You've got to hand it to Shed Seven's incredible longevity. Where other bands would have thrown in the towel much earlier these perennial underachievers continued to ply their trade with limited success. Remember it took Pulp ten years to break even but perhaps we're talking about different leagues here. It is hard to figure out why Shed Seven have rarely impacted on mainstream consciousness. On paper at least they have a good fighting chance. Rick Witter gives off the notion of a preening rock star (who looks like a young Ian Brown on the cover of this album) capable of coming up with little pop gems like 'Chasing Rainbows' and 'Going for Gold'. Rather unfairly Witter has been a figure of fun in the music press, seen as a semi-faux pretender. In Alan Leach Shed Seven possessed a drummer who follows in the great tradition of nutcase stick handlers, a necessary requirement in the rock and roll scheme of things. Add to this the other band members who are more than capable of delivering on Witter's pop vision. Perhaps it's just a case of missing the X factor that marks a band out from the large cast of wannabe stars. Shed Seven are a little short of inspiring, maybe a bit too aspiring for their own good.

Getting back to the music, Change Giver was a fine debut. It produced several singles that went on to make a dent (admittedly small) on the charts. None of the tracks, however, are truly groundbreaking. They are pleasant in a throwaway type of way. You may whistle them down the road but the next nice one that comes along quickly replaces them. Just like 'Missing Out', all jingly jangly and a strong vocal but also quite forgettable. Change Giver is the quintessential indie album. It's got the choruses, the guitar mix and the whippet like vocals. Harmless pop that won't fill your head with dreams, perhaps its slight nature is ultimately its undoing. There are a few genuine highlights though. 'Speakeasy' has a spiky guitar entrance and a breezy cool nature that levitates its groovy nature. 'Ocean Pie' is also wonderful. A slow burner that resonates classicism and insightful lyrics that are sadly prophetic. 'I don't need to live, I need to survive' neatly describes the bands hanging on by a fingernail situation.

While there are a few duds the album possesses more hooks than a seabound trawler. It's like Mr. Witter figures that if he throws out enough candyfloss some of it will stick. So you get a Dead or Alive homage on 'Dolphin', something approaching an average Suede tune on 'Stars In Your Eyes' and the indie by numbers stoop of 'Mark'. Surprisingly there are a few hints of something bigger on the last track 'On An Island With You'. Stretching to over 8 minutes you wonder why it couldn't always be like this. Starting out at breakneck speed it flowers into a something altogether more beautiful with a distinguished guitar sequence befitting a truly great band. Not an ‘I Am The Resurrection’ type finale but it does leave a sweet aftertaste. If the posturing could be harnessed into a more diverse sound then Shed Seven could finally break free of that nearly men tag. ‘Change Giver’ is more than an honest, workmanlike album and deserves an audience. No student party would seem quite complete without it (while we're on this subject, what happens to students when they enter the world of work, do they suddenly become Westlife fans, I've never quite worked it out). Give them a chance and maybe Shed Seven's luck will change. KD

Rating: 6.5/10

More Info: Official & Myspace
Buy Album: [UK] Change Giver [US] Change Giver

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

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

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

Rating: 8.5/10

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

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

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

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

Rating: 5/10

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

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

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

Rating: 8/10

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

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

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

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

Rating: 9/10

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

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

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

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

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

Rating: 7/10

Tony Kelleher

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

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

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

Rating: 7/10

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

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

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

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

Rating: 7/10

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

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

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

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

Rating: 6/10

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

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

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

Rating: 7/10

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The La’s mainman Lee Mavers discounted their one and only album when it was released citing he's unhappiness with the way the songs ended up sounding. He promised a follow up that was not to be. This prompted bass player John Power to form his own band, the excruciatingly bad Cast. Lee Mavers is still talked about in hushed tones in his native Liverpool, his low profile only fueling the legend. Mavers possessed a unique grainy vocal style that was adept at reinventing itself within the confines of a single tune. As a result of several years gigging his band became accomplished at providing jangling guitar moments at every turn. The La's sound was made up of a hybrid of influences from the sixties with token modern ingredients to make it sound contemporary. At various times through the album you can hear seminal bands like the Beatles and the Byrds filtering through.

