R.E.M. - Around The Sun

After a body of work that has been stunning in its consistent artistry, it seems that R.E.M.'s thirteenth album has proved to be the unlucky one. I have defended this band at length against a media backlash that started around the release of 'Up' in 1997 and never quite seemed to dissipate. It seemed to me that the majority of critics completely failed to recognise that 'Up' was a corageous and powerful redefinition of the band's aound following the departure of Bill Berry. Most opted to ignore Michael Stipe's dramatic shift to more open, less elusive lyrics on this album, and therefore missed the entirely aposite juxtaposition of compelling honesty against stark, more electronic backdrops. The songwriting on 'Up' ranked with the band's very best work, and despite personal difficulties at the time, they sounded awesome on the supporting tour. 'Reveal' at least partially continued the new dynamic following Berry's departure, but this time the electronic textures felt more hazy and unfocussed. Still, the bulk of 'Reveal' was still excellent, with some emotive melodies and some of the most powerful vocal performances of Michael Stipe's career. Unfortunately, I find it difficult to offer much of a defence for 'Around The Sun'.

With this album, the band seem to have built on the more unsatisfactory elements of 'Reveal' and built an entire album around them. It is almost entirely comprised of ballads, a handful of them undeniably powerful, most of them nondescript, meandering and rooted firmly to the ground. The use of electronics on 'Up' created a palpable atmosphere and added drama, but here the endless use of swathes of synth pads feels like an attempt to cover up shortcomings in the songwriting department. Yet, this is probably the least notable fault among many in the arrangements of these songs. For the most part, Peter Buck's trademark Byrdsian folk twang appears to have been banished, and the guitars (mostly acoustic) seem content to strum blandly. Whilst the band seem to have spent much of the time following 'Automatic For The People' trying to escape the southern gothic folk sound they so masterfully created, this is the first post-Automatic album that really feels stuck for ideas.

It's not all bad, though. Many of the songs here are growers. First single 'Leaving New York' has a similar charm to 'Daysleeper' and benefits greatly from a fantastic vocal arrangement in its chorus. It's one of the few songs here that really hits emotionally. 'The Outsiders' at least sounds interesting, with its unusual rhythms and eerie atmospherics, although I'm not convinced that letting Q Tip rap over it was the smartest move. 'Make it all Okay' is shamelessly schmaltzy, albeit in a grandiose, Jimmy Webb-esque way. 'Final Straw' disappointed me on first hearing last year, but stands out amongst the drab company here. 'I Wanted To Be Wrong' is at least pretty.

Elsewhere, though, the results are less successful. 'Electron Blue' aims for the same electronic territory as the wonderful 'I've Been High' from 'Reveal', but entirely lacks that song's enticing textures. It sounds forced and strained. 'High Speed Train' has a somewhat aimless melody, and its background effects swoosh and swoon without really adding or detracting from what is essentially an entirely unremarkable song. It's topped off with some of Stipe's least convincing romantic lyrics, and, oh God save us, a Spanish guitar solo. Both 'The Worst Joke Ever' and 'The Boy In The Well' have promise (and great titles), but are constricted by relentlessly strumming guitars and pounding piano. They at least have some of the more inventive melodies here.

The real problem is the consistently leaden, plodding pace that this album has assumed. It seems that the band made a conscious decision to expunge the rockier tracks recorded at the sessions (which, lest we forget, have taken two years for the band to complete). Whilst many of the lesser songs here might be interesting or diverting in isolation, in the context of the entire album, they sound completely inauspicious. The only break from the slow stride comes with the almost unfeasible jaunty 'Wanderlust', which bears a strong resemblance to 'Smile' by The Supernaturals (and therefore also indeed to 'Crouch End', one of this writer's less impressive musical ventures!). It is at least a departure for the band in terms of sound, but even in its bouncy form, it sounds tentative and unconvincing. R.E.M. songs in the past have tended to grow, both lyrically and musically, from start to finish, but the songs here seem to lack emphasis, purpose and direction. 'The Boy In The Well' and 'The Ascent of Man' are both bolstered by some electric guitars, but again sound afraid of being beefed up too much lest they offend anyone. 'New Adventures in Hi Fi' or 'Document' this is not.

