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

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

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

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

Rating: 7/10

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

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

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

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

Tony Kelleher

Rating: 7/10

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

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

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

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

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

Rating: 6.5/10

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

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

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

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

Rating: 9/10

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

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

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

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

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

Rating: 7/10

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Dublin collective Michael Knight released their debut with a minimum of fanfare. They also appeared out of the blue from a country that is adept at uncovering troubadours yet has a slightly anaemic record in producing exciting new bands. That may be about to change, however, if Michael Knight achieve what their music ultimately deserves. With a Clap Your Hands Say Yeah net savvy they could soon be the sensations of the underground because hidden inside their shiny armoury are bundles of sonic joy. There are justifiable Belle & Sebastian comparisons but their influences also span the several degrees of separation between the Beach Boys and Burt Bacharach. With such a varied game plan it seems entirely appropriate that they decided to call themselves after a 1980’s TV character. What the bright red shorts wearing, million record selling crooner thinks of it all is another matter altogether.

It’s that early Belle & Sebastian energetic quirkiness that hits you first. ‘Waves To The Shore’ is a superb piece of affecting kitsch with attendant vintage keyboards, Richard Murphy’s warm vocals and glorious background harmonies from Edel Coffey and Lynn Millar. The piece is perfectly off-kilter yet exuberantly innocent. The bands most successful efforts are based around a lavish chorus where the boy/girl interplay is perfectly executed. ‘Leaving Town’ is a ravishing example; the piano interlude at the beginning barely reveals the sweetness about to be unveiled. There is a children’s daytime programme feel about the way Murphy delivers his lines, one half jolly the other fabulously silly. That’s not to detract from the joy of it but it’s only when the trio combine to furnish a multi-layered chorus that the magic occurs. The result is otherworldly, completely timeless, effortlessly dispatched yet utterly compelling. This is a certifiable modern day classic. The title track is almost as good, for once Patrick Freyne takes over the lead and his near santa like voice provides the perfectly foil to the gentle ahh’s of Richard and the girls. The music that sits in the foreground is playful, understated and the tinkling piano is the only thing that steals the limelight from the singers.

The quality is evenly spread throughout the album but some tracks take a bit more time to reveal themselves. ‘Bright Eye’ showboats quirky structures and unveils offbeat melody at every turn so it’s easy to overlook it initially. By letting it mature slowly, however, it grows into a multi-faceted pop entity. ‘The Lights Go On And Off’ is frenetic and as dispassionate as the record gets. Murphy pulls a note perfect Stuart Murdoch impression while the guitars sound like they have just returned from an enjoyable eastern escapade. ‘Lead Me Down’ is a lot gentler, the piano sounds comfortably familiar, the strumming is campfire friendly and the tiered vocals gel so seamlessly together you may find yourself singing along in an unrehearsed shower moment. ‘Crown Of Thorns’ has a Wilsonesque feel to it and even finds time to include a whistling solo into proceedings. What takes this fine debut out of the classic category is the presence of a couple of disappointing numbers. If they had been culled then we’d be looking at one of the most flawless introductions since Tigermilk. ‘Success!’ is inexplicably dour and out of sync with the rest of the happy go lucky fare. The vocals are tired, off key and the instrumentation would suit the moment the funeral cortege enters the graveyard. ‘No Second Best’ is slightly better yet slight nonetheless. Perhaps it could work ok as a b-side but it struggles to find any meaning throughout its stunted life. But, disappointments are certainly in the minority and a couple of seconds in the company of tracks like ‘Seasons’ draws a colourful crayon smile in your psyche. ‘Foals’ was the albums first single and is perfectly pitched indie folk that you can dance to. If Arthur Lee had had Richard Murphy’s voice this perfect ditty would have made it onto the ‘Forever Changes’ masterpiece without much ado. The guitars even have a country twang that is semi Morricone in nature.