The La's contains the ubiquitous 'There She Goes' but there are several other tracks that are just as intoxicating. 'Looking Glass' is the work of an unequivocal genius. It builds up to an apocalyptic crescendo over 7 gorgeous minutes. Mavers sounds particularly vulnerable as the acoustic guitars swell around him. Powerful lyrics like 'Tell me why I'm bound to tear the pages open, Turn the world around' spill gorgeously over the seismic musical backdrop. As a steam train momentum cracks the early peace, watch as the delph on your kitchen table rattle under its rollercoaster spirit. 'Doledrum' is like a Gomez take on Mexicano, far removed from the conventional view of pop music but it is sassy, confident and uplifting all the same. 'Feelin' is perhaps the best song Paul McCartney never wrote. The guitars have a resplendent retro appeal, while Mavers vocals skip the light fantastic all within the blinking of an eye. A perfectly formed jewel of a song for the price of 104 seconds of your time. 'Way Out' continues the unwavering quality, full of scattershot guitar bolts and sweet summertime harmonies.

There is not much you can say about 'There She Goes' that hasn't already been said. A little known rumour that went around when it was originally released supposed that the song was written about heroin addiction. References to 'pulsing thru' my vein' and 'racing thru' my brain' perhaps adds a little credence to this argument. The subtext hardly matters anyway when those sunny harmonies and shiny guitars kick in. There is no question that 'There She Goes' will permeate through the vagaries of time and fashion. For some reason 'Timeless Melody' used to remind me of James. Lee Mavers doesn't sound like Tim Booth but there is a melodic swing that could have easily fitted onto James' album 'Seven'. As it is, even though Mavers vocals are to the forefront the guitar riffs are clear and exquisite. 'I Can't Sleep' is another high mark for the album, a simple chord change is all that is required to weave a rich sonic tapestry.

Not everything Lee Mavers turned his hand to turned to gold however. 'I.O.U.' rattles in under a cowboy hat and marks an album somewhat running out of steam. Its ill defined approach is refreshing but the song veers too close to the shoe box marked duds to be very likeable. 'Freedom Song' is almost a pantomime routine that wouldn't be out of place on the soundtrack to Last of the Summer Wine. It is a plodding dirge and perhaps goes some way to explaining the indignation Mavers holds towards the album. 'Failure' is also a little rough and ready, sounding like little effort was put into its construction. Perhaps if these hiccups had been dealt with, the La's could have been genuine contenders. The La's were the genuine article unsullied by a marketing department's hand. Their album may be flawed in places but it remains a beautiful attempt at recapturing the glory days of distilled inventive pop. Look at the cover and imagine how their notions were firmly set in the present with one big eye trained on the glorious past.

Rating: 7.5/10

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The cover of Ritual De Lo Habitual contains a paper mache threesome involved in quasi cross gender pollination. Harmless stuff but its ambiguity does warrant some attention. Jane's Addiction have an offbeat take on modern rock. Most of the tunes on this their most rounded album contains an uneven pattern that varies between quiet introspective and scattergun hectic moments. Perry Farrell's voice is unique but strangely enigmatic so it is easy to recognise his bands material. Part female, part adolescent his incessant outpourings are quite dramatic. On the classy far eastern mantra 'Of Course', his voice sounds totally at home amongst the acoustic violin and maracas infested vibes.