Which brings us to the final issue to consider. Whilst the band recently seem to have grown more than a little tired of answering questions about their politics, Michael Stipe did make a point in interview about this record being inspired by the current state of the world. Most of the songs again seem personal and intoverted, occasionally characteristically enigmatic and frustrating. Only with 'Final Straw', their strangely muted response to the Iraq war, and with a telling line from the title track ('I wish the followers would lead with a voice so strong it would knock me to my knees') can any political motivations really be intimated. The righteous anger that fuelled their mid-eighties work certainly does not seem to rage here, despite the obvious easy targets.

Listening to this album again as I'm writing this, I feel compelled to offer the caveat that many of the more nondescript songs do seem to offer greater reward on repeated listen, and the whole album may well be one that needs time to work its magic ('Up' certainly did, and many critics were not prepared to afford it any). This time round, however, that does feel like the R.E.M. fan in me attempting to defend what is ostensibly a patchy and unmoving record. As a mature, late-period work, it certainly does not seem to offer the same excitement and humour as the excellent new Nick Cave albums, which I shall get round to reviewing shortly....

Elvis Costello - The Delivery Man

Sometimes it feels like John Kell and I are the only people left on the planet who still await every new Elvis Costello album with keen anticipation. Not even last year's admittedly treacly 'North' has lowered my high expectations of this new project, for which Costello has concocted a song cycle based on a central character (Abel - the Delivery Man), and his relationship with three different women. Sometimes these women are given their own voices, which has given Costello the opportunity to collaborate with two of his favourite female singers, the gutsy Lucinda Williams and the heavenly Emmylou Harris. Given this information, I have to admit that I was expecting 'The Delivery Man' to be a return to the rootsy country sound of 'King of America'. In fact, it transpires that there are plenty of moments that sound closer in spirit to Costello's other landmark release of 1986 'Blood and Chocolate', a visceral masterpiece and one of the finest albums of the 1980s. 'The Delivery Man' is therefore the follow-up proper to Costello's first release with the Imposters, 'When I Was Cruel'. Given its five-star rating in Mojo, and broadly positive reviews elsewhere, this is an album that has forced critics usually indifferent to Costello's later work to finally start recognising his quality.

Where 'When I Was Cruel' deployed production techniques, drum loops and adventurous arrangement to modernise Costello's approach, 'The Delivery Man' is notable for the rawness of its sound. It is hard-hitting, clattering and immediate, characterised by the rampaging energy of its backing bands. Even its ballads sound pure, striking and stripped of affectations. Costello's voice, still beoming more convincing with each album he releases, is frequently left exposed. There are some occasions where it cracks slightly, and therefore lends the material an appealing vulnerability. The drum sound is particularly riotous, rough and boomy, and reminds me a little of the clattering skeletal kit used so effectively on 1994's 'Brutal Youth'. In essence, the production is bare and unobtrusive, and there are numerous hints of earlier work. Like all Costello albums, however, 'The Delivery Man' coheres marvellously, and stands as another distinctive work in one of the most impressive catalogues in pop history. It would be stretching the truth to proclaim 'The Delivery Man' as one of Costello's most original albums, but it certainly packs a powerful punch that allows for both highly positive first impressions and a lingering sense of its achievement. It is an album with clear reference points, both to the popular music that Costello admires, and also to certain points in his own mighty back catalogue.

If the blast of distorted pop that was '45' served as an opening statement of intent on 'When I Was Cruel', 'Button My Lip' outperforms that function for 'The Delivery Man'. It is based on a minimal arrangement and forceful vocal presence, underpinned by some rampant drumming, guitar outbursts, and an impressively unrestrained Steve Nieve's, whose unpredictable stabbing chords and ingenious quotations from Bernstein's 'America' make this one of the album's most entertaining cuts. It is followed, somewhat uncomfortably, by the soul-tinged country of 'Country Darkness', which is bolstered by some wonderfully lilting pedal steel from John McPhee and a chorus of exceptional quality. The juxtaposition sets up the dual personality that characterises 'The Delivery Man'. Perhaps more than any other Costello album, it seems consciously divided between raucous explosions of energy and emotive white soul ballads. One of the more negative comments I've read about this album came in a review in Time Out, which claimed that Costello desparately wanted to occupy the hybrid country-soul territory so brilliantly claimed by Dan Penn, but that he had neither the songwriting instincts nor the vocal chops to manage it. Whilst Dan Penn is undoubtedly fair reference point, I would more than dispute the claim made by the reviewer - and this is my cue for a somewhat lengthy digression....