In some ways ‘I Did It Biff’s Way’ is an altogether separate direction for the band but as a closing track there’s no denying its genius in capping a marvellous record. It reminds most of something that the underrated Swedish band South Ambulance can conjure. Right from the off the pulsating riffs set the momentum with Murphy’s vocal riding the entourage with graceful dexterity. You can picture the end of gig antics as the band decide its time to ditch the balanced harmonies in favour of a sublime feast of chugging noise. This is indie rock at its most ebullient and its greatest achievement is the way it reveals hidden nuances with repeated listens. The circular disposition is shattered toward the end when the roof blows to reveal the sun, moon and the stars. Michael Knight are quite likely the most essential thing to come out of Ireland since Damien Rice decided America was for him. Up to now their sales likely only run into the thousands but if there is justice Murphy et al will need to look for extra wall space to accommodate lots of round platinum things. ‘Youth Is Wasted On The Young’ is the only musical kitt you’ll need for your home, portable or, of course, your car stereo.

Rating: 8/10

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Outcasts in their hometown of Bergen in Norway where death metal is the only musical form, the Kings of Convenience are likely to be embraced everywhere else where their music is played. You see the Kings of Convenience produce little tuneful vignettes that are as quiet as a mouse but as powerful as weil's disease. Erlend Oye and Eirik Glambek Boe are often photographed in large duffel coats and schoolboy thick rimmed glasses. But before you start calling them the Scandinavian Proclaimers, check out the gentle intelligence of their melodies gloriously swathed in those crafty acoustic nuances. And not many albums get this acoustic. Save for a few slivers of electricity this is a closest thing you'll get to an eco party this side of the Green's summer picnic.

'Winning A Battle Losing The War' sets the scene from the outset. Guitars are gently conjoled, intermittedly uncovering a dazzling riff, to produce a wonderful fondue base for the sweet vocals. While the sense of acousticism is acute, there are a surprising number of instruments on show. 'Singing Softly To Me' for example has a lingering trumpet shadow that skirts in and out of attention, going some way to deflecting the utter tweeness of the vocals (nice thought they are). At the start of 'Toxic Girl' you almost expect Damon Albarn to damage his tonsils a la 'Song 2'. Thankfully the sultry whirl of 'Toxic Girl' has a lot more to offer. Erlend and Eirik don't exactly work themselves into a sweat but this tunes value comes forth from a combination of sweet harmonies, non-apologetic flights of lust and a fine fusion of meandering laid-back guitars.

At times you have to marvel at the ingenuity of it all. 'I Don't Know What I Can Save You From' uses the most basic of ingredients but somehow creates a tune that is close to shiver inducing. There's not a hint of a drum in sight yet the vocal driven melody is hugely powerful when it fuses with the melancholy of the trailing cello. This intensity continues unabated on the single 'Failure'. The music comes close to resembling the Badly Drawn Boy template but the vocals are nothing short of luxurious. Who needs electricity to power the instruments when it's hanging in the air like pollen. Things are toned down a little as the innocent joy of 'Weight Of My Words' floats feather like from the speakers. The delicate vocals are matched by a musical backdrop that is as light as a diet wafer. Confusing as this may sound, it packs a huge emotional punch. Just pity the elderly and hard of hearing for missing out on such a fragile thrill.

As Quiet Is The New Loud progresses you'll find yourself tilting up the volume as it seemingly drops into unconsciousness. This is of course intoned by the albums title but sadly as it gets quieter the level of quality diminishes slightly. The first half of the album is drenched in melody but in the latter stages the ideas seemed a little stretched. 'The Girl From Back Then' suffers in comparison to its close relative 'Singing Softly To Me'. A case of a morning bell getting one too many tolls. Half way through and there's only one moment of distraction. Its not bad but 'Passenger' sadly lives up to it's name. Devoid of any real inspiration, it plods along rather like a spluttering banger without a steering wheel.

