshes. 'Touched' is upsetting in a Banshee wail type of way. That's why 'To Here Knows When' is almost spiritually uplifting. It contains a faint glimmer of a female vocal encased in the most delicate guitar string stretch. To here this sound directly after an episode of Coronation Street might induce several heart attacks but in this context it resembles a cool strawberry milk-shake on a secluded beach. Then 'Blown a Wish' with its warped vinyl tendencies conjures imaginary feathers falling from the sky that allow your aural cavities to wallow in splendid comfort. Majestic doesn't get more regal than this.

Listening to Loveless is more often than not a moving experience. I have witnessed several dedicated non-followers of challenging music sit up, take note and comment positively on its extraordinary sound. 'Sometimes' a single lifted from the album is about as close as you will get to straightforward pop. Its understated nature is more affecting than is legal, watch as your metabolism slows to match the laid-back guitar strumming and quashed organic sounds. My Bloody Valentine sometimes get lumped in with the shoegazing pack and while that scene is fondly remembered by many, Loveless remains a peerless album that will persevere through this and many generations to come. It's 2 outstanding moments 'Soon' and 'I Only Said' rank among the best music ever made. If Beethoven was still around this is the sort of stuff that he would have come up with. Both tracks are vaguely repetitive but are built around such resilient hooks they could raise the titanic.

As albums attract your attention and are slowly forgotten you'll find yourself continually returning to Loveless. The Loveless experience might only be a bi-annual event but in-between the warm glow of its greatness will assure you whenever you begin to doubt the mood enhancing effect of music. The 142nd listen will sound as fresh the first. Loveless' blood red cover contains a shadowy grey outline of a hand strumming a guitar. Hunt it down in your record store and watch as the sales assistant marvels at the wisest decision he/she has seen since somebody bought the last copy of that limited edition Giant Steps.

Rating: 10/10

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This is a collection of Mogwai’s early e.p.’s released between 1995 and 1997 and ranks amongst their best work. Oddly the collection has cohesive feel, something that several of their albums have lacked. Rather than waiting around for something to happen, Stuart Braithwaite and his Glaswegian cohorts head straight for post-rocks ripe jugular. Mogwai's great gift has always been their ability to layer on the bombast without ever sounding bombastic. When a plethora of guitars play off each other like a knowing group of friends, the sound is too gorgeous to describe. Like an ocean that is too calm to be reassuring, Mogwai go about their business with the expressed intention of clearing out as many cobwebbed ears as possible.

'Helicon 1' is a riveting 6 minutes of deep valley grooves and high mountain peaks. It starts out like laser guided melodies and as it gets more spiritualistic the overflow finally prompts a wall of sound that has a spectacular mural scratched into its being. ‘Helicion 2’ is like a quieter older brother, studied and calm yet authoritative. 'A Place For Parks' is even more inhibited but surfaces with a killer hook that hides the idle chat in the background. 'Summer' adopts one of those Mogwai tricks where the tune flips between brilliantly effervescent and hopelessly storming. Like the butterfly that suddenly produces fangs its collage of raging guitars is still sweetly beautiful.

'Angels Versus Aliens' is particularly subversive, beginning as does all twinkle starry which then transforms into a huge juggernaut on a collision course with your mind. This is startlingly creative music that will have you sitting up in your couch praying the antique dressing table opposite is not haunted. 'Tune' is one of those rare beauties where Mogwai allow vocals to get a look in. It is slow paced number with a solid bass hook that provides a welcome break from the chaos that surrounds it. It is the calm in the eye of the storm. There is much to love about 'Ithica 27 0 9', one minute it's a laid-back ditty with jangly pretences and then suddenly shards of guitars fly at you with an incredible ferocity. Only the final track 'End' which is a hopeless tirade of backward loops that possess no real conviction.

Ten Rapid has a big ambition, divulging Mogwai’s agenda to such good effect that they have struggled to recapture its consistency. Ten Rapid has a lot more to say than your average album with vocals and is indispensable for anyone with a penchant for guitar portraits. Only in its death throes where 'End' opts for a hopeless tirade of backward loops does the bands confident invention diminish. Along the way there are enough joyful detours to fill a map of middle earth.