...Costello has received so much criticism over the past fifteen years or so for distancing himself from his volatile, angry and spiky past from critics seemingly desparate for him to remake 'Thie Year's Model' every time he releases a new album. The easiest target have been his excursions into classical music and 'jazz' (although I would strongly debate that that term really applies to either 'North' with its dinner club, sugary balladry or 'Painted From Memory', with its admittedly schmaltzy, but mostly successful orchestral arrangements). Over the course of a restlessly inventive and consistently intelligent career, it's hardly as if he hasn't earned the right to embrace unfamiliar forms. If they are not always successful, they are at least healthy signs that Costello is an artist disinclined to remain static. Anyone who has read his greatest albums article in Vanity Fair will appreciate the tremendous breadth of his musical knowledge, and this undoubtedly makes his more recent endeavours make much more sense. He has also taken a great deal of flak more generally for his concentration on the ballad form. These criticisms first started to rear their ugly head with the release of 'All This Useless Beauty'. This album was widely criticised because it consisted mostly of songs written for other people, but I would argue that it is a more cohesive work than many gave it credit for, and the first time when Costello's love of soul music was really given free reign. It contained a number of stirring mid-tempo ballads, particularly outstanding were Why Can't A Man Stand Alone', 'Poor Fractured Atlas', and 'The Other End of the Telescope'. If 'When I Was Cruel' largely eschewed the ballad template, Costello has returned to it again with considerable success on 'The Delivery Man'. The connection between the ballads of 'ATUB' and 'The Delivery Man' is brought home to me by the presence here of 'Either Side of The Same Town', a song co-written with the Stateside records writer and producer Jerry Ragovoy, who helped pen a number of hits for the sublime Garnett Mimms in the 1960s. It is highly reminiscent stylistically of 'Why Can't A Man Stand Alone', a song originally written for soul legend Sam Moore. Also present is a version of 'The Judgement', a song originally penned for the gigantic presence that is Solomon Burke.

Some of the best tracks here feature the peerless harmony vocals of Emmylou Harris. Whilst her recent albums have established her as an outstanding singer-songwriter in her own right, its easy to forget that she remains one of the very greatest duet vocalists in the world. Costello has gone on record to state his admiration for the duets Harris recorded with the legendary Gram Parsons, and its clear that these tracks at the very least represent a tip of the hat to those timeless songs. I was a little concerned that the Costello/Harris collaboration could result merely in two utterly distinctive voices battling to be heard, much like the harsh conflict between the voices of Joan Baez and Bob Dylan. This fear thankfully proves to have been completely unfounded. Harris remains a deftly controlled and ethereal presence, complementing Costello's compelling vibrato with consummate ease. 'Heart Shaped Bruise' is simply gorgeous, a touching and affecting lament with carefully controlled vocal performances. 'Nothing Clings Like Ivy' is, true to its title, also a song that lingers powerfully in the mind. Both strive for the same timeless quality that informs the duets of Parsons/Harris or George Jones and Tammy Wynette. 'The Scarlet Tide', another duet with Harris, closes the album, but sounds slightly incongruous, stripped back to just ukelelee and voice. It has an appalachian feel, but also bears a striking resemblance to the sound of the Magnetic Fields on their recent album 'i'.