The Kings of Convenience lack the lyrical expanse and fluidity of contemporaries Belle and Sebastian which is a shame because when music is played at such a low ebb the words tend to attain greater resonance. The duo are also prone to the odd whimsical flutter. 'Little Kids' for example borders on the inane, even when it's Simon and Garfunkel style points to something bigger and better. Thankfully there are also moments as precious as 'Summer On The Westhill' to erase any feelings of short changedness. Where the Kings of Convenience could easily slip into frivolity, they go and defy the odds by making something that is frighteningly quiet sound altogether more intriguing. The final salvo 'Parallel Lines' also sounds grand; the chopping chords display imagination while the vocals could easily be culled from a Nick Drake composition.

The Kings of Convenience have gilded 12 fragile tunes that will have fans of modern folk licking their lips. At times the Norwegian duo slip too much into acoustic melodrama, when raising the decibel level from time to time could have perhaps provided a more fertile option. 'Quiet Is The New Loud' is nonetheless an impressive debut. It is surely the perfect accompaniment for those lazy days spent swaying in a Mexican hammock while all around you the world struggles in vain to catch up with itself.

Rating: 6/10

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Take a bunch of anglophiles from Las Vegas, add a giant slab of retro cool, sprinkle a pinch of concentrated melody, boil under the midday sun and what is get is the sumptuous aural feast that is Hot Fuss. You should know them by now and even if you don’t recognise the name you’ve been whistling their tunes. This album certainly captures the zeitgeist, a band with influences clearly derived from the past adding their own spin and making it sound contemporary. Straight from the off the chords are big, forceful and while ‘Jenny Was A Friend Of Mine’ might not always hit the bullseye it colours itself in a neat Cure like embrace. ‘Smile You Mean It’ is similarly inclined with Brandon Flowers aping Robert Smith to great effect as the soaring keyboards reign supreme.

‘Somebody Told Me’ has been with us so long it almost seems as if it comes from a different age. Its underlying rhythm is hypnotic, the momentum quickly switching between frantic to downright epileptic. The production is raw often coming across as an energetic demo. ‘All The Things That I’ve Done’ is a lot more amenable to the casual listener. The riffs are round and welcoming and the chorus has an anthemic cigarette lighter in the air quality. It even boasts a line that could well be the Killers tag line ‘I got soul, but I'm not a soldier’. ‘Mr Brightside’ is as good as guitar driven pop gets. There is no faffing about as the song kicks off with the clearest of intentions. All the ingredients are present; the driving riff courtesy of David Keuning, the angular vocals and a chorus so wholesome you’ll feel like pinching its cheek. This is a modern classic that will be with us until we’re eating mashed bananas. ‘Everything Will Be Alright’ has the aforementioned goth’s angst in spades marking itself out as the only slow effort on the whole disc. Flowers vocals sound as if have been squeezed through a Korg after one too many pints of imported bitter.

There are so many highlights on ‘Hot Fuss’ it comes as a bit of a surprise to discover a fair sprinkle of clunkers along the way. ‘Andy, You’re A Star’ is one such, turgid guitars underpin a stop-start lyric delivery that should never have developed beyond the embryonic stage. ‘On Top’ is better but suffers under the weight of ordinary ideas. The Killers hold sway in the efficient delivery of a winning chorus but here a patient wait results in minimal reward. ‘Midnight Show’ also flatters to deceive, it blusters about, cutting an impressive silhouette but underneath the exterior beats a hollow yoke. Thankfully ‘Change Your Mind’ has none of these problems; this could pass for a winning Strokes effort. The guitars march persuasively, organs drone like well oiled engines and the clean beat tidies the package into a perfectly formed bundle of noise.

Hot Fuss is not a genetically cohesive unit, it falters from time to time but its working parts are practically superhuman. All in all it is a stellar debut spiked with several moments guaranteed to brighten up your day. There were better albums in 2004 but the Killers knack of knocking out drop dead gorgeous tunes has meant that this albums profile rose meteorically with each single release. Hot Fuss provides a good argument for downloader’s whose preference it is to pick-and-choose album tracks rather than buying the whole product.