Rating: 8.5/10

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You could never label Modest Mouse as conformists because with The Moon and Antarctica they play the indie spectrum. The album has a loose feel, able at any time to take off down another avenue of invention that requires a little patience to crack what is generally another winning idea. Issac Brook's voice closely matches Porno for Pyros' Perry Farrell and at times Modest Mouse fly off in tangents like the now defunct Cable. Initially the albums 15 tracks can be a little too much to take in. So I started listening to the first 8 tracks repeatedly until their subtle nuances sat more comfortably. After that the albums grand panoramic vision made for a hugely enjoyable if bumpy eclectic listen. It seems remarkable that 'The Moon & Antarctica' is less than an hour long because of the immense ground that is covered. Its scope is massive, its potential unlimited.

Some of the tracks on the album are more accessible than others. While they all possess elegant alterations to tested formulas, some are a little more direct. '3rd Planet' is a good opener because it is chock full of near perfect jangle pop. Its fractured beauty is augmented by louder guitar riffs that indicate that something darker is at work. 'The Cold Part' doesn't need to rely on its scant lyrics because it is woven around an infectious circular bass melody. 'The Stars Are Projectors' signals early Whipping Boy and is a beautiful epic that is just waiting for the right movie to snatch it for its credit roll. Tracks like 'Gravity Rides Of The Universe' which are perfectly acoustic, have huge pretensions of being electric and make Modest Mouse sound like the brightest thing to escape from alt America since Steven Malkmus broke his first string. 'Dark Centre Of The Universe' is incredibly dashing with that violin sounding guitar screech at its heart. 'Tiny Cities Made Of Ashes' with its unsettling choral volley will have you checking that big cupboard in the corner of your bedroom for a bogeyman.

This is in essence what divorces Modest Mouse from the pack. The sinister undercurrent sets the bait, we fall for it and emerge at the other side somewhat shook but ready and willing to go through it all again. At times it is unforgiving music that is as attractive as matches are to a small child. Like 'Wild Packs Of Family', where the disturbing lyrics are somehow neutralised by an understated take on country. Expect Modest Mouse to be as popular as Bovril in the very near future. They will be loved by many but probably scoffed at by the same number. If I was you, I'd take a day off work, read a good book and let Modest Mouse provide the special effects. Few albums come so close to near faultless as this, so if you are going to make one adventurous purchase in the near future make it this album.

Rating: 7/10

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A glance through the lyrics to The Secret Migration may yield the following riches: violets, leaves, more leaves, a limb and branch, a forest, dragonflies, some more leaves, a wilderness, fields and streams and lakes and trees and grass and logs, a climbing rose, weeds and other plants, a stream, more birds, roots, shoots. I am guessing that Mercury Rev have still been hanging around the Catskills. "We're off for a dark country ride", announces the opener, 'Secret for a Song', portentously. Several of the album's signature motifs are established here: noodly keyboards, crashing cymbals, layers of spacey effects and the bass working overtime. The song begins as 'All is Dream' left off, with the tension held by dramatic piano chords, but then assaults into the first of many sing-along choruses, here assisted by driving U2-esque guitar. The glorious 'Diamonds' dispenses with the stormy piano; the skies have cleared and the sun on the fallen rain brings out diamonds. It's all jazzy keyboard riffs and Spiritualized shimmers and glimmers - the sweet repeating vocal melody gives way to a final half minute straight out of 'Pure Phase'. 'Vermillion' pulses with energy, building up from a simple piano tune and restraining the guitars so they can go all staccato for the fist-raising chorus. Its mechanical beat and repeated bass notes are the flavour of the moment, favoured by a dozen contemporary bands. Here is the rub: Mercury Rev have written a (theoretical) chart hit, but it sounds like a Doves song.

