Post-Rock certainly has its champions; you need not look much further than the likes of Mogwai, Sigur Ros, Godspeed You Black Emperor! and Do Make Say Think to get a feel for the power of this genre. Up until now the output has been erratic, at times breathtaking but prone to nasal plucking boringness. What Post-Rock needed was a band to continually search the horizons for new turns and balance this with a consistency of greatness. The answer came from the unlikeliest of sources, Midland in outer Texas to be precise. Mark Smith (guitar), Chris Hrasky (drums), Munaf Rayani (guitar) and Michael James (bass) may come across as ordinary likeable lads in interviews but what sets them apart is the dramatic soundscapes they are capable of dreaming up with the basic tools of their trade. With guitar in hand the glittering blackness quickly turns to snow and lights, like succumbing to an acid rush by way of a tune.

This is Explosions third album (debut ‘How Strange, Innocence’ had a circulation of only 300, the follow up ‘Those Who Tell The Truth Shall Die, Those Who Tell The Truth Shall Live Forever’ released in 2001 has all of hypnotism of the current album) and is certainly up there with the best instrumental albums of all time. The fluidity of the ideas and the simple chord progressions will have you swooning and wondering why vocals were ever invented. Apart from the music the song titles have a deep melancholy. ‘First Breath After Coma’ which opens the album develops from a shimmering chord swirl to a more rounded riff that is backed by a focused flurry of drumbeats. As the rockets spiral towards the atmosphere all hell breaks lose until the furnace is quelled to reveal another exciting chapter. Reindeer bells suddenly dictate the pace, guitar shrapnel flies about, huge beats slice the peace and the disparate parts fit together like a jigsaw of the Mona Lisa. After a while the whole thing gets quite emotional.

After the heartbreak, ‘The Only Moment We Were Alone’ has a clearer agenda. The jangling is more focused as if heading somewhere in particular but that’s not to say that it doesn’t affect. This is the sound of an instrument masquerading as a puppy; the only difference being that it never grows old. The shimmering apocalypse purposely builds to air raid proportions and then downsizes to a more manageable sound fest. The marching stomp that accompanies the journey makes the whole thing all the more enjoyable so much so that the 8 minutes of this song may be among the most beautiful you will ever spend. Explosions In The Sky have admitted that they imagine the scene before they write the music. ‘Six Days at the Bottom of the Ocean’ is based on the Russian submarine that floundered a couple of years back killing all the sailors within. The despair in the otherwise crystal clear playing is evident, the creatures outside so full of life yet of another world shunt by as the chords are chimed in unison. Things take a lighter turn with ‘Memorial’, the juddering strumming recalls Sonic Youth unwinding as they create another classic tale of guitar subtlety. Appropriately enough several maelstroms hide around every corner. Surprisingly the whole thing can seem a little oblique at first but there’s a beating heart ready to hug you if you persist.

The album ends with the undoubted highlight ‘Your Hand In Mine’ which pulls all the extreme emotions together. All the essential ingredients are present. The slow patient build up, the structured drumbeat and sucrose guitars disguised as messengers from heaven. The core of pummelling circular guitars evokes a genius of noise that will tweak your heart until it discards all those failed romances. As the cavalry of Fender Stratocasters ride into the sunset you can’t help but throw imaginary flowers in their general direction. The Earth Is Not A Cold Dead Place may take a while to sink in but the task is made all the easier when the rewards are this great. The album has the guitar as its centrepiece and the power that is evoked is unlike anything you’ll find elsewhere. There are only 5 pieces of music but despite this fact each part has enough twists and turns to leave your hair in a guzzled mess. Once Explosions In The Sky take a hold of your heart you’ll discover you’ve grown an alternative atria.

Rating: 9/10

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The McNamara brothers, Danny and Richard, certainly have the occasional knack for coining technicolor beauties. They showed us this with their wonderful debut, the Fireworks EP. While the subsequent long player 'The Good Will Out' never stood a chance of repeating the magic it had moments that still added a glaze to ones eyes. Drawn from Memory, the follow up, would be the true test of their worth. Embrace specialise in that epic take on indie. Why produce a song that's 3 minutes long when you can tack on a few extra to give the impression that you're a serious artist. Sometimes this approach backfires to a spectacular degree but when it works, it works a treat and you can almost forgive the brothers their incessant indulgences and inflated ego's.

'Drawn From Memory' contains a mixed bunch of ballads to fall in love with and rawk outs to break up over. 'The Love It Takes' that kicks off the album is a breathless success. A spacey tour de force lingers until a genuinely warm vocal melody from Danny has you eating out of his hands. As the song hits full throttle your heart starts to ache at the beauty of it all. The guitars are fuzzy, but in a charming type of way and the climax is a throwback to a time when instruments in turmoil equalled a ravishing listen. 'You're Not Alone' is marginally less inspiring but the trumpet that perpetrates throughout is used with such expertise you'd half expect Martin Carr to have his name included in the credits. A close to inspiring tune that manages to slip in a xylophone without making it sound in the least bit like Christmas.

Pity then that 'Save Me' is such a disposable piece of ear candy with an exceedingly short shelf life. The paradox here is that it initially intrigues. The keyboard sequences are quirky enough to give it an EMF like dance sensibility but the clubbed together chorus becomes a little cloying after a few listens. 'Hooligan' is bred from the same stock even if it is endowed with a classier edge. Suitable for one of those Richard Ashcroft forays down a suburban sidewalk it proves to be a good sparing partner for the liquorice allsorts that prevail elsewhere on the album. Like 'Save Me' this is a one trick pony that is perfect for party shakedowns but slightly less at home as the festivities catch fire. The albums title track opens sumptuously with a piano/string odyssey that could only be enhanced if a youthful Kate Bush jumped through your window and started into a 'Wuthering Heights' dance impression. It's pretty special and the vocals served up in its wake are brooding, even if they falter a little towards the end. 'Bunker Song' is an odds and ends pastiche that splices a searing riff with some interesting string arrangements. There are no words except for an incoherent muffle near the end but the whole thing comes off like something Radiohead would have dreamed up post Ok Computer.

From time to time Embrace can't help but try and be Oasis. They should know the grand prize is theirs when they choose the fragile approach, letting the melodies work their magic. 'New Adam New Eve' is packed to the hilt with pointless chords, fuzzy vocals and a chorus that while not completely forgettable would have been best kept for a throwaway B-side. 'Yeah You' is similarly all faux attitude and doesn't really sit comfortably within the bands profile. It's freight speeding down a well travelled track, not at all bad just a tad tired and familiar even for the trainspotters amongst us. The album does a U-turn as 'Liars Tears' reaches for the hankies. The atmosphere is set by an antique theremin, while a barely audible acoustic guitar lets the lush vocals take centre stage. McNamara's voice has a soft velvet fluidity that is engineered to be aesthetically perfect for breaking hearts. Embrace succeed when they turn down the lights and figure imaginatively on lives little quandaries. If you could hear 'I Wouldn't Wanna Happen To You' now you'd likely throw off those shoes that don't quite fit you and become engaged in little pretty patterns with a body more used to daily sessions in front of an LCD screen. Yep it's escapism of the musical kind, sweet and freshly brewed to give you a jolt. Pretty unique musicianship that the band would do well to exploit with greater consistency.

To end on a high Embrace bow out on a low. 'I Had A Time' shuffles in like a little boy who has just secretly consumed all the cooking chocolate needed to bake his birthday cake. This is music stripped of its necessaries, so innocent and affecting, miles from all those noisy inefficient moments that needlessly perforate eardrums. The tune has the colour of a desert sky at dusk, just imagine that mirage really exists and pull up a stool to enjoy the view. The wooden flute performs wonders as it finds a way to enter your consciousness through an opening in your head. If Embrace could only be themselves then it is entirely likely that they'd stand a good chance of making it. Their reluctance to go with their own instincts only extenuates the shadow cast by their contemporaries. 'Drawn From Memory' is good album with several standout tracks. If the bum fluff that their camouflaged attempts at sounding hip could be removed then they stand a chance. But then again as they so eloquently put it themselves, their weakness is none of our business.

Rating: 7/10

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Never have I battled so hard to get to grips with an album. The Elbow experience is akin to watching a confusing film. You know deep down it is quality but if you're honest with yourself you are clueless as to what's going on. Sooner or later, though, something happens and it all makes perfect sense. ‘Any Day Now' single was the first single release from the album leaving little or no impression. It just seemed too lifeless and dull to warrant attention. Put alongside the other tunes on Asleep in the Back it really does blossom however. It’s easy to overlook it's laid back grogginess. The drifting organ and gentle guitar persuasion combine with Guy Garvey's mantra to make a heady cocktail.

The follow up 'Red' is a lot more lucid, the chiming guitars are solid and round when viewed against Garvey's gentle tones. There are earthy reminders of Talk Talk on this and a number of the other tracks. The drumming is lavish (Jupp) and quite able to stand up on it's own feet without accompaniment. Could Reni's exulted crown at last be under threat from another Mancunian? 'Little Beast' embellishes some fearful pretences. It is slightly unwieldy but all the better for that. Garvey sounds aloof but the sense of skewed melody is omnipresent. 'Powder Blue' has a real lazy strum and a piano underbelly that somehow elevates the vocals whenever the singer puts his mind to delivering the heart crushing chorus. It's enough to stop you in your tracks, a tune that is heavy of heart but boasts some of this decades most magical musical moments. 'Bitten By The Tail Fly' is a bit of mess, but what a glorious one. It resembles a sleeveless tailored suit, outwardly useless but perfect for a summer that forgets to end.