Rating: 7/10

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Up to recently I had avoided solo artists like the plague reasoning that something was always going to be more interesting if it came from a group of people. This rather pathetic logic was turned on its head after I discovered Nick Drake, Badly Drawn Boy and Sparklehorse. So where once I would have treaded neatly around stuff released by artists like Matthew Jay, I now head straight for the nearest listening post. Draw does not disappoint; the production is lush, the ideas are creative and at intervals it is liable to leave you in various stages of exhilaration.

Matthew Jay was born in Wales (which ultimately led to lazy David Gray comparisons in the press) to a musical family. When his father lost his job as a coalminer, he turned his hand to making guitars. With his parent’s love of folk music and a ready supply of instruments available on his doorstep, Jay junior set about writing his own songs from a very young age. After much effort and on the point of jacking in all in Jay was eventually signed to Food Records (Blur). 'Let Your Shoulder Fall' was the first release from 'Draw' and became the single of the week on Mark and Lard's Radio One show. It's hard to argue with their decision because 'Let Your Shoulder Fall' is an upbeat jive with a classy guitar centrepiece. Matthew Jay's voice has a soft lilt but it manages to swoop and soar in a way that conjures up a happy Nick Drake (!). 'Four Minute Rebellion' is the quaint opener on the album, although the not so subtle swearing comes a little bit of a surprise.

There is an underlying nostalgic feel to a lot of 'Draw'. 'You're Always Going Too Soon' for example is a remarkably studied pop song delivered with style and panache that has an internal spirit that harks back to the summer of 1976. While Jay’s voice is timeless the music sounds like it has been beautifully preserved in a sealed casket for decades. What a double bill he and the Webb Brothers would make! 'Only Meant To Say' evokes some better Lightning Seeds moments (particularly 'Sense', although this makes more), happy music designed to make you smile. It starts out with some shimmering spacey guitars and a wandering vocal. Then, quite by surprise, the tune gets possessed by a fully fledged demon of a chorus. Quite simply a sunshine tune that bursts at the seams with gleeful attitude.

The guitars on 'Meteorology' sound rather close to something Noel Gallagher would cook up. Jay's delicately hushed vocals elevate proceedings while the distant strings add the necessary class. It is quite stirring and beautifully slows things down momentarily. 'Call My Name Out' had me thinking of the theme to Hill Street Blues (or was that Taxi?). The 'hey na na na na' bit sounds a little borrowed but the good vibes do help you overlook this minor quibble. Not for the first time Jay employs a double vocal that adds to his music's rich texture. 'Molasses' is this albums only instrumental (save for a light female hum) and could easily be a cut from Doves masterpiece, 'Lost Souls'. The acoustic riff and tick-tock electronic beats act as a subtle comedown and provide an opportunity to catch your breath from the preceding waves of aural candy. 'Please Don't Send Me Away' turns the spotlight on Jay's lean vocal deliveries again. While they hog the attention, the music that surrounds them is startlingly accomplished.

'Remember This Feeling' includes some input from ex Six By Seven (Nottingham noise meisters) member Sam Hempton. Hempton carves out wondrous sonics using a drumstick to play his guitar. The song is positively drenched in bygone signposts; 10cc are the closing influence that springs to mind. 'Become Yourself' is as exquisite a moment as finding a lemon tree in your back yard. The sense of joie de vivre that is expelled will paint rainbows in your mind and have you miming the great harmonica player you once dreamed you'd become. 'The Clearing' is unquestionably Beatles territory a la 'Lady Madonna' right down to the old style black and white vocal production. While it certainly is a blast it lacks some of the intense melody that the other tunes on 'Draw' exhibit. The piano laced 'A World Away' also has fab four leanings. Paul McCartney gets a wink of admiration and the mystique of the harmonies puts the perfect seal on a genuinely thrilling debut.

Matthew Jay's one and only album will draw you in straight away. It is rich in melody and semi-acoustic guitar riffs. Almost every song has true worth and the album is a powerful indictment of Jay's talent. Two years after recording this album Matthew Jay tragically died after a fall from his 7th floor apartment in Nottingham. He was only 24. ‘Draw’ is a fine legacy to his undisputed talent.

