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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