In an album that is about as cheery as a funeral, 'Newborn' provides a pleasant interval even if the lyrics are studiously morose at times. Delightfully tender and melodic, it is the epicentre of an album that continually eeks out some solace. Towards the end of 'Newborn' an unexpected blaze of sound releases a sublime fusion of vocal and electric chords signalling a band reaching for the stratosphere. This is the precious moment that Elbow's potential becomes obvious. 'Don't Mix Your Drinks' was likely to meander aimlessly but thankfully it is made all the more cohesive by a gorgeous guitar swerve that flirts with the listeners minds. 'Presuming Ed' filters Radiohead at their most languid. Garvey spills out a doppelganger Thom Yorke vocal while Craig Potters on the piano in a most understated way. The whole effect isn't earth shattering but it is nevertheless quite endearing.

'Coming Second' had the makings of a plodding misery but repeated listens reveals it's kooky charm. So when the blurred noises threaten to spoil the party they instead add meat to a song that would have sounded positively skeletal without them. The words adopt that repetitive 'Any Day Now' stance as the Godzilla like eruptions dwarf them. 'Can't Stop' proves to be an ideal tonic for the preceding song. For once the subtle guitar nuances sound crystal clear as Garvey makes a rare break from his reserved vocal stance. Music like 'Scattered Black And Whites' is not going to go unnoticed, because there is a rich imagination at work. Allied to this, is the remarkable musicianship within the band that has the ability to literally create something out of nothing.

The lyrics on 'Asleep In The Back' are slightly on the macabre side from time to time. You wouldn't expect Steps to come out with 'I'll be the corpse in your bathtub' or 'Your eyes are like black spots'. Thankfully the wonderful tunes that wrap themselves around these words mean that Elbow come across as wonderful satirists rather than clumsy miserabilists. Elbow's debut is a brooding masterpiece for the discerning ear. Don't expect the subtle melodies to confront you face to face. Instead, you can expect 'Asleep In The Back' to creep up on you when you least expect it. Once you’ve digested it, ‘A Cast Of Thousands’ awaits you.

Rating: 9/10

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While the instances of stunted creativity abound when an artist decides to go solo, Elliott Smith proved to be a glorious exception to the rule. Coming from the Dandy Warhols neck of the woods (Portland, Oregan) where infectious hooks seem to habitually blossom on the trees it is no surprise that a cursory listen to Figure 8 reveals a smattering of sweet melodies that would have the makers of marmalade clambering to sign him up for their next ad campaign. Elliot Smith started out as twin singer/songwriting (with Neil Gust) in Heatmiser who went on to release 2 reasonable albums in 'Dead Air', 'Cop and Speeder' before Smith decided that going it alone was the way forward. 'Figure 8' was his fifth solo album. At this stage his star was in the ascendancy after the leg up received from having his 'Miss Misery' song included on the soundtrack to 'Good Will Hunting'. It's subsequent nomination for 'Best Original Song' at the Oscars (no, Celine Dion snatched it!) meant that the majors came running. Leaving his indie label Kill Rock to join Dreamworks he was given the financial clout to craft his most textured effort 'XO'.

Like a twinkling star 'Figure 8' initially beams great shafts light in the form of 'Son Of Sam'. The lilting piano strokes, smooth multi-layered vocals and periodic guitar frenzy is enough to have you gasping for more. 'Son Of Sam' is a delightful pick me up, yet Smith often descends into a strange state of melancholy. 'Somebody That I Used To Know' has him pining for a relationship that could've been while against the tide the acoustic guitar forays turn out to be as tuneful as the bees. Things get worse on 'Everything Reminds Me Of Her', a weepy that would probably be a strain for everyone except the recently broken up. The sequel 'Everything Means Nothing To Me' is equally taxing, saved only by the buoyant clamour at the end. But for all this introspection Smith cannily lifts the doom and gloom when required. L.A. is a shimmering pop tune, jaunty and devoid of chorus. Who needs a chorus anyway when the whole thing resembles a maze of sweet vocals. 'Stupidity Tries' goes one step further, raising the ante over its ebullient 4 minutes. Arched like a cat before the kill the brooding vocal builds up to finally reveal the bloodthirsty chords that so illuminate the underlying melody. The song has single marked all over it and could easily have harnessed an audience had the will been there.

Despite the undemanding intensity of Figure 8, Smith doesn't have it all his own way. About half way through you get a certain deja vu feel from the songs. As the pace slows and the mood becomes increasingly anal you can't help but wonder how things could be have been made a lot more interesting had Smith decided to wig out a bit more like on the incomparable 'Wouldn't Mama Be Proud'. Designed to catch you unawares, the deep seethed percussion builds a pressure that finally erupts bringing forth volcanic riffs and mouth watering vocal lava. In the background the quietly chaotic barrage of sliding guitars is enough to burn your ears. When 'Color Bars' shuffles into view you are reminded of a particularly cute Beatles composition. Fingers skirting manically along shiny piano keys and Smith's hushed melodic vocals would appeal to all except those with a stilted musical attitude. 'Happiness' has a dozy roving chord progression while the singers energised vocalising makes a nice departure. The song may outstay its welcome a little towards the end but there are a number of killer ideas just screaming for a listener.

While the pretty patterns woven during the quieter moments are sweet it's only when Smith decides to throw caution to the wind that the album can truly be called delightful. 'Can't Make A Sound' is one such occasion where he opts for the whiskey bottle rather than his usual glass of heated milk. For once the mood is threatening in that 'you can't see it but the ghoul is going to get you' type of way. Like a dry riverbed as the storm clouds burst it bounds into life like you always knew it would. The intensity of the climax is enough to clear the golden cobwebs from your ears (spun from earlier tracks) and have you taking a hacksaw to the prison bars of your ordinary life. By culling one or two Smith by numbers ('Pretty Mary K' and 'In The Lost And Found' being prime examples), this album could have had a much stronger uppercut. While the gentle sparring sometimes delivers a devastating leftfield hook the gap between these intensities is just a little too wide and diminishes what could otherwise have been a spellbinding release. At 52 minutes it is probably just that bit too long. While it is consistently pleasant there just isn't enough variety to ensure you'll be transfixed throughout.

Despite this, 'Figure 8' is undoubtedly a pretty album that veers between the quaint, the beguiling and the slowcore. It should make its home wherever an emotional heart resides. There are tender melodies aplenty and Smith sure had a way with a guitar. Elliott’s tragic suicide 3 years after this album was released adds retrospective resonance to his lyrics and the inevitability that he’ll become more famous after his death.

Rating: 7/10

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This was the Frank and Walters third album and besides one successful single the elusive charts remained a faraway rainbow. The album may have had a more po-faced outlook, but luckily the intrinsic Frank and Walters's ingredients were intact. Melody is king and while some of the new directions raised a few eyebrows the pristine output is the proof positive that these 3 lads were made to be stars. Beauty Becomes More Than Life is not a wholly serious album but for the second time in their careers the Franks have put their heads down and created a mature (what?), at times electro (eek!) but overall a wonderfully likeable (phew!) album. As usual the tunes are purified but are perhaps not as immediate as their predecessors. So now there are things going on below the surface that accord a greater longevity. And now the soundscape is beautifully augmented throughout by the addition of keyboards.

At first you don't spot the groove in 'Don't Stop' but after some time it'll probably be the best thing you've ever heard. Well, almost. Then there's 'Time We Said Goodnight', that at first light sounds almost ineffectual but as dusk falls its building block approach has become the stuff of greatness. Check out the people's anthem 'Castaway' and you have a song that could've helped Hanks through his ordeal. Signs of a different direction come in the form of '7:30', all sparkly beats and spliced vocals that have no right to be so infectious that early in the morning. There are also songs cut from the same cloth that gave us so many precious moments on the first 2 albums. 'Plenty Times' is a bustling, sweet, industrious little number that'll flag down the happy busman and chat with him until the wee hours about types of buckets and all the people he knows named Jim. 'Take Me Through This Life' suffers slightly from a plodding drum beat but the jangling guitar and vocals parts save the day. 'Woman' is more straight forward syrupy pop but its theme of a man hating woman is evidence of the Franks broaching subjects that were up until now avoided.

The Franks and Walters deserve much more than the world has dished them out. An unsympathetic music press unwilling to see beyond the opening guise have to take a lot of the blame. Go see the Frank and Walters in concert and watch the unadulterated joy of the spectacle. Glee Pop that won't change your life but will very likely put a smile on your face and send a tingle down your spine, surely the central reward for listening to pop music. Let them not be lost to the 9 to 5 robotic mass. Go forth Linehans and Co. your loyal servants will be yours until the end.

Rating: 6.5/10

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Glen Hansard might be better known internationally for his role in the Commitments film (he was the one with the Carter haircut playing guitar) but his band the Frames offer a greater sense of cultural novelties. For the Birds was the Frames fourth long player and announced quite clearly that the band had stepped up a gear in the quality stakes. The album was divided between Chicago and Kerry and the sleeve notes remark how the individuals and landscape of both locations were a major influence in moulding the album. Incredibly the album was fashioned with a budget of just £20,000 by the bands own label Plateau records. At home in Ireland the Frames have a large and devout following with the result that their gigs are often intimate and uplifting affairs (aside from Hansard’s something embarrassing remarks). Their 3 previous albums have enjoyed moderate success but only 'Revelate' off the 'Fitzcaraldo' album has stirred the general publics imagination to any great extent.