Elswhere, there is rollicking clamour and clang. 'Bedlam' rattles along with an insistent energy and drive, with the same kind of spirit that made '15 Petals' one of the highlights on 'When I Was Cruel'. On 'There's A Story In Your Voice', Costello duels with a marvellously slurred and drawling Lucinda Williams. 'Needle Time', whilst only marginally less rancorous musically, features a wonderfully snarling vocal. These tracks once again demonstrate that the ensemble playing of the Imposters is simply peerless. Steve Nieve is particularly outstanding, his piano playing informed by gospel and blues and lending both a learned and attacking quality to the music. Those critics who have chastised Costello for decaying into 'soft' maturity ought to take note, and then return to 'Brutal Youth', 'All This Useless Beauty' and 'When I Was Cruel' and discover how excellent they all are. Perhaps best of all is the title track, caught somewhere more unusual between the ballad and the belter and defined by its steady shifting of time signatures. It's a story song of sorts, and it casts a mysterious and brooding shadow. The playing is subtle and distinguished.

It's also worth pointing out that Costello is mostly on winning form lyrically as well. 'When I Was Cruel' certainly had its fair share of mordant observations and impassioned snarls, but it also occasionally suffered from laboured rants and muddled metaphors ('she had the attention span of warm cellophane' springs to mind). Here, both when in character and when not, he demonstrates his talent for writing barbarous, pithy diatribes on human relationships. and tension between the sexes. It's not without humour too - 'Monkey To Man' is an inspired update of Dave Bartholomew's 'The Monkey', and 'The Delivery Man' contains the line 'in a certain light he looked like Elvis'. There is nothing here that seems forced or unnatural, and even when he is clearly referencing established greats, Costello's own distinctive voice cuts through. He has gone on record to state that 'The Delivery Man' contains some of his best recorded singing. He is right. His voice has developed into a versatile and convincing instrument, with impressive power and range.

In essence, 'The Delivery Man' is a dependably excellent album, which sees Costello extending his reach, often looking backwards in order to move forwards. It is packed with outstanding ensemble performances and tenacious, compelling songwriting. Rant over. Go buy it.

Old Film - New Soundtrack

Squeezing into Trafalgar Square for a screening of Sergei Eisenstein's masterful 1925 film The Battleship Potemkin was one of the strangest experiences I've had this year. This is a silent movie - one of the early giants of the cinema, and a film that still regularly makes critics' top 100 lists. Nevertheless, it is a film that is not regularly screened in cinemas anymore. Were it to be screened in one of London's dwindling number of arthouse cinemas, it would probably struggle to get an audience of a few hundred. Shown on an enormous screen in Trafalgar Square - it drew an audience of thousands.

Of course, this was not really due to the film, but more because the Pet Shop Boys had composed a new soundtrack for it, and would be performing it live with an orchestra. The large crowds still strike me as a bit incongruous - the publicity had made it quite clear that the band would not be performing any of their hits, and their recent albums have been their least inspired and least commercially successful. In essence, it has been some time since Neil Tennant and Chris Lowe were big pop players. Perhaps this new project, commissioned by the ICA, could offer them a new opportunity to connect with a mass audience, whilst also regenerating their art.

Well, not quite. Arriving late and missing the first twenty minutes of the film proved to be an unwittingly clever move. Whilst those packed into the square apparently struggled to see the screen, we had a clear view, albeit from a distance. Despite considering myself something of a film buff these days, I had not seen the movie before, and watching its succession of violently powerful images left me genuinely moved. I was aware of the famous staircase massacre sequence, but had not prepared myself for its devastating effect, or of the balletic flow of its staging, or the technical brilliance of its editing. I have little conception of how Eisenstein managed to make a film with such masterful craft in 1925.

I had more mixed feelings towards the music. I've always seen the Pet Shop Boys as one of the more arch and intelligent 80s pop acts, but the few lyrics that Tennant had composed for this work seemed reductive, perhaps even bordering on inane. You could argue that the repeated chants of 'all for one for freedom' captured the sloganeering, propagandist fervour associated with revolution, but for me they did not really chime with the images of the film, which seemed to transcend the restrictions of simplistic language. The reprise of that particular section for an encore proved to be complete overkill (it had already appeared at least twice during the film) and merely cemented this impression.