This is, unfortunately, the down-side to the latest work. Absent is the experimentation of their early albums and the adventurousness of 'See You on the Other Side' which sounded like it was trying to fit in half of 'Dark Side of the Moon' alongside their newfound sunny melodies and dancey beats. That symphony of strangeness and charm, Deserter Songs won widespread acclaim for the band with its distinctive wintry feel and novel instrumentation. It sounded like nothing else. Now they sound like they're playing it safe. It's difficult to image an anomaly like 'Young Man's Stride' or a wonky bowed saw interlude amongst The Secret Migration's canon. Also, the slack-jawed awe at natural phenomena is responsible for a plethora of lazy lines: 'Ain't it amazing when the seasons begin to change?', for example, isn't the kind of, say, Leonard Cohen or Cole Porter phrase that will lodge in your head. It just seems a little settled, musically and lyrically.

Perhaps Jonathan and co. have earned this right; they can attribute their longevity, at least partly, to a knack for producing albums full of good tunes, and this is no exception. It's another ode to the changing seasons, 'In a Funny Way' that serves as the centerpiece of the album. The angelic voice echoing the Deserter Songs bowed saw gives way to a bouncy chorus, all the while buoyed upon a breezy string section. The similarly catchy 'The Climbing Rose' throws in some reversed guitars and what I swear sounds like a police siren into a magnificently noisy keyboard solo; the song contains enough kinetic energy to survive a key change and finish strongly. The Secret Migration is the upbeat sister to the ethereal half-nightmare All Is Dream, now played in daylight and rooted in the outdoors. Even when the lifting guitar-filled choruses eventually subside, we are left with two elegant pared-down closing tracks. 'First Time Mother's Joy' in particular is a plain and perfect example of fine songwriting. The piano, melody, harmony, and, damn it, the whole song is unashamedly Paul McCartney. Style and wit are not of concern. This is music to link arms to.

Tony Kelleher

Rating: 7/10

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With All Is Dream Mercury Rev build on the ‘Deserters Songs’ vision to create a spectral opus that was utterly unique in the repackaged pop culture of 2001. Mercury Rev are a band with an acute sense of purpose as well as a sparkle in their collective eyes. These dynamic characteristics see them consistently outdoing their own high standards. Drenched in orchestral manoeuvres ‘All Is Dream’ leaves the base camp hauls itself up to the summit and then pears majestically down on the world. While 'Deserter Songs' may have a more cohesive feel to it, 'All Is Dream' has the better tunes. 'Little Rhymes' is one of them. Starting out with a surreal edge it quickly gathers pace to become a truly uplifting experience. There is a unique ambiance that is hard to quantify but the assorted sounds simply lather Jonathon's voice. The guitar playing has a spaghetti western ring and the eerie backdrop adds to the unforgettable mystique.

'The Dark Is Rising' boasts Powerful orchestration, ambitious lyrics and a female soprano near fade out gel to create the greatest love song written so far this century. It's hard not be moved, this is a song that will be cherished for centuries to come. 'Nite And Fog' could be 'Delta Neck Stomp?' more restrained brother. With a punishing beat that draws the best from a gallery of instruments, Jonathon Donahue masterfully rides the crest in that unique unassuming way of his. After this joyous high the comedown is even better. 'A Drop In Time' is probably Mercury Rev's most accessible song ever. It exudes their innate ability to recreate a seasonal spirit. The violas are plucked with wondrous glee, a gallery of angels loom in the distance and a sweet harvest of strings round off the jamboree. You won't always be assured of snowfalls when it's played and in any case 'A Drop In Time' has such a warm glow it would probably melt on impact.

'You're My Queen' is rather more basic but still wondrous. You can hear a tiny Bowie influence ('Heroes') as it skirts by in super quick time. The chugging chords provide the impetus for Donahue's words that are delivered in an uncharacteristic energised way. The whole effect recalls earlier directions and diminishes any risk of orchestral overload. Jonathan Donahue's vocals have become more shrill with age. You can see how people are put off by them but it's hard to deny their wholesome gravitas. Only once do they really become taxing, on the slightly pathetic 'Lincoln's Eyes' that has its roots in forgettable daytime nursery rhymes a la 'Whose Afraid Of The Drunken Sailor'. 'Tides Of The Moon' has a great deal more purpose and a searing intensity that is hard to resist.