'For the Birds' deviates from the Frames traditional template and simmers beautifully below boiling point. It is imbued with such a melodious focus that it is only a matter of time before you bequeath your time to its charms. Glen Hansard's voice is softly course with a really impressive range. The legendary Steve Albini produced the album and he has managed to capture Hansard in a most intimate way. With the speakers at full tilt it can almost seem like the singer has propped himself against the wall beside you. The instrumental that opens the album 'In The Deep Shade' is akin to a Sigur Ros ditty. It has an uneven pattern that is held together by a tick-tock beat and subtle violin/piano strains that are fed into the mix intermittedly. Needless to say by the third listen you will be humbled by its beauty. 'Lay Me Down' contains a real sense of sadness as the fiddle playing strikes a serene note through your heart to render you hopelessly stunned in awe.

'Head Long' has the sweetest of strums and the strings that infiltrate the background mean that when it builds to its logical crescendo you can't help but be affected. The song is propelled by a genuine sense of angst. 'What Happens When The Heart Just Stops' is just so heartbreaking that by the time the trumpets arrive at the end you'll be reaching for the posies. 'Early Bird' contains a My Bloody Valentine guitar strain at its core supplied by David Odlum. It is almost at odds with the rest of the serenity on the album but stands imperious all the same. At the other end of the spectrum 'Giving Me Wings' is as floatsome as you can get, perfect for those afternoon naps you take in your head. And then 'Friends And Foes' cowers meekly not fully appreciating how sagacious it really is.

'Santa Maria' just seeps glorious intent with its bass riff, slide guitar and Hansard's whispered vocals filling the air with a dead calm until its schizophrenic alter ego smashes the illusion. Its curved genius leaves the rest of the musical world sounding distinctly flat. A song like 'Disappointed' could have been taken from the Will Oldham scrapbook. With its lo-fi’ed, laid-back nuances filtering through the bushels on that prairie scene you could be forgiven for thinking the tune had wandered onto the album unintentionally. Hansard is restrained but filled with a deep ambition to evoke world-weariness. The final track 'Mighty Sword' has a country edge and contains that essence of an epic that suitably closes this remarkable album. At least that's what you think until the 8 minute hidden track shakes it's shier contemporaries into something resembling a smile. Given an audience 'For the Birds' will make many new friends. It may reach you after word of mouth has created an unstoppable force. If you care enough for affecting new music, you won't wait that long. From the moment you make the choice you will hold this album tightly to your chest. The time has come to fall in love with music all over again.

Rating: 8/10

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Way to Blue is a gathering of tracks taken from Nick Drake's 3 albums 'Five Leaves Left' (1969), 'Bryter Layter' (1970), 'Pink Moon' (1972) and a compilation of unreleased tracks called 'Time Of No Reply'. Critics and artists alike speak of Drake in oft-reverential tones and it's easy to see why. A lot of the tracks here are over 30 years old but sound remarkably fresh and interesting. Nick Drake's music is uncomplicated folk yet all the while an 8-piece orchestra does its stuff in the wings. 'Hazey Jane I' uses the string section to creates a wonderful foil to Drake's gentle guitar plucking. 'Fruit Tree' is a journey all on its own, full of lavish arrangements and poetry with a grand musical tapestry in tow. Drake's voice is a mirror image of Stuart Murdoch's from Belle and Sebastian (that should read the other way around I guess) and you can see how much he has influenced that band. The overall tone is very low key, never going beyond a certain decibel level. It could almost be a Belle and Sebastian unplugged session. The acoustic guitar work is distinguished and a lot of the tunes boast stupendous hooks. 'Time Of No Reply' is wistful and shy but deeply affecting all the same. All you get is Drake and guitar but the product of this fusion is overwhelmingly powerful. Music just waiting for the newest break-up in town to beckon a backdrop. Tears could have been invented for this type of thing.

'Poor Boy' is a funky effort, with sax thrown in for good measure. Drake remains his calm self regardless of the din around him. 'Cello Song' is one of his better known tracks and when the fabled instrument makes an entrance you can almost smell the melancholy. 'Northern Sky' is as dreamy as it sounds, shuffling on that lazy beat, the intermittent piano and the distant organ drone. It gives off the impression of anti-cool but it is beyond all that. There is a deep but hushed sadness to a lot of the early part of Way to Blue. The mist of gloom is never more evident than on the title track 'Way To Blue', a sort of funeral march put to music. It is immaculate and beguiling but provides little hope or solace. Thank the lord then for 'Things Behind The Sun’, which is a little more uplifting. On the album sleeve Drake looks alone and deeply puzzled, a perceptive marker for what goes on inside. Nick Drake's lyrics are often vague and open to different interpretations but looking between the lines you can pick up on the inner demons that would eventually lead to his demise. His music is very wordy, as is a lot of folk music, but there are also many beautiful musical moments on the album. 'One Of These Things First' is an example where the guitar and bass persuasions are even more memorable than the haunting vocals. It is a merry ramble that is easily filed in memory. Drake does attempt to work up a sweat on 'Hazey Jane II' but even then it is likely that your toes will be the only thing wiggling in time. That is the scope of this album; it is delicate but full of strong tunes. 'Pink Moon' for example is so cute, so damn simple yet so stirring the leaves hardly need to brew.

So is Way To Blue enough to wet the appetite for future Drake purchases? The answer is most definitely in the affirmative. Drake’s music could well be given a very timely boost with the emergence of the new acoustic movement but there are so many gems on Way To Blue it is hard to see when it will ever become unfashionable. Way To Blue is the perfect soundtrack to summer days spent picnicking. The bees are in no mood for stinging, just happy to deliver pots of sweet honey to the soft crust placed on the checked sheet that covers the bed of daisies underneath. It’s a world away from hectic lifestyles, computers, careers and fast cars. In saying that it still retains a marked relevance in today's world. Subtitled ‘An Introduction To Nick Drake’, Way To Blue is the subtle handshake that’ll begin your lifetime admiration for Nick Drake’s back catalogue. An acoustic fanfare for the common man.

Rating: 8/10

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Nick Drake's second album followed in the comet trail left by his wondrous debut 'Five Leaves Left'. Released in 1970 it shows little sign of ageing and despite being name dropped by all and sundry it largely remains an undiscovered classic. For students of the Belle & Sebastian school of melodic folk there is a seam of material awaiting you from this sadly underachieving (in his lifetime anyway) soul. With Drake's extraordinary predication for not telling things as they are the opening cut is dutifully named 'Introduction'. And what a majestic beginning it is too. The orchestration is as pretty as is imaginable being ably directed by Richard Kirby who was responsible for all the lush arrangements on the album. Bryter Layter reveals a large quotient of instrumentals, yet their presence ups rather than slows down the ante.

For such a supposed recluse it seems that Drake had little difficulty on counting on help from his contemporaries. For most tracks the acclaimed Richard Thompson fiddles about on guitar while the enigmatic John Cale (the Velvet Underground) adds in piano, organ and celeste asides. Drakes oft conveyed world-weariness is beautifully coloured by the jaunty playing. You'll find 'Hazy Jane 11' on 'Way To Blue' (a compilation) so its fluid escapades will hardly be new but that's not to say that they aren't welcome. The Van Morrison type trumpet fest shadows the bouncy percussion and Drake delivers a hearty attempt at vocal hopscotch. 'At The Chime Of A City Clock' is decorated with vast string arrangements and brass appendages that recall late night police dramas. It has a hushed demeanour that is hard to qualify at first; a few listens are required to see through the surface fog.

An unusually guarded soul not all that willing to directly open his soul, Nick Drake often paints landscapes and similes to get his message across. On 'One Of These Things First' we get as close as we're going to get to Drake's troubled interior. As he ponders how he arrived at where he is, he considers whether other roads could have changed the man he turned out to be. Of course this interpretation is subjective but it is revealing to listen to the words sans the wonderful cascading piano accompaniment. Like most prequels 'Hazey Jane 1' lays the groundwork for the follow up dramas. Operating at the speed of a kite it meanders over a foundation of acousticism and swooping arrangements. At times the orchestral manoeuvres resemble a long forgotten standard but I can't put my finger on it. As soothing as an everlasting cough sweet.

The title tracks instrumental forays perfectly conveys the seventies, all prim and proper, imagine wandering around London in an ill fitting tweed jacket and beat up brown leather clogs without feeling in the slightest bit embarrassed. The flute playing is exquisite like Jethro Toll himself had dropped in to add his bleak midwinterish two-penny's worth. As you try to disseminate 'Fly' you can almost hear Drake struggling to come up with a fresh idea. As the motley ensemble of instruments and vocas finally settles on a singular path it sounds like a celestial apparition. Naive and gloriously enjoyable for this reason alone. As is Drake's want 'Poor Boy' turns out to be a funky gospel jazz hybrid. Perfect music for an over indulging party of pretentious twits bloated on caviar and Ferrero Rocher. While this may sound like ordinary folk like you and me should avoid it then you'd be right. It's pretty naff, out of context among the surrounding beauty, like a chip van parked near a pyramid.

Order is restored instantly with the breezy effervescence of 'Northern Sky'. Shuffling as shyly towards your mind as a bear cub yet possessing more allure than 101 Dalmatians this is the sound of a small waterfall on a cool winter morning. The celeste adds a mystical quality as Drake comes across as the heroic hobbit. Buy the album and become part of his Fellowship. There is something frightening yet alluring about the flute playing that opens the instrumental and closing track 'Sunday'. Conjuring images of being lost on a windswept and lonely mountain the scene is somewhat arrested as the song fills out with the emergence of an ensemble of acoustic guitars and violins. By the end of a hectic journey a bath of goats milk is somewhat spoiled by its lactic disposition. Oh I don't know what I'm talking about either it's just the effect that such spectral music can have on ones imagination.