At times Jane's Addiction do wander into creative cul-de-sac's or so you think. 'Obvious' initially seems all bluster giving off the impression of a tune with surface value only. By giving it a chance though you'll see that there is a pretty good melody superbly camouflaged in the mix. 'Then She Did...' is a powerful indictment of Jane's Addiction song writing ability. It is genuinely innovative and its eight minutes duration hardly leaves you time to draw your breath. It took years for 'Been Caught Stealing' to win me over. I couldn't see what all the fuss was about. Having it play alongside Cannonball and Waterfall seemed inappropriate. But it finally clicked with me at an out of sorts night last year. As Perry Farrell crones with aplomb, those dog barks signal a bubbling entourage of offbeat guitars. From there its kooky confidence will work it's magic with your state of mind.

The album has a few weak tracks. The opener 'Stop' lacks bite, the guitar dynamics are too frenzied to be alluring and there is a distinct lack of melody. Although 'Ain't No Right' has some neat metal aspirations it blunders on too many occasions to be effective. Right in the middle 'Three Days' lives up to its name by sprawling over 10 minutes. With a bit of careful editing this could have been a much more enticing proposition. As it is 'Three Days', verges on epic bombast and that slash type solo has me blocking my ears every time. It's the good tracks that make 'Ritual De Lo Habitual' so periodically vital. 'Classic Girl' is certainly out of sync with its neighbours. Farrell for once subdues the dramatics, taking a laid-back stance and the guitars shimmer gloriously in the background. At various stages 'Classic Girl' shifts a gear to mould a two-part opus. The drumbeat/bass equation is unique and elevates the whole affair. 'Ritual De Lo Habitual' is probably more suited to the huge rock scene in the US. It certainly has plenty of memorable moments but remains a little short of being a great album. A little more 'Classic Girl' and a little less 'Three Days' and things could have been much better.

Rating: 7/10

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Shortly after the release of the Streets' debut album Mike Skinner was asked about how he was faring writing his second album. His response was along the lines of ''it’s taken me all my life to write the songs for my first album; how can you expect me to repeat that in such a short space of time?''. A reasonable reaction, and one that goes some way to explaining the cliché that is the sophomore slump, though in Skinner’s case, I suspect he may have been overplaying his concern; it’s difficult to imagine anyone sweating over time restraints when they could deliver something as assured and cohesive as ‘A Grand Don’t Come For Free’ within two years. The same two years separate Interpol’s Antics from it’s older brother ‘Turn on the Bright Lights’, perhaps the only other debut of 2002 that matched the rapturous reception received by the Streets that year. This was a album of heartache and isolation, that could have you strutting to the stabbing guitars of Obstacle 1, and the next minute leave you breathless in the face of NYC’s cinematic slow-motion. ‘Antics’ arrival was met with a level of expectation no band should be burdened with. That’s the price, I guess, of putting your best foot forward, for leaving the starting blocks in a sprint. (God help The Arcade Fire.)

Hats off, then, to Interpol for keeping up the pace. They haven’t forayed far off the course they started on, but seem to have settled into a stride, or at least a more defined sound on ‘Antics’. Take ‘Evil’, two tracks in, that combines the elementary ingredients of a four-piece band to satisfying effect. It starts with a simple repeated Carlos D bass riff and adds Paul Banks’ distinctive low voice, now clearer than before and not buried deep in the mix, and then a basic drum beat. Unfussy, uncomplicated, the barre chords punch in at the bridge and do the dirty work at the chorus. There is little else, save for some piano notes that collide with the learner-friendly guitar solo. This may sound sparse, but the production is full-sounding, solid and weighty. It also may sound charmlessly efficient, but the key here is that this is simply a great tune, it carries the whole song effortlessly, and can hold its own without adding layers of strings or synthesizers, or going overboard on the reverb pedals. The prototype was the uncluttered ‘Leif Erickson’, one of the later tunes penned for ‘Turn on the Bright Lights’, but now less somber, more playful. The ‘Marquee Moon’ trick of holding back just about everything else during the guitar break could become an Interpol trademark on the back of this record, but the real upgrade is that at least half the songs here have a chorus you can dance to, in the case of ‘Evil’, like a possessed puppet. ‘I spent a life with no cellmate’ is a moving line, but it will get your feet moving too. ‘Evil’ is unstoppable, at once anguished and angry, not a crease in the suit, not a hair out of place. Really though, really, they should have called it ‘Rosemary’.