Rating: 6.5/10

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It was hard to understand the pious attitude towards James in the media. On the face of it here was a band that had the gifted knack of coining off the shelf airs full of energetic melody. On its release the critics scoffed ‘Seven’ at its supposed stadium oriention. That somehow James had forgotten their humble folk-rock beginnings and had turned into would-be rock gods. That's progress in my book and looking back ‘Seven’ is a monumental improvement on their previous efforts 'Stutter', ‘Strip Mine’ and 'Gold Mother' which lacked the finesse and imagination of the follow-up. There's an energy to the music that went some way in translating the spectacle that James concocted in concert. One such show was recorded by MTV around the same time ‘Seven’ was released. It remains a landmark film of a band at the peak of their powers, where cartoon flowers elegantly waltzed with an effortless montage of sound.

'Born of Frustration' is smothered in luscious trumpet sounds (supplied by the appropriately named Andy Diagram). Don't know what it is about that instrument but when it's used properly it gives me the shivers. The songs ingrained spirit is precocious and endearing. 'Ring the Bells' is as streamlined a pop tune as you're likely to hear and as Tim Booth hollers it's hard not to mimic his puppet dangling in the wind dance moves. 'Sound' has a similar theme that sees Booth once again successfully reprise his werewolf persona. When James sail close to the good ship U2 on 'Live a Love of Life', retribution would be forthcoming were it not for 'Don't Wait that Long' which is an exhaustive example of how a love song should be written. The song broods by way of a dalliance between Saul Davis’ fingers and the chords at his disposal. This is the sound of the human body straining to control too many wounded ventricles. ‘Next Lover’ showcases the aftermath and the knowing frayed playing subtly coaxes the required imagery from the words. The album engineers its way to the summit with a couple of James most notable achievements. 'Heavens' is as angelic as you'd expect and proves without doubt that Coldplay weren’t the first band to devise memorable piano riffs. It’s the title track, however, that encapsulates the essence of the piece. Shimmering above the strain of sweet guitar strings and classy brass sunsets Tim Booth pulls on his most affecting persona to steal the girl of his dreams.

We have a lot to thank James for. Their t-shirts alone kept me in fashionable tops for years. While these may be passé now, their music still sounds contemporary and vibrant. Later albums like ‘Laid’ and ‘Whiplash’ were accomplished affairs, which while never losing sight of the tune lacked the adrenalin rush that so propelled this album. ‘Seven’ is all the evidence that was ever needed to prove that James had the ammunition to be greats. Unfortunately in 1992 the sound of Seattle had swept all diversions aside so much so that ‘Seven’ never garnered the attention it warranted. What a shame then, that this great band will be remembered for a novelty hit. It’s enough to make you sit down in sympathy.

Rating: 7/10

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January’s vocalist Simon McLean has a hugely ambitious streak matched only by Sarah Peacock's lavish guitar strokes. Signed to Alan McGee’s Poptones label the bands influences are easy to pinpoint, splicing Teenage Fanclub's ear for melody with occasional My Bloody Valentine molten guitar assaults. Wherever you look on this album you'll be struck by the arch melody ingrained in January's music. It has a laid-back acoustic stance but is certainly not limited by this ambition. There are quite a few introspective moments liked 'Fused' and 'Invisible Lines' but the album exudes a sonic energy that belies it's somewhat minimalist approach. 'Invisible Lines' is a particularly absorbing, harmonious slice of shiver inducing pop. Just perfect for the moment you discover that elusive Thai beach.

'All Time' starts off so acoustically, it’s hard to pick up on the chords. Quite out of the blue then it attains the aura of an epic, the guitar layers fuse and play off each other perfectly. McLean sounds star struck yet powerful and the whole effect is uplifting even though its inspiration has its roots in melancholy. The final minutes contain some supremely ragged guitar effects that propels the whole affair. 'Sequence Start' has a fragmented feel to it with the jaunty guitars camouflaging the carnivorous riffs that lie ahead. Taking surreal pointers from the Kevin Shields handbook of hazy distortions is one thing but conjuring something that the great man would be proud of himself displays January's immense potential. 'Sequence Start' is one of the outstanding tracks in an album filled with highlights.