'Bryter Layter' is surprisingly short, the experience seems to end mid climax. That said for the time it takes to play there are more adventurous directions that your likely to find on most albums. The atmosphere is detached yet alluring, the playing is highly accomplished and the lyrics are intelligent and thoughtful. Little short of a classic then, don't waste any time, your CD player needs a good recalibration.

Rating: 8.5/10

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Over the course of their first 2 albums Doves have established themselves as near enough unapproachable. It seemed as if Jimi Goodwin and company were capable of dreaming up brooding masterpieces at will. Their sweeping musical gestures were tempered by the occasional pop gem that came complete with that rare inbuilt quality that circumnavigated the law of diminishing returns. No matter how many times you listen to ‘There Goes The Fear’ you still get the same rush as the initial listen. You only need to look at Doves b-sides to get an impression of the genius at work so against this background Some Cities was never going be anything less than enjoyable. The central theme is the changing landscapes of today's cities and the consequent erosion of society. This less than interesting inspiration has led to ‘Some Cities’ falling short of the revelation provided by its predecessors. Most of the things that make Doves so special are present, it’s just that the lack of experimentation detracts from the overall experience.

The title track opens 'Some Cities' with some shameless Velvet Underground chord mimicry. It’s not bad but Doves have dug such a unique labyrinth of noise for so long it comes as a bit of surprise. That said things are restored pretty quickly on the terrific single ‘Black & White Town’. The piano riff is perfectly skewed to enhance Jimi Goodwin’s vocals; the thumping momentum is offset by a chorus so lush it makes like chocolate for the soul. Sadly for every few revelations there is an equally dour alter ego. ‘The Storm’ is a wanton waste, sluggish, temperamental and too eager to make use of an out of tune mouth organ. You’ll be lucky to come out the other side. ‘Someday Soon’ is equally sombre but at least the vocal dynamics provide some diversions. Lucky then ‘Sky Stars Falling’ vacuums the nastiness away with its chaotic energy and incessant ability to drag the bands instruments through an industrial cheese grater ending up with a pretty carnage of sound. ‘One Of These Days’ is less inspired but at least it lends an anthemic soundtrack to the bleak words.

‘Walk In Fire’ is disappointing. It follows the path devised by its more talented cousin ‘There Goes The Fear’ so closely you almost feel like your listening to an alternate take. In a world without ‘…Fear’, ‘Walk In Fire’ would likely excel but no amount of sonic rallying can stop it from being slightly forgettable. But, for every misgiving on ‘Some Cities’ there are plenty reminders of inspirational Doves. ‘Almost Forgot Myself’ starts out anonymously enough, Andy Williams beats the skins to breaking point but salvation comes in the shape of his brother’s wondrous riffs that neatly summersault over Goodwin’s gentle outpourings. ‘Snowden’ is the albums high point, eerily alluring to begin with, then flourishing into a fully rounded pop jewel. The guitars chime brightly as Goodwin’s vocals benefit from double occupancy, the unevenness in the middle makes the cohesive finale all the more beguiling. If only there were more special moments like this. The haunting ‘Ambition’ comes close. It was recorded in a church in northern britain and as you’d expect it is otherworldly and touching, just close your eyes to escape the dirty noise of the city.

Doves have yet to create the perfect album, their previous efforts were exemplary, indicating that a classic would surely arrive before too long. Unfortunately with ‘Some Cities’ they have stalled, not exactly playing Doves by numbers but lacking that spark of imagination that marked them out from the crowd. While you can safely return to ‘Lost Souls’ or ‘The Last Broadcast’ and bask in the creations on show it seems unlikely that ‘Some Cities’ will afford the same rewards. That said Doves third album will likely please many of their fans, it has a sprinkling of brilliant tunes and most of the time it is music in cinematic widescreen. Perhaps a move beyond their northern homestead could nourish the bands fertile imagination and finally seal what is likely to be a glorious celebration of creativity.

Rating: 6.5/10

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The impact of Doves debut album in 2000 was enough to rescue more that a few lost souls who believed that alternative music had died. Its scope was far reaching; the core melodies were intricate and uplifting even if the album espoused a deep melancholy. It is one of the great debuts and will likely be spoken about in hushed tones by your children. Living up to such accomplishments often hinders second comings. Radical debuts are often followed up by meandering affairs, ideas appear in a watered down fashion as if the deep well of inspiration had been usurped in the initial burst of creativity. Not so here. The Last Broadcast sees Doves change tact a little; the vocals are now shared between Jimi Goodwin and Jez Williams lending a delicate-ever-changing subtlety to proceedings. Sean O'Hagan, formerly of Microdisney and partial member of Stereolab, joined the fray on arrangements fitting in tuneful obscurities that go a long way to illuminating Doves sound.

If you could imagine Lost Souls as a smouldering piece of artistry then 'The Last Broadcast' is a digital camera’s output as the flame takes hold. It may lack the overall cohesiveness of its predecessor but there are points on this album that soar beyond the stratosphere. The fire is stoked by the bell torn intro, imagine the anticipated start to a brand new day that promises so much and then delivers in spades. The album proper opens fluidly with a glimmering guitar jangle that hits the mark immediately. 'Words' has such a straight forward eye trained on what Teenage Fanclub have been doing for years it's no wonder you'll feel like embracing complete strangers. Jez Williams voice is innocent and acute at drawing the most from the power of the playing. 'Words' perhaps lacks the longevity of some of Doves output due to its immediacy so try to ration the exposure to lengthen the buzz. Special mention must go to Martin Rebelski on glockenspiel who dares to complicate the mood.

Starting out like a vaudeville pantomime 'There Goes The Fear' finds another gear chock full of clear percussion and swanky moods and directions. It flies at right angles when you least expect it as Goodwin purchases the perfect vocal tact and the whole ensemble blends like a fine warm malt on the palate. As the song proceeds the elation in the momentum becomes impossible to quell, lumps refuse to budge from throats, feet feel free to frolic with the nearest open space and the man on the moon eats cheese like its going out of fashion. Acid flashbacks and happy smiley faces drum up the past towards the end, it ain't no good resisting. 'M62 Song' named after a road in middle Britain is an oddity. Borrowing from King Crimsons 'Moonchild' it is as heart-warming as tuneful fairytales get. Drenched in acousticism with Jez's skewed vocals suitably adding a childlike innocence it takes some getting used but inevitably wraps you in a warm layer of sound. 'Where We're Calling From' finishes the job by tucking you in. With the sound of Slowdive re-awakening this is dreampop pulled straight from the 'Souvlaki' sessions.

'N.Y.' is much less complicated. With percussion that sweeps like tidal waves over giant boulders there is a coming together of several forces to create a patchwork quilt of a tune. The guitar play blusters like Bullet the Blue Sky but Goodwin sails his ship clear of the storm in that nonchalant nasal way of his. Low key and brooding 'Friday's Dust' harks back to that driving ambition that engineered the bands first cut. The strings and woodwind create an eerie spectre and the whole atmosphere sees Doves enter pastures that are braver than any of the other tracks on the album. Spiritualized's descent into gospel led operatics was a shame. Where they once bled poetry from their instruments they now require a cast of dozens to make their point. Once every other album is acceptable, but beyond that and you start to smell the indulgence. Blur also had a brief fling, with 'Tender', that was partially successful if a tad short on shelf life. Doves also threw their hat into the MOR ring and the whole genre is redefined. 'Satellites' remains one of the bands lesser achievements but the choir ensemble and rattling guitar breaks turn the limp wristed momentum towards a satisfying crescendo.

Delicately poised between sonic rocket fuel and potentially fatal goosebump inducing noise 'Pounding' flits like a humming bird on speed that has a penchant for sharing its honey. It opens excitedly like Reni has found a new band. The drumming is primeval, the lyrics less so ('I can't stand there, to see you disrobe') and the way Jimi Goodwin bends and twists honeyed melody through his vocals is to be cherished. Quite why the guitar playing turns towards U2's the Edge just adds to the mystique. Turn it on as you climb aboard a particularly bumpy rollercoaster and you'll be fine. The title track boasts a wistful thoroughfare of sound, the spacey flights of fancy hanging perfectly on the central guitar jingle. As the tune makes it merry way down the yellow brick road the celestial feel goes into overdrive. 'The Last Broadcast' would have you making like Mary Poppins if such things were acceptable in today's society.

Cartoon characters with serious intellectual brows are further dreamed up on the magnificent 'The Sulphur Man'. This is a perfect partner for 'The Man Who Sold Everything' because it squirts great wads of enthusiasm from its unbridled hypnotism. The bass contours like an epileptic snake, furrowing great hooks that are there to be adopted by anyone who shows a flicker of interest. As the lights go down on 'The Last Broadcast' a stellar cast join together to offer thanks for what went on before. 'Caught By The River' is Doves breaking out of their own complex songwriting methodology. As it turns out, it may not be an auspicious way to close this album but it's one that leaves a sweet ring in your ear. 'The Last Broadcast' saw Doves wrestling the initiative from their contemporaries. Their imagination has gilded an album that is fraught with such intoxicating beauty that it sometimes takes your breath away. The goalposts haven't moved radically since their debut but the world-weariness has lifted somewhat. 'The Last Broadcast' (apart from the singles) is a LP that has to be discovered, there are hidden journeys aplenty and the ride is one that is worth taking time and again. It is within touching distance of the infamy that genius deserves.

Rating: 8.5/10

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From early nineties acid kids (Sub Sub) to millennium indie darlings, Doves have a come a long way and in doing so produced one of the genuine surprises of 2000. Lost Souls abounds with enormous helpings of memorable guitar based melodies that have such sharp edges it will leave you searching for paper cuts on your lobes. Right from the off the Air-esque instrumental 'Firesuite' signals a burning talent ready to offload its many varied musical directions to a grateful public. Things simmer perfectly on by as the debut single 'Here It Comes' emerges possessing a swaggering beat and a tinkering piano lilt that is perfect for watching the sun go down.