Several of the songs on ‘Antics’ follow this template plus-or-minus – ‘Narc’, ‘Slow Hands’, ‘Length of Love’, and Interpol’s poppiest moment to date ‘C’mere’, are churned out as if writing great tunes came effortlessly. ‘Take You on a Cruise’ slows the proceedings with some haunting, droning guitars, by turns tender (‘Baby it will be alright’) and thunderous (‘I am a scavenger between the sheets of union’). The real tour-de-force is the monolithic ‘Not Even Jail’, which starts with an almighty bang and proceeds to pound its way through five mirror-smashing minutes of intense, insistent guitars, then leaving a stunning two-string guitar break to fade out. Here’s a thing though: at times Interpol’s sound communicates more to the listener than the lyrics themselves. The frustration is palpable as Banks’ pleads ‘Can’t you feel the warmth of my sincerity?’ but there are times when the message is less clear. Okay, so ‘I’m subtle like a lion’s cage’ may hint at unvented anger, but really what he means by ‘I will bounce you on the lap of silence’ is quite beyond me. This was also a symptom of ‘Turn on the Bright Lights’. Songs are dotted with evocative snippets of loneliness and despair (‘Can’t you see what you’ve done to my heart and soul? This is a wasteland now’) but the tendency is towards the obscure and unfathomable, bordering on meaningless, with words seemingly randomly juxtaposed. ‘Combat salacious removal’, anyone? How can you explain following the lucid, literate ‘Now seasoned with health, two lovers walk a lakeside mile’ with the unintelligible ‘Try pleasing with stealth, rodeo…’ except to say they were looking for a rhyme? And don’t get me started on ‘I’m timeless like a broken watch.’

The music, however, compensates with yards to spare. On ‘Antics’, Interpol have come closer to a sound that is identifiably their own, distancing themselves from comparisons with that band. The shift between where they’ve come from and where they are is made apparent with the closing track ‘A Time To Be So Small, which takes a backward step to the brooding ‘Turn on the Bright Lights’, the mood gloomy, the vocals buried, the lyrics macabre. They’ve followed up an exquisitely atmospheric debut with a collection of tuneful, energetic songs. So perhaps this means the expectation will be compounded come their next release. But hey, who’s on trial?

Rating: 8/10

Tony Kelleher

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Signed to the imperious Dead Elvis label, In Motion left a small yet indelible impression on the local Dublin scene with their one and only album 'The Language Of Everyday Life'. The production was raw at best, decidedly creaky at worst, yet the abiding feeling of joyfulness on listening to this album of technicolor melodies is one to savour repeatedly. In Motion first appeared out of the blue on ‘No Disco’, Ireland’s much loved but sadly defunct foray into alternative music. The scattered images of ‘Hollow Blow’ portraying an ordinary ramble though Dublin City Centre were soundtracked by a haze of fuzzy guitars and a rollercoaster collage of mouth-watering vocals. Imagine standing in the Gobi in the midst of a snowfall; the effect is mesmerising, emotional even.

‘The Language Of Everyday Life’ is in essence a distillation of the jangle pop genre, where the chords lightly shimmer in unison with vocals that effortlessly spin pretty patterns. ‘Until My Dreams Come True’ is the stunning opener where the rampaging guitars melt into the sucrose vocals. The seamless playing is orchestrated by lyrics as unsullied as ‘In the corner of your heart, is there a place I can hide?’ Alan Kelly applies such integrity to his singing you’ll likely retreat to your cuff at every available opportunity. ‘Splitting The Seams’ and ‘Honey Sweet Soul’ sit side by side on a wave of Slowdive machinations. The pace is close to static, the chopping guitars resembling waves on a calm day. Why bother with that whales sound cassette when artificiality is as good as this, who needs a soother when you have the aural equivalent?