'Contact Light' has Peacock pulling the sweetest of guitar chord progressions this side of jangle city. Not for the first time the singer sports that familiar shoegazing vocal of old. It is wispy, ethereal and imbued with a heart breaking sadness. In the context of the most sublime of riffs, this is deeply affecting stuff. January remind me most of a Scottish band called Whiteout who were capable of writing little pop gems (and releasing them on the b-sides of their singles). 'Projections' has a crawling country chord. Its sweet harmonies are a constant feature of the album as a whole. 'Through Your Skies' has notions of 'Carnival of Light' period Ride with vocals that resemble Mark Gardner, while Sarah Peacock could easily be Andy Bell toiling with a slide guitar in the background. Elsewhere 'Eyes All Mine' has a neat repetitive bassline, sandwiched between gorgeous guitar slivers, moog dalliances and Mclean's weeping vocals. Live favourite 'Falling In' is like that track you normally uncover at the end of a truly great album where the band rawk out under a blaze of guitar fury. Thankfully this approach more or less succeeds even though it sounds curiously not of this time, in an ea rly Verve type of way.

I Heard Myself in You espouses a forever changing guise. It resembles a collection of songs taken from several different albums. While the music often takes centre stage it is hard not be taken in by Mclean's words. There are glimpses of January's influences on nearly all of the tunes but their sound is robust enough to stand proud as their unique creation. This band is supremely gifted and 'I Heard Myself In You' is a courageous album full of promise. Anyone with a soft spot for shimmering guitars and soft textured vocals will be blown away. It is surely only a matter of time before the world becomes entranced by their spellbinding music.

Rating: 7.5/10

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Another album to be emitted in the year that Madchester enveloped the pop world. 1990 saw the alternative movers take centre stage and for an all too brief time cutting edge music was infiltrating the charts. For a while there it seemed like the four blokes from the House of Love could actually be going somewhere. Their most successful album, 'Babe Rainbow', had yet to be conceived but their eponymous album still sparkled with shiny pop gems including the bands most enduring standard 'Shine On'. The House of Love's inspiration more or less evolved from singer/songwriter Guy Chadwick. From 1986 to 1994 he and his cohorts created some of the most rapturous jangle pop possible. It would interesting to see the reaction to the The House Of Love if it were released today. It has a subtle touch that could probably fit in whatever the fashion. 'Hannah' the opening cut has all the confident swing of a Stone Roses b-side; the guitars shimmer and dive to mask the partially inadequate lyrics. Just as you begin to tire of the idea, the chords like sirens of 'Shine On' whip up the ante. There is an unrelenting curiosity about this song, so straightforward yet enigmatic in its own way. Lacking in inspiration or inspiringly diverse; still can't make up my mind.

To this day 'Beatles And The Stones' continues to send a shiver down my cranium. Slicing historical newsreel with a chiming guitar entourage it is enough to make a bachelor whimper. As Chadwick's silky vocals enter the fray its time to sit down and take stock of the beauty of music. Yeah it's that good, as soothing as a comfort blanket and as joyful as a dance around the May Pole. The second best song this band ever produced (a close second to the majestic 'Feel'). The mystical charm continues to plume on 'Shake And Crawl' where gorgeous guitar chugs are aided and abetted by some celestial keyboards. The singing is forlorn, distant and wholeheartedly affecting so much so that an unusually large lump could obstruct your airways. Such a pity then that reality is resolutely restored with the plodding and frighteningly forgettable 'Hedonist'.