It's business as usual on 'Spiders And Flies'. The lazy piano is omnipresent as well as some mellotron flute intermissions. The singing sounds a little wasted and perhaps the whole effect is a little shallow. The same accusation can't be directed at ‘Hercules’, which has all the hallmarks of greatness lurking in its loins. Spanning over 8 minutes it's all you could wish for to close the album. As it whisks about acoustically the beaming Hammond suggests there is more adventures lying dormant in reserve. The lyrics have an old world ring and are suitably expressive. As the scratchy guitars blow the top off the gentle atmosphere Mercury Rev begin the long descent back home. The victory march is spectacular and awe inspiring. As it draws its last breath you realise that fantasy is now not only the domain of the film and print industries.

Like all seminal albums 'All Is Dream' doesn't reveal itself straight away. You could even be mildly disappointed at first. Sooner or later though the genius does shine through. There is such a grand splendour to this offering that it will surely become a lasting classic. It is hard to see how Mercury Rev can spur themselves to even greater feats but their legend is now surely cast. They have proved once again that they are the best exponents of intelligent pop on the planet today.

Rating: 6.5/10

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And right out of the blue came Mercury Rev. Nearly men, who had crafted several flawed albums, until the magical opus that was Deserter's Songs reared its delicately patterned head. Add this album to their unforgettable intimate live performances and Mercury Rev rightfully holds pride of place on the a-list of innovative artists. Boces, like many of Mercury Rev's previous albums, was full of brilliant half ideas. What it lacked in focus, it made up in energy. Like 'Something For Joey', a song that ran ragged for minutes exposing an unpolished sheen that suggested that greatness was close at hand. ’Deserters Songs' is a different proposition altogether, however. Where Mercury Rev once fumbled in the dark with their undoubted genius, they now provide the bright lights for an art form in serious need of reinvention.

'Holes' kicks off proceedings in reflective mode. Lacking a distinct beat, this song turns the blueprint for modern music on its head. Imagine floating high above the clouds while catching a glimpse of celestial beings practising for that great gig in the sky. The quality of instrumentation is quite staggering, but what is more surprising is the thought of four men in their late thirties, one called Grasshopper, dictating matters. With a vast array of instruments being introduced at close intervals throughout 'Deserter Songs' it's not surprising that some of the tunes sound otherworldly. Take 'Endlessly' for example. Could it be those Chamberlin Strings, them Woodwinds, the Wurlitzer, that Mellotron or perhaps the B3 (instrument of the century anyone) that makes it sound like it is the most refreshing song you've ever heard? Hard to judge really, but one thing is for sure once you've heard 'Endlessly', it will impose an indelible impression.

This is Mercury Rev's great gift. They make the most natural of musical decisions by choosing the most appropriate instrument available. These decisions breathe life into their ideas. So when you hear a female voice shadowing on the outskirts of the 'Hudson Line' it fits perfectly, like that elusive last piece of a jigsaw you uncovered by chance down the back of the couch. 'Goddess on a Hiway', the first single to be released off the album signalled Jonathan Donahue and chums intentions. With a lithesome piano intro, the tune extends its amiable nature to befriend all comers. Donahue's vocals vary between a matter-of-fact and a harmonious delivery while the sound swell fills in the blanks. At other times it perfectly paints the sun rising over a cool blue ocean.

’Deserter Songs' inspires the use of analogies. Simple chord descriptions simply wouldn't do the album justice. 'Tonite It Shows' captures the scene where you're beneath the stars with your loved one and the world for a second becomes you're oyster, the moon you’re pearly gift. This is mood-enhancing stuff with Donahue’s vocals sounding vulnerable and affecting. 'Deserter Songs' is much more than a collection of instruments and people making a sound. The album paints a sea of innovative strokes with ideas strewn colourfully like fish in an aquatic collectors tank. Subtlety becomes an art form; grandiose enters the alternative arena and old men weep at the beauty of it all. It is the best Christmas album ever made such is its wide-eyed approach. At the end the listener is left with 'Delta Sun Bottleneck Stomp' to wash away all the pent up emotions, leaving us dizzy and ready to begin the adventure all over again. 'Deserter Songs' is an album to dance to, an album to cry to, an album to make love to and most off all an album to live life by. Not an adventure of a lifetime then, more one you can take every three-quarters of an hour.