The second part of the album is where In Motion’s inner fireworks finally ignite. ‘Hollow Blow’ is machine gun pop with gum drops for bullets. ‘In Daylight’ is possessed by frenetic jangling guitars while Liam Ryan (Drums) keeps them in line. In an album of aerobatic vocals the swooping volleys by Kelly are heart wrenching. The albums soul comes in the form of ‘Five And Twenty Thousand Days’. The bass bumble (John Duff), the chugging riffs, the affecting singing and the heavenly trumpet as 20th century Scaramouche create an intoxicating mix so that by the time ‘Filter’ appears your heart will have already surrendered. And what a way to say goodbye. Right down to the gorgeous synth foray this is the sound of a broken heart saying goodbye. And at just 30 minutes this will be one of the shortest yet most enduring relationships you will ever have with a collection of songs.

‘The Language Of Everyday Life ‘is not a conventional album. Only 1,000 copies were ever shipped from the Dead Elvis’ offices. The production values alone make it sound like a demo recorded in a damp garage. It would be easy to dismiss but the ideas and warmth are of a band so special it is upsetting to realise that the world never even noticed. The only other release of note from the band was the ‘For An Evening’s Velvet Ending’ single (Mucksavage Records) which included ‘Hollow Blow’. In Motion members are still making music in projects as diverse as electronic Decal (Alan O’Boyle) and slowcore The Last Post (Alan Kelly). Whether either can ever reach such sonic heights is doubtful but having a pop sphere like ‘The Language Of Everyday Life’ in their back catalogue must be as comforting as a particularly downy duvet set. Seek this album out with the intensity of a mislaid winning lottery ticket.

Rating: 9/10

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Taking their name from the hiding place in the 'Anne Of Green Gables' book this is a foursome that have the wherewithal to flabbergast. 100 Broken Windows was their third album and comes complete with at least a dozen compilation tape favourites. 'Little Discourage' opens the noise fest with a crafty confidence. While it had minimal impact sales wise its classy internal streamlined guitar displays highlight a maturity that was often lacking in their gorgeously ebullient debut 'Hope Is Important'. Singer Roddy Woomble comes off sounding like a youthful Michael Stipe with lyrics that drip with irony.

Idlewild's genius is their knack of conjuring tunes that aren't all that obvious. While immediacy certainly has its place there is something more soulful in the adventure of uncovering a hook you didn't think existed. That's why so many of Idlewild's tunes stand up perfectly to multiple listens. 'These Wooden Ideas' trips up its own title because it is positively full of intricate loveliness. The pacing is fluid with little nooks and crannies exposing giant realms of sketchbook genius. Find some surround sound home cinema speakers and float Dead Sea like on a massive jamboree of cartoon notes. 'Roseability' seemed like an odd choice to promote the album but it is entirely probable that you'll be humming it 2 days later while you struggle to work out where such a nice tune came from. What 'Roseability' lacks in hidden grooves it more than makes up with adrenaline fuelled aggression and stable percussion.

A well-known trick with clued in guitar blended bands is to pitch effortless harmony after a elated period of meaningless crashing guitars noise. So we have 'Idea Track', where Roddy Woomble tears his vocal chords over a horrendous montage of misleading chords until out of the blue a chorus that would clean dirt from under your fingernails swoops in with all the grace of swan. As Woomble forages onwards and upwards for more meaning the effect is thrilling, a piece that could have been tacked onto 'Nevermind' with minimal fuss and maximum effect. At the end the storm subsides and the viola recreates the foggy scene over those hushed and humbled words. When it seems that your emotions could hardly be aroused to any greater effect 'Let Me Sleep (next to the mirror)' ambles in to rock your world once more. Here the playing is a little more controlled; for once Rod Jones on guitar lets the singing do the talking. The heartbreaking image whisks you away on the white horse displacing that knight in shining army who had played that tired old trick dozens of times. As the sunset beckons the sound of freedom comes from four Northern British blokes.