Doves output has a distinctly bored with Britpop feel about it. Many of the songs weigh in at about 5 minutes or more, so those looking for a quick Oasis type fix are likely to be disappointed. 'Lost Souls', the title track, for example relies heavily on its acoustic, organ drenched, semi-distorted vocal to carry the day without ever resorting to orchestral bombast to make it sound epic. By way of apology the instantly remarkable 'Catch the Sun' is about as chorus, verse, chorus as Doves get. Play it as soon as you buy the CD and from then on in you will be hooked. So strong are the tunes on offer that each one would afford less adventurous bands the opportunity to build a whole album around it. 'The Man Who Told Everything' is a grand epic, suggesting a bigger invention and flair for song writing than other more popular guitar bands (hey Travis, why can't you finish your sentences like Doves). 'The Man Who Told Everything' boasts a chorus that swoops skyward to an atmosphere where breathing becomes difficult. The alchemy of string, vocals and guitar refrains applies ultra strong gel to the hairs on the back of your neck.

'Sea Song' emphasises the multi-coloured feathers in Doves cap. The music has a panoramic feel with Jimi Goodwin's vocals a little word shy but his delivery is hugely stirring. 'Melody Calls' is another tune soaked in panache and exhibits a total respect for the art of harmony. It all sounds like it was clobbered together at the last minute, like a meal with ingredients that lay unused in the fridge for aeons. Despite this, Doves cast such a magnetic spell over the multi-instruments on view that it all comes together to sound like a perfectly cohesive stew. It's not often that a tune performs like it was engineered for the purpose of pleasing the Gods but 'The Cedar Room' certainly fits that bill. It may not produce the necessary rain clouds but who needs rain when every time you hear it everyone in the vicinity is in floods of tears. Ok that might be an exaggeration but this song boasts such a glorious, expansive riff it's hard not to be taken on a flight of fancy.

'Lost Souls' grand view didn't go unnoticed. The album earned a nomination for the Mercury Music Prize, boasted very healthy sales and made most top 30 lists of the albums of 2000. It's hard to disagree when there's beautiful music at every turn like 'Break Me Gently' with its discreetly chiming acoustic nature and phone line vocal breaks. At the end, when the fire has burnt out the brilliant afterglow that is 'A House' leaves a graphic reminder. The only thing that is required to have you nodding in agreement is Goodwin's half-spoken lyrics and a delightful acoustic guitar meander. Be aware what you are getting into when you buy 'Lost Souls', a taste of the future awaits. It is a sublime, faultless album. Certainly one to reach for when the decidedly cheap aeroplane your are travelling in begins to splutter. Why should you take this course of action I hear you say? Well, because no deserted island dweller deserves to be without 'Lost Souls'.

Rating: 9/10

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Deus are from Antwerp in Belgium and demonstrate a skewed musical momentum usually produced from downing 2 barrow loads of rich chocolate. Their sound is as innovative as it is adventurous and this, their debut album set them up as true alternative heroes. Deus create nervous, frolicking, diverse music that is so off-kilter it could likely damage sound systems used to bland daytime radio schedules. The brightest moments on this album are undoubtedly the three singles but the quality is consistently high all the way through.

Blending tattered Velvet Underground violin splinters with a ramshackle beat 'Hotel Lounge (be the death of me)' is music on a grand scale. Off-beat and unlikely to attract your attention at first, it has innate self-belief that will eventually win you over. Rudy Trouve's has a way with a guitar that somehow makes it sound like a second vocal. Like his name he always finds his mark. 'Suds and Soda' gets it inspiration from the unlikeliest of sources. Tom Barman shouts as the frazzled Venus in Furs blizzard behind him erupts. As the clouds part and the decibels drop sanity is restored and the listener basks in the serenity until the mayhem returns again. Ok it sounds almost nightmarish but it is rather fine. 'Via' is a little more straightforward but is so dynamic its like sticking your head in the washing machine without having to worry about the inevitable head injuries.

The title track 'W.C.S. (first draft)' is a mildly funky number that has that red-light district feel about it. In fact you may spend time looking over your shoulder for its duration such is its shudder inducing quality. Then there are sweet understated Pop moments like 'Secret Hell', 'Right as Rain' and 'Jigsaw You' that make this an album of many differing motivations. There is also a peculiar nod to the Pixies on 'Morticiachair' which is suitably off-beat and self-loathing. For every shot of Velvet Underground in Deus' sound there are dashes of Sonic Youth but Worse Case Scenario is a uniquely Deus creation. At times W.C.S. sounds as if the geniuses have taken over the asylum but it is ultimately a helter-skelter ride worth taking. Like their influences Deus are likely to be discovered long after they've stopped producing records. Worse Case Scenario remains one of the most ambitious debuts of the Nineties and today sounds as fresh as it did back then. This music is in equal parts bold, aggressive, essential and timeless. You'll struggle to take on the visceral sounds but after a few spins the reward will be overwhelming. What was that rubbish about the Belgium’s being boring?

Rating: 7.5/10

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Riding on the back some impressive critical reactions, I went out and bought this album without even hearing a single track. I always find this exciting, as you never really know what to expect when the laser hits the groove. More often than not if there is a common consensus that an album is quality it's worth taking the risk. If you were to try and classify Death In Vegas then Primal Scream wouldn't be that far off the mark. The fact that Bobby Gillespie guest vocals on 'Soul Auctioneer' only proves that there is a mutual admiration society going on between the 2 bands. It's just a pity Sir Bob had to pick such a weak track to add his tuppence worth. It is just the right side of dull but is as forgettable as an ageing goldfish.

The celebrity love-in continues with 'Aisha' sung by Iggy Pop. It has all the ingredients of a wild, dirty weekend and is positively menacing. But then, that wallowing far-eastern snake charmer sound finds an extra gear to lift the mix to the next level and suddenly everything makes sense. Enthralling is hardly descriptive enough. Jim Reid also lends a hand on vocals on 'Broken Little Sister', which is similar to those impressive Jesus & Mary Chain's slow burners of old. Richard Fearless certainly has a knack of making friends in the right places. The desert drawl of 'Dirge' is the Contino Sessions standout track. It has a hypnotic groove generated by the sweetest guitar strum and cowgirl vocals by the divine Dot Allison. Every smoke filled indie dive should have it on its pre-gig playlist. There are sublime Orbital leanings on 'Flying', all oblique synth moments on a bed of crispy fresh guitars. This music is so dead cool and unassuming you could be forgiven for thinking the heavens had opened up and given us a taste of what's going on, on the great turntable in the sky.

Then there is the brilliant summer breeze ditty called 'Aladdin's Story'. It is a straight down the line near instrumental that provides a little light relief after the previous tracks which are a little uncompromising. Also easy on the ear is the Velvet Underground/Clinic fused 'Neptune City'. This is a psychedelic trip that oozes class. The Contino Sessions is the soundtrack to the coolest lounge bar around. It is mature electronica which would suit those not out for an immediate aural fix. Those who flash 'Tune' placards over their fluorescent heads will be sorely disappointed. Those enamoured with Screamadelica type indie-dance crossovers will be more than satisfied.

Rating: 6.5/10

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David Kitt had already released a mini-album that he recorded in his bedroom (if you are about to tune out, hang on it's worth it I promise you!) by the time he got around to releasing this, his proper debut. The e.p. title 'Small Moments' featured 'Another Love Song' that has attained legendary status in his hometown (Dublin) and more particularly his favourite venue, Whelan's of Wexford Street. David Kitt is the son of politician but thankfully his songs are based on more trivial matters. While Kitt grabs all the attention, some recognition must be given to his band. Diarmuid Mac Diarmada whose inspirational moments on the sax and clarinet are omnipresent on the album. Paul Smyth is the electronic wizard who has helped reshape Kitt's sound from its earthy lo-fi beginnings.

David Kitt's vocals aren't exactly unique. They resemble an modern Nick Drake (yeah another one!) and give off the impression of a master not having to reach too hard to find his range. In saying that they are wonderfully balanced and after a time they really stick in your head. Perfect for those drizzly winter mornings stuck in traffic when you're in need of a comfort fix (in other words every morning in Dublin). The album opens with 'Hope Street (Brooklyn, N.Y.)' which has been tried and tested over several years of constant gigging. It is perhaps Kitt's most obvious song, with the most primitive of beats and a circular guitar ensemble backing up the singers dried off deep fried vocals. While it might not add up to much initially, don't underestimate the power of this tune. It will lodge in your consciousness with all the accuracy of a colt 45.

Like drifting snow 'You know what i want to know' is likely to blind you to all else. There are searching brass interludes but it's the jingling guitar that Kitt's voice uses as a marker to ram the point home. At this stage you'll have noticed that most of Kitt's material runs in a loop, turning over the same ground incessantly for 4 or 5 minutes. While this doesn't sound great on paper, the reality on vinyl is close to breathtaking. While the opening 2 songs have a cock sure momentum, 'Step Outside In The Morning Light' drops down a gear. You can hear a little of Chicago in its make-up. The plinking keys and textured bleeps do upgrade the sound a little thankfully. Some tweeness and light never hurt anyone anyway. Incidentally this track originally appeared on the aforementioned 'Small Moments' e.p. in a slightly different guise.