Rating: 9/10

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Boces released in 1993, was Mercury Rev's second album. Named after a juvenile rehabilitation programme in New York it is perhaps a good indication of the mental state of the band at the time. Promoting the LP, they embarked on a support slot with Spiritualized. Their performances were consistently hindered by infighting and substance abuse became a nightly occurrence. A sloppy indecipherable song like 'Girlfren' from the album, highlights the inner and outer demons that were taking their toll. It is quite disturbing and really should not have been chosen to tie up what is otherwise an impressive, if quite flawed, album. 'Meth Of A Rockette's Kick' is the audacious opener sounding like a schizophrenic conceived it. The song literally trips itself up under the weight of its distracted meandering. The fact that the sweet brass sounds filter through at all is remarkable as the cacophony of voices, French horns, percussion, screeching guitars, trombones and tinkling piano keys threaten to strangle the life out of them. Very nice, but if bustling city centres are not your want then avoid.

After the peachy nerve of the opener, Mercury Rev go on and ruin it all by spluttering through 'Trickle Down'. Sounding like a cut from a soundtrack to a particularly bad independent movie, it features some of the lousiest humming this side of hell. Lucky then that the ecstatic charm of 'Bronx Cheer' brushes your teeth clean of the previous tunes bad taste. 'Bronx Cheer' is one of the few examples of Mercury Rev playing it straight. Creating the perfect pop song is one thing but making it sound fresh after 20 listens is another. It splashes about enthusiastically, falling just short of manic but those rushing chords do cause a few flutters. David Baker's sweet lilting vocals are accommodating, warm and fragile. Baker left the band soon after 'Boces' was released leaving full vocal duties to the principal songwriter Jonathan Donahue (who started out as a member of the Flaming Lips, it’s all making sense!).

The fuzzy singing on 'Boys Peel Out' adds to its lazy charm. The bass playing just about musters a riff and the whole atmosphere adds to the feeling that it was recorded at six in the morning after one too many whiskeys. Towards the end there is a mini jazz jam to round off that laid back vibe. 'Downs Are Feminine Balloons' is even classier. Purpose built guitars shimmer on the horizon and the delicate flute playing is divine. Baker's vocals are subtle and charming and don't distract from the accomplished musicianship that swells around them. Like a quieter Dinosaur Jr foray into abstract pop, listening to it makes you feel warm inside. The album's unchallenged highlight comes when all the effective parts to Mercury Rev's sound fuse seamlessly together. 'Something For Joey' dons its persuasive cap with the most eco friendly of sounds. The trombone is partially hidden by some delightful guitar playing, the momentum is aided and abetted by the clearest of flutes and the harmonies have genius at work written all over them. It all comes to an end too quickly so perhaps some of the bands trademark doodling could have enhanced the musical drama.

'Snorry Mouth' reintroduces the uneven mess theme. The words lack focus but luckily it contains just enough qualities to warrant attention. Pity the same can't be said for 'Continuous Drunks And Blunders’, which is just a waste of plastic. I guess it would be fine if you're about to embark on a course of meditation but otherwise it is redundant. 'Hi-Speed Boats' restores a little direction to proceedings. Donahue and Baker share vocal duties, taking control at intervening moments while a post-rock gale whips up the ante. It's got a start, a chorus of sorts and it doesn't drag its heels so be thankful for this simplistic approach. Trying to make sense of the images on the album's cover is difficult. Two wooden figures, one naked, the other perched underneath wearing a 'I love mum' T-shirt. There is humour in the image but the smile raised is awkward. Pushing the listener or merely provoking discussion it is certainly eye catching. Jonathan Donahue has described 'Boces' in his own unique way; 'your rebellious second kid who doesn't pay attention to one word you say and is always in trouble'. Yeah, but you gotta love the little mite all the same. Mercury Rev are one of the most important bands in the world at the moment, try to saviour their glorious present but don't forget to admire their deliciously shady past.