'100 Broken Windows' spreads the full spectrum of alternative attractiveness. At times it swaggers under a torrent of inebriated noise, elsewhere it is as delicate as a embalmed butterfly. 'Quiet Crown' successfully marries both persuasions. The jangling guitars suggest a solemn ditty but as soon as you settle down for another cup of cocoa a tidal wave of electrifying notes bleat beneath the surface as the frontman twists and turns under the weight of his own talent. With all the artificial ingenious of a wind tunnel 'Actually It's Darkness' has the credentials to quite literally blow the cobwebs from your ears. 'Why Can't Your Be More Cynical' he screams while all the time perfectly retaining the sense that he is creating something beautiful that people might like to listen to in their living rooms. Hurtling down the same tunnel at the speed of light 'Listen To What You've Got' is for all intensive purposes the aerobic teachers worst nightmare. At best liable to incur refunds and at worst heart attacks it is a wonderful expression of youth let loose on unsuspecting instruments.

While Idlewild have several reference points that become obvious as the album progresses they retain their own ID throughout. 'The Bronze Medal' could be Mogwai if they lent full throttle to their wayward vocal tendencies. Perhaps the result does come across a little lame, which is a pity because the swansong should have sealed this classic. 'Rusty' is as dark as moody as any Joy Division piece. On occasions it contorts to uncover a fine chorus that fits in perfectly with its own idiosyncrasy. Idlewild certainly have the product and imagination to make something of themselves. There predisposition to touring in the outer reaches of the earth (the Orkney Islands for instance) means that the ambition and will is there in abundance. It seems that unlike its binary equivalent '100 Broken Windows' is refreshingly bug free.

Rating: 8/10

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If you were to go by the early soundings on Hope Is Important you could be confused into thinking that a diet of hard rock awaits. That's because 'You've Lost Your Way' is thrash metal with incoherent screeching vocals producing an aural meltdown. No wonder Scottish band Idlewild regularly retreat to the northern offshore islands to conduct their gigs. This sort of noise would not be permissible in urban areas where everything is within shouting distance. As 'Hope Is Important' progresses, however, the foot is lifted off the pedal a touch and the album proper kicks in. 'A Film For The Future' has a clued in knowledge of melody and while it uses a battering ram guitar riff, it contains a pleasant toffee centre. 'Paint Nothing' has a rich harvest of raw dynamic sounds and is the quintessential indie rock stomp. Short and sweet, it does enough with its basic driving guitar nuances and soft/harsh vocals to raise eyebrows and the odd teenage heartbeat.

The all-encompassing 'When I Argue I See Shapes' represents Idlewild going at full throttle enjoying themselves. It has a pure honed vision with Roddy Woomble spitting out words that are dripping in irony while all the while the guitar jangle provides some salubrious company. More than any other track 'When I Argue I See Shapes' sets up 'Hope Is Important' as a delightful debut heralding plenty of promise. Idlewild have a burning talent that shines through over and over throughout this, their proper debut (not counting mini album ‘Captain’ released in 1998). 'I'm A Message' is the type of pop nugget that eventually leads to something altogether bigger and more valuable. It has the kinetic energy to power small villages. As is customary the song flits by in a flash, not without leaving several beads of perspiration on the listeners’ forehead, however. 'Safe and Sound' is a lot less hurried possessing a beautiful epic feel with the background strings bolstering its sound perfectly.

By keeping their influences close to their chest (although 'I'm Happy To Be Here Tonight' is an unmistakable R.E.M. pastiche and 'You Don't Have The Heart' has definite Pixies leanings) Idlewild's sound is remarkably familiar but at the same time fresh and rewarding. At times the songs contain adrenaline overloads like on '4 People Do Good’, which is like a hurricane trapped inside your ear lobes. Just remember to tell folks with hearing aids to take the batteries out when you play it. With so much to say, Idlewild perhaps rush some of the tracks when a more studied approach could have yielded a better, if a little less frenzied, album. Maturity and an ability to step back a bit would produce a more rounded album in '100 Broken Windows', the follow up. The last song on this album 'Low Light' resembles a torch song for marching into battle and on this showing Idlewild would take on all comers with consummate ease. 'Hope Is Important' is Idlewild's ingenious attempt at adding yet another fruit to Glasgow's already tasty muesli of indiepop delights. They are a band for the present and hopefully the future.