Things go a tad atmospheric on 'Private Dance'. For once the vocals don't hog the spotlight. Instead the songs landscape is painted by a innovative approach to blending disparate sounds. It is quite short but signals where the u-bend appears in the albums direction. 'Pale Blue Light' starts out like a David Gray quick step but as Kitt introduces himself you realise first impressions can be deceiving. 'Pale Blue Light' is semi-shambolic in style, the bass is dull, the drumming is plain and the keyboard drones are unremarkable. It has a chorus of sorts but it's just too minimal to disguise the feeling of disappointment. Thankfully 'Pale Blue Light' is the lowest point on 'The Big Romance'. From there on in the recovery is remarkable. 'What I Ask' is the sound of a genius at work. With help from Sinead O'Connor and the underrated Nina Hynes 'What I Ask' blends pure harmony with a cacophony of guitar licks that could go on from now till dawn and still sound refreshing. At full tilt the song spits out diagonal shards of sounds at will, as it wilts the serene edge is masterful.

In an album with so many twists and turns it comes as no surprise that 'Strange Light' slows the pace down again. All you get is Kitt with acoustic guitar while Smyth throws in an array of electronic bleeps and skirmishes. 'Whispers Return The Sun' comes at the tail end of 'Strange Light' before it has fully bid farewell. Once again the ante and the quality is raised. There is a cosy familiar feel to the way the words are delivered but the melody is heaven sent. The xylophone moments are inspired, in fact the song could provide the soundtrack to the most precious moment you experience next Christmas. 'You And The City' could easily to bracketed into several different genres such is the disparity of sounds at work. Just as it seems to have carved out a thread, it completely changes tact. The unnerving violin screeches, the blisteringly catchy keys, the sunken vocal emotions and a dozen shades of atmospheric last stands make up a remarkable lavish opus.

At the end 'Into The Breeze' is left with a lot of work to tie up all the loose ends. In some ways it proves to be the albums most consistent song. There is a start, a middle and an end. Building with each new layer of spiritualised organic manoeuvres it is hard to quell the feeling of absolute happiness that the song embellishes. Appropriately the fuzzy electric's are superseded by Kitt himself. The Big Romance sits easily beside the better Irish Records released in the new millenium. Laidback has rarely been this inventive, this is the perfect soundtrack for those fragile small moments. Forget there's a big bad world outside, this is the CD equivalent of an open hearth fire.

Rating: 9/10

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Quite how Courtney Taylor and his ragged bunch of mates motivated themselves to deliver this album is one of life's sweet mysteries. The potential highlighted by 'Everyday Is A Holiday' and 'Not If You Were The Last Junkie On Earth' was enough to prove that something big was on the way. And Thirteen Tales From Urban Bohemia is music given a big canvas. Intense melody, intricate invention and a joyful plundering of the past come together to reward anybody willing to lend an ear. The Dandy Warhols come from Portland, Oregon and this their third album was released back in the summer of 2000. Like Moby's 'Play' the album lay unnoticed until a succession of singles and an advert for a mobile phone company brought it to the world's attention. The Dandy's have long relied on a British influence to cook their ditties but TTFUB sees them looking beyond the obvious. Perhaps this and a more studied approach to song craft makes the album a wonderful way to spend 3 quarters of an hour.

Right from the off the echoing chords of 'Godless' sound heavenly and the scene is bolstered further by some sweet sounding trumpets. The vocals have a mystic feel, a sort of dazed yet ultimately coherent descent into the unknown. The trip shimmers along on its delicate way on 'Mohammed', an instrumental with periodic vocal interludes. To a large extent the heavy strings on 'Nietzshe' could be a Jesus & Mary composition. It's not until the cleverly synchronised vocals arrive that Courtney Taylor sounds all the world for Mark Gardner from Ride. Such dynamics can't help but sound like the past being lovingly resurrected but the new coat of paint has all the colours of the rainbow and a perfunctory pot of gold.

At this point the album skews off at a tangent. 'Country Leaver' lives up to its billing, dollops of grainy chords and a mock South Carolina accent turns the album on its head. Thankfully the admittedly catchy interlude is replaced by 'Solid's take on what Johnny Cash would have written were he born 3 decades later. Not too clever but instant foot tapping inspiration all the same. There is the odd rare occasion where TTFUB fails to impress. 'Horse Pills' is one such moment where a sloppy Sonic Youth pastiche neither provokes nor titillates. The feedback is too loose to be of worth and the chorus is as plodding as a virus strewn PC. When Courtney Taylor's eye trains on a consistent melody the result is a knock your socks off dinger. Eerily close to the sound of 'The Good, The Bad And The Ugly' the drama of 'Get Off' unfolds with surreptitious charm. When a song hits the bullseye with such accuracy the temptation to hit the tiles with gay abandon is overwhelming.

On a much more laidback note 'Sleep' drifts in on a horse drawn wish. Beautifully tilted, it makes for the dreamiest soundtrack yet to be compiled. The guitars jangle so sweetly they could conspire the clouds into the shape of an octave. The vocals are those of a seasoned crooner returning from a 12-year stint in Barbados. Effortless and genuinely inspiring. With his gallery of personas Taylor consistently reinvents himself throughout the album. 'Cool Scene' has a psychedelic edge that propels the melody through the ages. Sitars squirm, the percussion rattles along and the guitarist from the Byrds plucks some uneven notes. As the streamlined chorus rumbles into town an Altman-esque type shortcut knits the parts together to create a seamless pattern. Perhaps 'Bohemian Like You' has done more than anything to swing popular appeal towards the Dandy's. The jumped up enthusiasm and ready charm are infectious and in copious supply. With the sort of cool that could make any politician look sophisticated where he/she to use it at an election rally 'Bohemian Like You' has the ring of a classic.

At times the Dandy Warhols unashamedly reveal their sources. 'Shakin' is so close to Elastica's 'Line Out' that a polygraph would be unable to decipher between the two. That Iggy Pop lilt adds the requisite twist to carve out the Warhols signature. 'Big Indian' could have been an Evan Dando piece such is its melancholic drag. That said the leaden energy has a homespun quality to brighten up those fireside winter evenings. To put a colourful bow on the Dandy's present to us they wrap things up with a tearful 'Gospel'. Blessed with a heart that would melt fluffy snow the subtle slide guitar co-operates so effectively with the soft words you'll hardly notice the tears streaming down your face. 'Thirteen Tales From Urban Bohemia' is a wonderful indication of the Dandy Warhols worth. Despite the constant influences creeping through on almost every song the band cast such magnetic attention to wistful melody that the output is ultimately theirs. The music is both old fashioned and a powerful argument for guitar based music's renaissance. TTFUB is an album to be cherished and will attain a formidable status with the passage of time.

Rating: 8.5/10

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'The Speed Of Sound' was a magnificent introduction to Coldplay mark III. They had harnessed their undoubted talent to produce an intriguing mix of driving guitars, cascading vocals and intergalactic keyboards. Sadly, 'The Speed Of Sound' is as good as 'X&Y' gets. Apart from the newly acquired digitals the album operates well within the confines of the Coldplay template. Chris Martin's lyrics remain decidedly of the self, there are few hints of humour or attempts to tackle issues beyond the generic. As ever Jon Buckland's guitar escapades are ubiquitous and Will Champion beats the skins to within an inch of their life. What is surprising, however, is that Martin's voice is disarmingly flat at times, not as if he is holding back, rather that the fire in his belly has been quenched. The same can be said for the music, giant salubrious riffs drift by at will but that's the rub.The chords don't lodge in the memory, the joy they bring is fleeting. No matter how pristine the production is, no amount of studio wizardry can hide the stench of half-baked ideas.

As you'd expect from a Coldplay album there are diversions of worth. 'A Message' will feature on several dozen OC moments because it bathes in Coldplay's collective creative waters and Martin's sentiments are clearly discernible. 'Fix You' is another bright moment with the singer, for once, sounding genuinely affecting as a lone keyboard provides the only company. The absence of blunderbuss allows the song to mature with each subtle shift in vocal lilt. Not even the introduction of the near messianic choir towards the end can spoil things. 'Square One' is a moderately good opener that takes a surprising amount of plays to reveal itself. It is trademark Coldplay but like 'The Speed Of Sound' there is no obvious chorus. It takes a blinding volley of words and a cavalcade of guitars to mask this oversight. This is music on a grand scale, perfectly honed and slickly executed. Strip away the gloss, however, and what remains has all the intrigue of an episode of 'Murder She Wrote'. 'The Hardest Part' is made all the more appetising because it initially, at least, plays it straight. For once the acoustics don't resort to gangling guitar-led assuages of the senses.

'Talk' clearly stands out amongst the mediocrity but hardly comes close to being the moment it was supposed to be. It is raw, brash, jam packed full of eerie noises, bass tugs and Kraftwerk's helping hand ('Computer Love'). The U2esque licks screech rather than shimmer detracting from the heartfelt sentiments in the words. 'Swallowed In The Sea' is a one trick pony but its outward charm will have many listeners weak at the knees. This is inoffensive stuff, something daytime radio will view as manna from Heaven. 'Til Kingdom Come' could be a Johnny Cash stroll and appears out of the blue at the tail end of the album. This is Coldplay going back to basics letting the tune rather the surrounding palaver take centre stage. And it succeeds in restoring some faith in what could yet be achieved. But for all the half victories there are bitter defeats every couple of songs, no more so than 'What If', which is unquestionably the nadir. Slack piano keys, vocals catching plenty of z's and the complete lack of a meaningful hook means this wastrel outstays its welcome for far too long. 'White Shadows' is less appalling but apes U2 to such a degree that I was scrambling for the inlay card to see if Larry Mullen had sat in on drumming. Martin even adopts a nasal Bono impression that is uncannily close to the original. 'Twisted Logic' completes the hat-trick of warts with a warren of turgid guitars, backward philosophies and limp melodies.

