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

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

Rating: 9/10

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

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

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

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

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

Rating: 7/10

Tony Kelleher

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

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

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

Rating: 5.5/10

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

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

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

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

Rating: 10/10

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

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

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

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

Rating: 8.5/10

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

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

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

Rating: 7/10

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

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

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

Tony Kelleher

Rating: 7/10

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