Opening like a cider fuelled crusty fireside party 'Never' builds up an uneven head of steam as the melting pot of psychedelic strings, lovestruck poetry and lilting percussion finds its groove. 'Someone's Got To Love You' is definitely more focused and gentler. Imagine a more mature Oasis settling back in their armchairs as the video of their early years is replayed. This could comfort their frowns and scowls until the beasts were controlled and semi-tamed. 'In A Room' is the type of standard that could elevate an already fuelled feeling of euphoria. The drumming by Pete Evans is frantic yet rhythmic, the guitars are plucked deliciously at the speed of light by Terry Bickers and when the momentum finally boils over the whole affair takes on the form of a glittering pool of diamonds. Not for those affected by flash photography or Playstation 6 graphics then.

There is sadness impinging on a lot of the House of Love's back catalogue. On occasions the guitars make like they're grieving for a tiny contemporary that was dropped and broken in the musical instrument store by a spotty teenager. 'Blind' is all the evidence you need to witness the wake. Guy Chadwick pours heartfelt feeling into his delivery while the distraught musicianship plays on your soft side until you feel like paying for the damage yourself. Such grief is casually swept aside by the shattering effect of forked guitar work on '32rd Floor'. This is a song packed with all the thunder/lightening effects you'll ever need to illuminate the drama of a Premiership game. The lyrics are caustic but the brutal beauty of the music is alluring. If that wasn't enough the album turns on its head when Hank Williams is somehow resurrected to add a dusty atmosphere to 'Se Dest'. Freaky and threatening, just make sure you don't play it near the end of October. For the rest of the year treat yourself.

The albums has an eye catching mosaic of a colourful butterfly cast on a brick wall. It's simplistic but as eloquent as the music contained within. Take 'I Don't Know Why I Love You' where steady guitar pulses are spun through disbelieving words like 'Your face is like a hammer in my head'. This album is sometimes confused with the groups much lauded eponymous debut album. At times the production sounds a little tinny but, thankfully, the euphoria is hardly affected by this lacklustre knob twiddling. The House of Love belong to a forgotten time. Thankfully with one or two exceptions the music they created has proved to be timeless. 'Babe Rainbow' in 1992 would go on to reveal a more polished sound and a few better songs but this album evokes a unique inert sound of creation.

Rating: 8/10

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Far from being a laughing stock these bearded wonders have fashioned a monumental piece of work. Whatever way you reach this album, whether it be through the glowing press they have received, their cathedral like live shows or their previous records nothing can prepare you for the grandeur of the The Sophtware Slump. It'll tear your heart out, brush it off and put it back where it belongs before you realise how good your day has been. Grandaddy may give off the impression of being uncultured hicks but they have it in them to create intelligent, fragile tunes that are likely to knock you sideways. That they have not achieved mainstream success is beyond me. It seems that unless you're under 23 and have glossy magazine type looks there isn't a hope you'll crack the charts. Then again though they may have appeared in Hunter monthly, Grandaddy do seem somewhat facially challenged.

For those of the music over matter persuasion, The Sophtware Slump is a rare treat. It's the type record that creates that Christmas feeling all year round. Each track has it's own kaleidoscope approach that is very hard to dislike. Maybe it's Jason Lytle's gorgeous vocal rasp or that the rest of the bands unearthly racket never sounds out of tune that reels you in until submission is the only alternative available. Opening with 'He's Simple, He's Dumb, He's the Pilot' is a brave move. Releasing it a single is even braver. Clocking in at just under 9 minutes it is a lot to cope with at first, but it's laid-back harmonies soon win you over. Perhaps it would have been more suitable as the albums finale. 'Hewletts Daughter' is a lot more accessible, perfect music for getting dressed to in the morning.

Like many great albums a lot of The Sophtware Slump only makes sense after a number of listens. 'The Crystal Lake' is the exception because on the very first listen you know there is sometime very special under way. Elsewhere 'Jed the Humanoid' shimmers on a sea of a Transylvanian organs. 'Miner at the Dial-A-View' is a song that splinters in so many directions, it's perhaps a live environment where it truly belongs. At the end 'So you'll Aim Towards the Sky' is so achingly beautiful you'll wonder why Grandaddy don't sit on the throne in pop heaven. While many were bemoaning the state of the charts, if you looked hard enough the year 2000 was a pretty good year for groundbreaking albums. The Sophtware Slump was certainly one of those and marked a fine progression from Grandaddy's debut Under the Western Highway, which they went on to consolidate with the follow-up 'Sumday'.