'X&Y' is the sort of album you'd expect Coldplay to knock off in a throwaway jamming session. Considering the amount of time it took to come up with the goods (a couple of years) there now must be an obvious concern that Coldplay have burnt themselves out. The several dozen songs that were discarded must have been absolute stinkers considering the efforts that survived the cull. 'X&Y' plays like a series of b-sides with no obvious continuum. This is a batch of inoffensive songs with minimal appeal that for the most part lack that hint of genius. The bare facts are that 'X&Y' simply does not work, the formula has not only diluted but is beginning to sound a tad passé. Consequently 'X&Y' stumbles well short in consolidating Coldplay's legend and if anything is a step backwards. It's not inconceivable that many fans have already begun to retreat to some of the wonders of the bands first 2 albums. At their best Coldplay can be uplifting and ambitious, at their worst they are an EMI's marketing executives wet dream. Unfortunately on this occasion the suits have had their victory and 'X&Y' has ended up being about as enticing as a Gwyneth Paltrow acceptance speech.

Rating: 5/10

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The good news is that Coldplay have consolidated their billing as the shining lights most likely to. The downside is that they have yet to mastermind a revelatory record. While A Rush of Blood to the Head is never less than an interesting listen it has the unfortunate knack of repeatedly kicking in the headway it so eloquently carves out for itself. 'Parachutes' was similarly maligned. With a decent sprinkling of 2000's best songs ('Don't Panic' remains their most rounded effort to date) it faltered when the tempo espoused ill-timed soul searching. The new album has songs to steal your heart but there are also a few ideas that are akin to the Kelly Jones' no mans land approach to songwriting. Sadly the task of listening can feel like a chore at times. 'A Rush Of Blood To The Head' also sees Coldplay lose that spark of originality with a newfound injection of influences heavily impacting on proceedings. Paradoxically, this departure helps unfurl some exciting ideas.

'A Rush Of Blood To The Head' boasts a similar graph of highs and not so as its predecessor. 'Politik', the opener, is at first a little insipid as the ponderous chords come poorly supported by Chris Martin's lacklustre delivery. You've got to wait a bit but the piano interplay at the core turns things around spectacularly. When the vocals and celestial interferences take off their hat to a time when dream pop seemed to be the way to go several intoxicating flavours emerge. Humbling, as you realise the talent these guys possess and how with the right execution they could consistently hit the G-Note. 'In My Place', despite its lump in the throat virtuso from Martin still relies on a decidely lame riff. Not that it's unpretty, it's just that it adopts the stance of a recently woken up idea. So much of what's good about Coldplay originates from their bright chord manoeuvring. It is the sparkle that polishes off what could otherwise go unnoticed but with 'In My Place' the guitars merely hover when you want them to soar. Breezing in on an acoustic air 'God Put A Smile Upon Your Face' introduces notoriety with some warped playing. The chorus is as streamlined as you would expect but the lead up is a tad wearisome. At least the energy is there and the added instrumental malevolent tendencies shield the lack of pretty aural aesthetics.

Trouble, it seems, was ready to brew on the ill-timed 'The Scientist'. With Ian McCullough sitting on the singers shoulder a lot of the tension is diffused and the dramatics are left to a January-esque (on the Poptones label) combination of luxurious low slung guitar work and subtle percussion to save the day. 'Clocks' has a simple premise that sends a flotilla of butterflies in a spin towards your neck hairs. The cascading piano riff is enormously uplifting and Martin's stripped vocal is the perfect foil to the delicate musicianship. Raising the ante and the quality quotient it sounds almost surreal when a lost Bono wanders into the scene every now and then. 'Daylight' is perhaps the best indicator of where Coldplay's potential could see them heading. Somewhat like a Rivaldo dive, the build up to the adrenaline soaked chorus is ponderous and close to tiresome yet when the tune hits full throttle clear melody pours forth like liquid on a winter's morning at Foz Do Iguacu. If moments like this distillation could continue for longer then we would have a very special album on our hands indeed. True to form, and in a musical sense tragically, the band choose to drive us in and out and around the bends from here on in. 'Green Eyes' is perhaps as low as 'A Rush Of Blood To The Head' gets. As out of tune as a toothless crone, as directionless as a mapless Mr Bean and possessing as much momentum as the first stone wheel (square) this is Coldplay peddling their wares around retirement homes to deaf pensioners in 30 years.

'Warning Sign' is cute melodrama put to music. Inoffensive and persistently soft of focus it saunters by without ever having a wholesome effect on the listener (well, this one anyway). At this stage Chris Martin's patter starts to grate a little. I mean here is a young man with more than a modicum of talent who continually bemoans his situation when a good lay would probably set his mind straight. 'Warning Sign' will still, no doubt, fill teenage hearts with hope but for us grown ups the message is less convincing, more contrived. 'A Whisper' is anything but. Big and bold cranking guitars engulf incendiary material within touching distance. This is Coldplay at last testing the water (even though U2 may have bathed there earlier) and pushing the boat out without first checking for leaks. It's exciting, dramatic and half a world away from the cutesy ballads they so often reach for, comfort blanket like. What a blow then, to have to sit through the muffled pity inducing swagger of title track 'A Rush Of Blood To The Head'. OK, there are echoes of a great Radiohead tune, a Slowdive guitar haemorrage and a joyous frazzled chorus in there somewhere but I for one would not hazard the maze of mediocrity to find it. Dilly-dally for too long on a fault line and someday the ground will crack and swallow you whole. 'Amsterdam' almost peters to a halt after the half idea that is initially presented is flogged within an inch of its life. Then, unexpectedly at the 4-minute mark its shunts into life through a guitar barrage that provides the punchline that was so badly needed. For an all too short a time Coldplay's stargazing renders criticism null and void. This song illustrates how the band can frustrate and delight within the crank of a guitar chord. They certainly have the keys to unlock the gates; it's just that they habitually reach for the wrong ones.

Coldplay have a distance to travel before they become the finished article. They still lag behind such contemporaries as Doves and And You Will Know Us By The Trail Of Dead, lacking the formers imagination and the latter's aggressive take on melody spinning. 'A Rush Of Blood To The Head' is half a great album, half an alright one. It's a pleasant listen, at times exhilarating, elsewhere infuriatingly stoic. The band have moved on a little, but perhaps in doing so they have lost a little of themselves. Despite this it's highly likely that the best is yet to come. For the moment then, time is on their side but greatness remains just beyond their field of vision.

Rating: 7/10

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Sometimes I could give Coldplay a good kick up the backside. I mean they draw us in with 2 terrific opening tracks and as I rapidly begin to salivate the bottom falls out of the damn thing. A lot of the time you can see the idea appearing fleetingly through the fog of prog rock and it hurts to see such a good idea being swamped by over indulgent balladry. That is not to say that when the tempo slows that all is lost, erm 'Everything's Not Lost' is a tingling joy that builds over its 7 minutes plus journey. The root problem manifests itself in tracks such as 'Sparks' which has an anvil around its neck and no matter what it does it can't break free. Add in the not so heady mix of 'High Speed' and 'We Never Change' and what could have been a classic album is reduced to a promising debut. The title track is too short to render it important enough for discussion resembling a substitute entering the fray at 3 minutes into injury time.

So that gets most of the negatives out the way. Overall the positives do outweigh these niggles by a fair margin. 'Don't Panic' is as groovy as it gets and Chris Martin's voice, which is omnipresent throughout the whole album, sounds particularly sweet and vulnerable. Things continue in the ascendancy with the next track 'Shiver' with a glorious snowballing guitar riff. 'Spies' donates another twinkling guitar moment but exclude this and you wouldn't be left with much. 'Yellow' is by now a bona fida classic and needs no introduction. It is far and away Coldplay's defining moment so far. 'Trouble' is pleasing, albeit in a fleeting sort of way and is a mishmash of why the tunes on Parachutes are sometimes rewarding, sometimes slovenly.

In short when Coldplay rise above the slow numbers they are capable of creating a very interesting sound. So why does Parachutes have at least 5 songs t hat are arthritic as a lame dog. Talent is present, star quality fills the air, all they need is someone’s extended foot to the posterior and the future is theirs.

Rating: 7/10

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If anyone ever comes up with a definition that neatly encapsulates what indie music really stands for then Brooklyn’s Clap Your Hands Say Yeah could provide the perfect illustration. Self-titled, self-recorded and self-released this debut takes some beating in the going it alone department. Not that the band needed to have worried because Clap Your Hands Say Yeah rivals Funeral for ear opening new discoveries in 2005. The first thing that strikes you about CYHSY’s music is main man Alec Ounsworth’s voice which resembles a mashup of David Byrne (Talking Heads) and Zed (Police Academy 2). Initially the spectacle is almost taxing but like all pearls it eventually curls into that part of the brain that falls in love with things. The music that weaves around this curiosity is elastic and inventive, tunes start off down one avenue and end up three streets away heading in the opposite direction. That’s not to say that you’ll have to put your thinking cap on to appreciate as the roving melodies float alluringly near the surface.