It's arguable that there was also too much music. The few moments of silence were agonisingly brief. Sometimes the mechanistic electro pop worked well, particularly with the motions of the ships or the images of the initial uprising. Elsewhere, the sounds tended towards the intrusive. From a distance, it was difficult to tell the extent to which it was being performed live - the band and their musicians were there, but it all sounded a little too perfect, not least Neil Tennant's voice, which had been heavily processed with effects. Perhaps the band intended to give the sounds an ethereal gloss, but I often felt that the images demanded something more visceral or emotionally affecting. Nevertheless, there were moments when sound and image worked harmoniously - and these proved to be the moments that still linger in the mind - the shock shooting of mother and baby on the Odessa steps, the fleet of smaller ships sailing elegantly, one man 'murdered for a bowl of soup'.

If this was not entirely successful - it was exactly the kind of event which should be encouraged in London's public spaces. It was free for all, a valiant attempt to introduce something of artistic value to a wider audience, and also a creative enterprise to produce something both challenging and stimulating. I do hope that the organisers rise above some of the more banal criticism from the public and the press, address some of the logistical difficulties, and organise more similar events in the future.

Back in the glorious winter of 1997, I remember staying up to the small hours with a good friend and musical collaborator composing a song we then considered to be a mini-masterpiece. In the cocksure spirit of late adolescence, we named it 'The Sound and The Fury', after William Faulkner's great novel, one of the classics of twentieth century American fiction. I remember being dismayed when, on performing it (albeit with the slight reticence that comes with such intimate airings of new songs) to friends and relatives, many seemed perplexed. They thought that it had 'too many sections'. Actually, it only had a verse, a chorus, an instrumental bridge back to a second verse and chorus and an extended coda with silly guitar solo at the end. It was hardly Bohemian Rhapsody. Actually, I still maintain that the melody was really quite accessible. The song was probably much more conventional than I wanted it to be. It certainly had nothing on the songs on 'Blueberry Boat', the gargantuan second album from The Fiery Furnaces. If ordinary folk were baffled by our magnum opus - well, lord only knows what they will make of this.

The first album from this maverick duo was quirky - with its rudimentary percussion, peculiar fairytale lyrics and tremendous sense of fun. 'Blueberry Boat' is something else entirely. First of all, at 76 minutes, it's extremely long. Most acts would not be able to come up with this much material for a greatest hits collection. It is an audacious, confusing, rapid fire outpouring of ideas. Many of the songs seem to be composed of several sections or more. Often the songs switch style or mood without warning, as if multiple sections from different songs have been edited together to create freakish musical collages. Sometimes this cut-and-paste approach reaps tremendous rewards. Live favourite 'My Dog Was Lost But Now He's Found' is brilliant - a tremendously silly song, a wild story of searching for a lost pet with the wonderful final lines: 'I went to church on Wednesday night/The guest preacher said I bark but I don't bite/I saw my dog but he'd seen the light/My dog was lost but now he's found.' The song retains the same infectious melody throughout, a disarmingly basic vocal line that sounds almost like a nursery rhyme. Musically, it veers all over the place, with Brill building piano giving way to phased guitar and ragged drums.

More typical is the opening 'Quay Cur', which expands from Eleanor Friedberger sings of losing a locket into a vivid adventure, even incorporating a section which appears to be sung in Inuit. It's very difficult to grasp hold of, given that it extends over ten minutes, from slow, languid beginnings into insane strummings. There are so many ideas in this song alone that it's hard to know whether to give them credit for their masterful imaginative powers or to chastise them for not being more restrained and considered. This everything including the kitchen sink approach characterises the entire album. The contrast between the childlike simplicity of their melodies and the madcap ambition of their arrangements gives a peculiarly paradoxical focus. Lengthy excursions such as 'Chris Michaels' are not without appeal, but are also rabidly unpredictable. I've only listened to this album a few times at the time of writing this, but I'm far from certain that it will ever make any kind of logical sense. If you suffer from Attention Deficit Disorder, this album is ideal for you. If not, you will certainly have to persevere. It has a perverse kind of coherence in that all of it exhibits a tendency towards the insane. I have also read about the whole project being based on the idea of the blueberry boat as symbolic of American cultural imperealism. It's an appealing notion, but almost certainly over-analytical. It certainly risks sidelining the band's wacky breed of humour, which remains a significant feature here despite the loftier ambitions/pretensions of guitarist and songwriter Matthew Friedberger.