Rating: 7/10

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Emerging from the thick woods of Modesto, California, five seemingly giant hillbillies thrust their musical vision onto an unsuspecting public. While we prepared to apply copious amounts of cotton wool, the sweetest of harmonies drifted by and spun a lasso around our hearts. Grandaddy have been in existence since 1992 but it wasn't until they became a 5-piece in 1995 that their current sound began to blossom. The follow up to this their debut, The Sophtware Slump has rightly engaged everybody who has come into contact with it. Under the Western Freeway is, however, less defined yet possesses enough moments to have you on the kitchen floor like a cry-baby calling for mama.

There is a terrific sense of awkwardness about Grandaddy's music. Nothing is doctored to appease the moneymen. So songs as left-field and aspiring as 'Nonphenomenal Lineage' flit into view in sub-ugly duckling garb only to undress to reveal that dashing swan like poise underneath. The choir like keyboard directions allied with the simplest of riffs bolster lead singer Jason Lytle's delicate story of rejection. Witness the elegant swing of 'Am. 180' with its electro keys holding centre stage and Lytle's gentle nonsensical lyrics beaming any conscious mind to some dusty town in mid America. If that isn't enough to frighten you, then you should try taking on the intense melody of 'Laughing Stock'. With words like 'We do believe it ends right here', shuttling about like teletubbies on E, it's hard not to smile at the unusualness of it all. Add to this the huge undercurrent of haunting vibes and it's hard to suppress Lytle's awkward vision.

The title track 'Under The Western Freeway' arrives as a soft instrumental, bolstered by flute sounds and distant guitar feedback. As poised and dignified as a ballet dancer it could easily be the cutest lost puppy in history put to music. Your friendly outstretched attention may be all it needs to find the vocal it so craves. Deep breath, 'Collective Dreamwish Of Upperclass Elegance' is slowed down melancholy pampered with a playful acousticism making it hard to resist. Things go decidedly astronomical as 'Everything Beautiful Is Far Away' shudders on some rattling guitar chimes and the oohs and aahs of a man bearing his soul. The looping guitars spins the fragile piece out of control, taking everything in its path on a journey to those hills that don't seem so faraway.

Grandaddy have more or less harvested a planet of sound through the most ingenious of means. They may come across as daft, but their lyrics belie this fact. There is a deep sense of humour that is not immediately obvious ('Poisoned At Hartsy Thai Food' anyone?). But it's the fantastic obliging melody that makes this album a winner. Never is this more evident than their early single 'Summer Here Kids'. Jaunty, spunky and bolstered by a few trickle down piano keys this is music on a large scale. Just breathe in the innovation and get light headed. Towards the end, 'Why Took Your Advice' is perhaps just too slack to garner any great love. Those daft punk guitar jibes are a little too coarse to inspire but like on the rest of the album Jason Lytle's little rascal vocals afford submission. 'Go Progress Chrome' is much better. Picking up on a Sparklehorse jumble guitar sale intro it froths at the mouth in an attempt to weave the perfect musical tapestry. Like twinkling stars in the night, trying to find a word that describes it adequately is futile. 'Under The Western Freeway' will doubtless have you puzzled, wide-eyed, illuminated, confused but most of all completely satisfied. Talent like this rarely gets a hearing but if you are in the neighbourhood then prepare to spend one of the most interesting hours on your musical adventure. You'll doubtless drop in soon again, this time with a bottle of Jack Daniel's in tow.

Rating: 7.5/10

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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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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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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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