You don’t often you find an LP that is devoid of filler (hey even the sanatorium anthem ‘Clap Your Hands!’ has its uses) but CYHSY achieves this with unguarded glee. The song titles are winningly off the wall (the bands name is taken from a line of graffiti after all) but it’s the music that’ll floor you. ‘Let The Cool Goddess Rust Away’ is the albums first song and reveals CYHSY’s patchwork quilt array of talents. The vocals are unintelligible yet intriguing in their delivery, a bass pummels imperiously and a Velvet Underground like melange of guitars fills in the blanks. ‘Sunshine And Clouds And Everything Proud’ is one of purest spine tingling minutes ever and acts are the perfect curtain raiser for the albums pivotal event ‘Details Of The War’. The former is unlike anything you’ll have ever heard (unless you live next door to Dan Snaith) as a wind up clocks’ hourly chime is coerced into a gentle free flowing frolic. ‘Details Of The War’ sees Ounsworth pulling in the reins and his vocals are for once devoid of madness. The momentum continually threatens to move up a gear until the expected eruption arrives as a harmonica bleeds into the advancing chopping guitars.

‘The Skin of My Yellow Country Teeth’, apart from being the title of this or any other year, is an Arcade Fire rampage of sound with a riff that is bereft of energy but infused with incalculable adventure. Alec hollers in that totally indecipherable way of his, those who can’t remember a single lyric from their favourite songs will be in their element. This is music to waffle along to without any need whatsoever to sync with the singers outpourings, in other words it will never reside on a shiny Karaoke disc. The song swoops and pirouettes for several minutes until its partner in crime ‘Is This Love?’ takes over on a similar skewed ramble. The nod to Talking Heads almost clones the original on ‘Upon This Tidal Wave Of Young Blood’, where the lead singer is drenched in a organ dalliance until he stops making sense towards the end. Such devotion doesn’t make CYHSY any less original, in fact their scatty genius emerges fully augmented.

Only once does the band make a complete costume change on the shoegaze wonderland ‘In This Home On Ice’. All told it has been a good year for the much maligned genre what with Ambulance LTD upping the ante, Bloc Party raising the bar, Engineers slowing it down and now CYHSY applying the perfect finish. ‘In This Home On Ice’ pulsates under layers of out of focus guitars while Ounsworth freewheels like another chord change. You’ll likely fill a pint glass with your own tears such is its heart swelling glory. At this point dehydration is a distinct possibility if you were to allow yourself to be taken in by ‘Heavy Metal’. Here all manner instrumental possibilities are pulled into a freakish mix. The chorus sees the singer spit out a poltergeist that was using him as a host in an unrivalled example of exorcism put to music. The entrails exhibit some nice riffage and a drummer who ensures that the evil spirit is crushed. Thank the lord then for ‘Blue Turning Gravy’ that coolly puts a lid on the supernatural episode through some lovely guitar turns.

CYHSY are that rare animal that you’ll have to hunt down and mount on the nearest music playing device. Combining equal doses of humour, quirky melody and daft forays with sublime song writing abilities these New York boys may well run away with the laurels. The album plays seamlessly from one song to the next, which means that it’s often difficult to spot the changeover. Even though it is almost 40 minutes long your time together is often too short to corral all the innovative ideas. CYHSY is an album of special moments to be treasured over and over again and if you need cheering up it provides innumerable lessons towards that great realisation that life is for smiling.

Rating: 9/10

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Some Friendly will always be the quintessential Charlatans album. It has a vibrancy that their other albums have lacked, a willingness to reach for the pop jugular until it surrenders to their baggy vision. That is not to say that the Charlatans have stopped producing terrific pop thrills, but outside of this album they remain a 'what a wonderful single, pity about the album' band. In a live setting the Charlatans shows sparkle due in the most part to the infinite enthusiasm of leadman Tim Burgess. A showman in the Ian Brown mould, it's obvious he still gets mighty kicks from what he does. Each Charlatans gig reaches a beautiful climax when 'Sproston Green' is given a full expansive reworking. This song closes 'Some Friendly' and remains the epitome of a savage assault on the senses with organ drenched guitars swirling over Burgess' lively vocals. Back in 1990 when Some Friendly was released Burgess was a flamboyant bowl haired Madchester vision (take a look at the video for 'The Only One I Know', a true historical document of the early days). The band were prime movers in the Madchester scene and it seems likely that their legend will forever be connected with this period.

'Some Friendly' is full of steamrolling, organ fused, indie grooves. Things get off to an auspicious start on the bass heavy 'You're Not Very Well', nothing revolutionary but a gentle introduction to what lies ahead. 'White Shirt' never gets any recognition but it is a sublime tune, full of fruity twists and vocals that are angelic and mischievous all at once. At this point in their career the Charlatans were capable of producing incredible 3-minute pop wonders. I can still remember the feeling of hearing 'Then' on the goals of the week section of Match of the day. It is a thundering rendition that has a cool swagger that remains intact to this day even if it's creators have got a bit flabby. Madchester bowed to the Hammond ingrained tunes of the sixties. The Inspiral Carpets and the Charlatans adopted this sound more than most. Tunes like 'Believe You Me' loudly hark back to the past while infusing a modern day spirit into proceedings. Songs like 'Polar Bear' and 'Flower' may seem a little lightweight but they are imbued with a youthful attitude and energy that is hard to match. 'The Only One I Know' has passed into the realm of legend at this stage. It is still the Charlatans most cherished moment. Not sure if it's the repetitive Hammond structures, that indie-dance beat, Tim Burgess' detached utterances or the bass frontier near the end but whatever it is, this song is truly genre defining.

The Charlatans slowly became more mainstream as the nineties progressed and while they still have it in their power to conjure up magical melodies there has been a slow progression towards the knackers yard as inspiration slowly diminishes. Keyboardist Rob Collins' tragic death may have signalled the start of the slow demise. The newer albums lack direction and a lot of the material sounds a little sedate and workmanlike. The Charlatans true image will forever be cast in this indispensable debut, however. Whether it can appeal to a new set fans is open to question but for those who remember 1990 as the year they grew up something intangible and unmistakably cool still lurks between this album's grooves.

Rating: 8/10

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The vitality and energy of Catatonia's brilliant debut 'Way Beyond Blue' seemed to dissipate down a Welsh valley on ‘International Velvet’. As the band tore the charts apart, each new release revealed a diminishing level of inspiration. Paper Scissors Stone was a glorious return to form. Flowing seamlessly over 14 tracks, it is the bands crowning achievement. Gone are the weak melodies, the strung out production and rambling direction. In their place are lots of fine tunes collectively making up a cohesive and wildly enjoyable album.

At times Cerys Matthews' can sound like an excited choirboy but her strains are nonetheless attractive and inviting. Like on the epic opener 'Godspeed' where she’s heartfelt and fragile. The flawless orchestration helps of course but one can't help but be touched by the story of despair and loneliness. A little simple and superficial 'Immediate Circle' hurtles along until it takes a heavenly break. The piano bamboozles the senses and never really wins your admiration. But for every forgettable tune there are several memorable ones. 'Fuel' takes several sideswipes at non-green activities. The chorus is big, bold and defiant. 'Doom looms large on the horizon, Mountain toxic river poison, Fools get votes in a democracy' shows exactly where the band stand on environment issues. This CD is made from carbon neutral material, which is a nice gesture to show they don't just peddle hollow messages.

There is a minor Bjork influence on 'What It Is' right down to its trigger-happy beats. Oblique and bare it is deserving of a good remix to give it its feet. 'Stone By Stone' on the other hand needs no help. The backing singers might have a chance in getting the part for the witches guards in the remake of the Wizard of Oz but Cerys won't have any difficulty filling Dorothy's shiny shoes. That bitter sweet symphony always comes in handy at chorus time and adds further credence to this songs greatness. It's quite remarkable how each track on 'Paper Scissors Stone' tumbles by with such an effortless melody. 'The Mother Of Misogyny' for example is just waiting to be adopted by the nearest ear. The guitars frolic about like a drunken cowboy and Cerys gets hoarse on a sack full of emotion. If you could label 'The Mother Of Misogyny' dramatic then 'Is Everybody Here On Drugs?' desperately searches for its own (drugs). Brilliantly dizzy, hip shakingly forgetful and buzzing on a giant meandering vocal performance this is the experience filtered into a few minutes.

Not content with waltzing with Iceland's daughter, Catatonia also grab Kate Bush by the hand and give her the time of her life on 'Imaginary Friend'. As fragile as crystal one minute but as tough as nails the next, this is music not afraid to wear its inner turmoil on its torn sleeve. If you survive that trauma, 'Shore Leave' is quite a beautiful reward. It would have made a fine single, the vocal delivery is acrobatic and the jangling guitar playing overshadows the violin subtext. 'Apple Core' could be an outtake from 'Amnesiac' but even though it flitters for less than a couple of minutes it is beguiling. Belching beats, burping voices, drum machines and several dancing teddy bears is generally enough to get me smiling. Sounding remarkably like a Cardigans composition with beefed up energy 'Beautiful Loser' may have an untidy guitar loop but everything else is close to pristine. It has a familiar ring and dreams up jazz moments given a thoughtful modernisation. There is a swagger to the playing that is infectious.

'Blues Song' has a much harder edge and is difficult to pin down. In saying that the guitars saunter through the air like seagulls on speed while a ranting Matthews spurts out her cruel intentions. Against all this 'Village Idiots' is a little incoherent and hurried. Not in a bad way but in that unique Catatonia take on musical frenzy that so often hits the target only after some headless rummaging in the dark. At the end Cerys utters a few home truths 'Get set and maybe, we could be the first to cross the line'. As ever, willing to speak her mind it's hard to disagree because after a few listens this album confirms Catatonia's worth. 'Paper Scissors Stone' is a genuine surprise for those who felt cheated at ‘International Velvet’s cold commerciality. There are highlights aplenty, repeated listens uncover nuances that you had failed to pick up on previously. It about time you cancelled your appointments, rang in sick, missed a few lectures, or just did what you gotta do to listen to this album.

Rating: 6.5/10

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