Rating: 7/10

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Pavement's final album 'Terror Twilight' displayed how the wheels were well and truly coming off this ingenious enterprise. It seemed to have been made with a sigh rather than a smirk even though there was some typically shiny pop tunes included. With the subsequent sad demise of the band, lead singer Stephen Malkmus somehow rose phoenix like from their ashes to produce a solo that, at least, occasionally harks back to the glory days. Stephen Malkmus is classically based on the Pavement blueprint of beguiling guitar manoeuvres, strong vocals and deadpan lyrics. One wonders though, how Malkmus expected to achieve anything more than he had with Pavement when he peddles a similar set of wares.

With Malkmus you get generous hauls of jangly guitar hooks and a vocal that expedites a slacker attitude. 'Church On White' is a case in point; just another song where you crack open the oyster, worrying only how big the pearl inside will be. There are little nods to other artists between the grooves. 'The Hook' has a neat Stones riff; there are faraway echoes of Clapton on 'Trojan Curfew' and some gentle Velvet Underground nuances on 'Discretion Grove'. Outside of this, the rest is of Malkmus' own making. Who else could conceive musical piety in the form of 'Vague Space’, which is a little disturbed, a little lo-fi and more than a little brilliant. 'The Black Book' sees a noticeably more mature Malkmus play it straight for once which acts a good foil for the bubblegum genius that follows it.

'Phantasies' has a sunny grove complete with handclaps and xylophones. Thankfully it is about as light and throwaway as the album gets. Elsewhere the melody is carefully masked resulting in a more jagged listening experience. Like on 'Jo Jo's Jacket', a disjointed tune that slowly weaves its magic as its disparate parts gel. As was the case with Pavement, some efforts are unconditionally gorgeous. 'Trojan Curfew' spins off at a divine tangent, only after it has coolly lulled you into the false impression that it's a homespun effort packed with lilting piano's and Malkmus' fireside vocals. 'Discretion Grove' which became a single is Malkmus by numbers, which in itself is no bad thing but it remains a strange choice to announce the album. True, there are some lovely chord changes but it lacks a killer chorus that would have the uninitiated listening in with interest. 'Deado' is a lot more amiable, low slung and inebriated on melody it is Malkmus gently tugging at our heartstrings and succeeding.

Pavement left us with a sublime pop legacy. Stephen Malkmus has a big task on his hands to emulate their achievements but his solo debut is a tidy start. Pavement could have taken some choice cuts from this and turned ‘Terror Twilight’ into a nourishing addition to their own legacy. Perhaps Malkmus was keeping the better songs in reserve foreseeing the end of the band. As it is Stephen Malkmus is a patchwork quilt of the great, the good and the average, which means it just falls short of being a winner. That said this album is neither a crisis nor a boring change.

Rating: 6/10

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It was with a teary eye that I first heard Lowgold. They sounded so perfect, deriving from the blueprint for innovative guitar fused melody. After that, there was no turning back. Isn't it great that in a time of unprecedented amounts of appalling music doing the rounds, that bands as special as Lowgold can release gorgeous records like Just Backward of Square. Surprisingly not all of the critics have lavished praise on Lowgold's debut even though it possesses a massive untapped potential. Ok, there's nothing revolutionary going on except straightforward indiepop but it is delivered with a panache and enthusiasm that is altogether too rare. All of the songs bar one were written by singer Darren Ford and while he doesn't depart from the template too often, it hardly seems to matter when this sort of thing has the ability to charm the birds from the trees. His voice is slightly distorted at times adding to the lo-fi feel that many of the tracks possess.

The fact that there are so many precious moments on this album means that it's hard to pick highlights. 'Beauty Dies Young' is certainly one, however, as it takes its lazy attitude and comes up with terrific sonic creations that are as infectious as an airborne virus. 'Open the Airwaves' has a staggered stomp; Ford's vocals melting seamlessly into the mix as a tirade of guitar interruptions surround them. 'Never Alone' evolves from its humble beginnings into a fully fledged orchestral wailing guitar montage. It seeks out those hairs on the back of your neck and toys with them until they stand up and take notice. 'Mercury' is another slow burner that has a chorus to die for as flailing guitar bursts spit fire all round it.