Rating: 8.5/10

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As purposeful, clinical and clever as a Portuguese striker, 'Bring it on' propelled Gomez to Mercury Music Prize success in 1998. No mean feat considering they were up against the likes of Pulp, Massive Attack and the Verve. In the end it was well deserved as 'Bring It On' flushed a torrent of fresh air in the smog filled aftermath of Britpop. That the album departed at right angles from this successful template, no doubt, marked them out from the crowd but it was the unrestrained spirit of five 20 year olds that announced a band flying by the seat of their multicoloured pants. Having 3 strong vocalists also helps when your horizons stretch from blues-rock to country tinged pop and back to straight up student anthems. Despite the blues influences Gomez flailed about with little or no success in the U.S. It was as if the critics were unable to believe in these upstarts from Northern England attempting to pull off such bold manoeuvres.

'Get Miles' opens the album and immediately you sense that the tired indiepop formulas are about to be turned on their head. The desire to spill unconventional sounds into the mix is apparent but it's the unnaturally sandpapered vocals of Ben Ottewell that raises eyebrows. The blues racket could be enough to throw you off the scent but its addition is important in signalling the diversity about to pour forth as the album progresses. Ottewell's voice can be a little overbearing and it takes the delicate charms of 'Make No Sound' to uncover the beauty within. Sounding like a disgruntled New Orleans pensioner he can refine his voice at the drop a hat to reveal a warm palette well able to coerce the stripped back yet intricate musicianship of his band mates. 'Here Comes The Breeze' is Gomez' masterstroke, initially slipping under the radar as Ottewell bellows and Gray coos alongside. As so often happens during the album the gentle guitars reinvent themselves midway through uncovering a set of ebullient vocals from nowhere. 'Free to Run' is similarly loose spirited as its chiming riff provides the counterpoint to the frontman's husky emissions. The expected split personality in the songs progression reveals itself towards the end to dazzling effect.

'Bring It On's vast canvas even offers pop junkies a scattering of delights. 'Whippin Piccadilly' may be a tad lightweight but as it's so inebriated with life it's hard to dismiss. Scripting the adventures of an undergraduate night-out the skewed playing has a solid undertow of clear melodies. 'Get Myself Arrested' is equally upfront and is as juvenile as the album gets. If you look beyond the obvious hits, however, there is a wealth of multifaceted gems. 'Tijuana Lady' conjures up deserts nights; its calm dedicated approach providing the perfect background music for siesta time this side of the gulf stream. Stretching over 7 minutes it ranges from pining love song, written on a lost railroad, to sublime psychedelia and there's even room for some vocal harmonies straight out of the abbey road studios. 'Bubble Gum Years' is just as affecting, drenched in the dichotomy of the vocalists it lives and breathes Beatles soaked harmonies. '78 Stone Wobble' is a cheeky effort where a rambling vocal down a phone line frolics on a bellydance type guitar groove until the connection is cut and the clearest voice appears. The fidgeting momentum makes the tune all the more effective even if it is likely to appal those on the lookout for cheap thrills.

Sadly this is the beginning and full stop of inspirational Gomez. Future albums are rammed full of shackles with half ideas executed with all the precision of a non-league footballer. Hard to believe then, that 'Bring It On' was recorded without fanfare on a 4-track in a garage. Just shows it's the ideas that matter and no amount of studio trickery can mask a dud. In hindsight maybe 'Bring It On' sucked all the inspiration the band had to offer. All told this is an astonishing debut with an accomplished feel naturally sculpted from raw talent. You'd expect youthful adventurous spirit from a debut but not songs with canyon like depth that only reveal themselves with repeated exposure. Only those with a tough hide could fail to be enthralled by the albums charm, for the majority of us it's liquid skin time.

Rating: 8/10

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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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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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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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