The list of aural pleasures just goes on and on and there's scarcely a duff track in sight. You will look long and hard for an album that consistently lives up to JBOS's high standards. It reminds me most of Wheat's Hope & Adams. It has a cool charm all of its own without ever sounding like it is pushed or hurried. There are also echoes of Doves and early Mogwai peppered throughout which gives JBOS a cosy familiar feel. Intelligent, low-slung guitar movements perfect for public consumption. Start digesting at your earliest convenience.

Rating: 7/10

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For a band that seem to press all the right buttons it's a little surprising that the Lemonheads haven't achieved more success. Here is a band with a singer who is easy on the eye, possess cheery tunes aplenty and purport to moral values that don't require a parental warning. It's a Shame About Ray was their first album to tweak any interest outside of their native America and offers a glowing account of their potential. Evan Dando is the Gram Parsons adoring singer who writes all the music. His countrified drawl rarely changes pitch throughout the album, which is a bit of a pity because his lungs could probably offer a more wholesome workout. Ably helping him is Juliana Hatfield, the bass player and backing vocalist. She has had a moderately successful career with her own band, the ingeniously monikered Juliana Hatfield 3. Their song 'My Sister' went on to dent the outer reaches of the charts.

'It's A Shame About Ray' is a subtle album that could play in the background without ever offending anyone. The melodies spill generously from each of its 13 tracks and every once in a while you have to sit back and admire the consistent quality at work. The title track for example is so overtly wonderful; given the right exposure it could have drunks up and down the land attempting it in unison on their way home. 'Rockin Stroll' opens proceedings at a frantic pace. The guitar shards fire every each way as Dando attempts to rein in the chord bluster and chaotic drumming with some controlled vitriol. Against this backdrop the delightful 'Confetti' sounds close to sane. It remains one the album's highlights, swinging as it does from the coat tails of the cleanest of acoustic riffs. If you were to paint a picture of the images the tune conjures then a large ballroom with hundreds of twirling evening gowns would come fairly close.

'Rudderless' turns out to be nothing of the sort. The chord arrangements are clever and Hatfield's periodic vocal intermissions are fresh and dainty. 'The Turnpike Down' is equally impressive, with guitar and bass sequences recalling New Order while Dando produces a vocal delivery as slick as hair gel. This is the sort of music that just begs to be listened to. 'Buddy' is about as slowcore as the album gets, it is quaint but a little half-baked and droll. Many of the tunes pass by in a flash, hovering around the 3-minute mark. 'Alison's Starting To Happen' is less than 120 seconds long but its feverish makeup will blast a hole in your shirt. It all sounds like the band had purposely thrown their instruments into a washing machine in the hope that something melodic would eventually come out in the wash. Thankfully the experiment pays off handsomely with the result that 'Alison's Starting To Happen' is bold, dazzling and a riel treat.

The song that catapulted the Lemonheads to fame was their cover of Simon and Garfunkels 'Mrs. Robinson' from 'The Graduate' soundtrack. As well as introducing a new generation to the film, it breathed new gusto into a song that was over 20 years old. David Ryan's drumming is particular prevalent and beautifully adds to the songs scuzzy tact. Calm down there Juliana, when she does 'Bit Part' opens up to divulge the story of an unrequited friendship. What it lacks in substance it more than makes up with an energy that could power a hydroelectric station. Much more substantial is the rollercoasting 'Kitchen', the sometime dual vocals superbly keeping up with the lightning guitars. With several nods to Nashville 'Hannah & Gabi' rustles a strong melody from the unlikeliest of sources. The vocals are underplayed, the words lack self-esteem but the emotions that are central to its cause will have you tearing up. On a similar thread 'Frank Mills' sounds like it was recorded in a barn. Not very distinguished unless you are perched on a blanket, sitting around a fire taking periodic glances at the starry night sky.

Perhaps it's the album's distant lack of shock value or the ease at which the tunes sound amiable that has hindered the progress of this album. The lyrics tend to drift from the simplistic to the banal adding credence to the thought that Mr. Dando's mind was perhaps resident in a parallel universe (ceiling fan in my spoon, anyone?) during the recordings. There is no denying, however, that 33 minutes in the company of the Lemonheads is time well spent. An album you'll keep returning to even if something replaces the guitar as pop music's greatest invention.

Rating: 7/10

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