The naive innocence of Eleanor Friedberger's voice is their one major asset. It is childlike and pure, a bit like Emma Pollock from The Delgados but with an almost Dylanesque emphasis on phrasing. Given that she is also delivering hypnotic, otherworldly story-poetry, it's easy to become immersed in their singular fantasy world. Maybe there's something narrow, restrictive and retrogressive about the atmosphere they create. I've often argued that a lot of the least interesting 'indie' music seems to be characterised by a strange desire to return to the womb, and this album seems just as guilty of retreating to an infantile world as anyone else. Yet, that world is so unusual - both with the twists and turns of the music, and in the narrative compulsion that drives their lyrics, that it is difficult to resist. There's certainly not much chance of them being lazily compared with The White Stripes anymore.

A while ago I wrote somewhat cynically about the myth surrounding acoustic minstrel Devendra Banhart. A similar legend surrounds Micah P. Hinson, who was supposedly rejected by his Texan family and left homeless and peniless at the age of nineteen. Whilst Banhart has crafted an initially entrancing, but somewhat one-dimensional folk sound, Hinson has produced a debut of real quality and grandeur. Whilst his voice sounds close to that of Bill Callahan, his music moves with a cinematic sweep. Sometimes it sounds anguished, as on the unrestrained howl of 'Patience'. At its most controlled, it is both commanding and touching.

Hinson is backed on this album by The Earlies, who, possibly unwittingly, now seem to have helped Hinson surpass their own collection as best debut album of the year. They bolster the songs with thick arrangements that build from delicate subtle beginnings into beguiling, grand epics that also manage to retain a sense of vulnerability. It's unusual to find a debut album with a sound this ambitious. Typical of the approach is the closing epic 'The Day Texas Sank to the Bottom of the Sea' which, even in its quasi-orchestral glory, somehow manages to sound natural and unforced. It's one of those cyclical, repeating song, where the sound just gets bigger and more affecting each time the cycle is repeating. This album seems to be a most effective meeting of minds - Hinson brings the torch and twang, whilst the Earlies bring their forward-thinking, all-encompassing arrangements. The opening 'Close Your Eyes' grows from a languid, unhurried opening into an accelerated, dynamic military rhythm. 'The Nothing' begins with delicate and beautiful piano chords, before Hinson's vocal enters and carries it into grander territory. The emotional impact of this music is frequently striking - it captures feelings without becoming sentimental or turgid. Typical of the approach is 'Don't You' which appears in two parts and builds from a deceptively skeletal opening into a huge, powerful epic. It's hard to think of the earnest, worthy emoting of, say, Keane, ever resulting in music with this sweeping grace - yet they will no doubt remain the more successful. It's appropriate that Hinson has dubbed this 'gospel' - as there is a notable uplifting quality to even the most anguished tracks, a quality which Hinson shares with the striking desolation of Mercury Rev or Spiritualized at their broken hearted peak.

The songs themselves are romantic, occasionally frustrated, always full of palpable human emotion, and articulated in unpretentious language that occasionally hits on a disabling, stop-in-your-tracks image. In 'The Day Texas Sank..'. Hinson sings about waiting 'at the top of the trees, trying to hang myself with thoughts of you'. The approach also sometimes falters, as there are times when Hinson sounds a little too morose. Hinson is perhaps not the most poetic of singer-songwriters, but he seems more interested in texture, atmosphere and sound. He has crafted an engaging, assertive and compelling debut.

I bought 'Love Songs For Patriots', the first album from American Music Club in over ten years on the strength of an impassioned, if a little patronising, review in Uncut Magazine. Until fairly recently, I had always found the music of AMC and Mark Eitzel impenetrable and difficult. If melodies were there, they often seemed to be buried in the ether, or oversung in cloying, miserabilist mantras. I've decided to try again though - partially because it's interesting to see what new elements are brought to the table when a band reconvenes after such a long period away from duty, but also because so many people seem to think that they were/are a band worth investing considerable energy in. I must concede that this new album does go some way in convincing me of their merit.

Immediately, the sound and production seem to be much more considered than their late eighties/early nineties work. This dynamic, coiling, twisting sound more than matches the intensity and energy of Mark Eitzel's singing. The opening track 'Ladies and Gentlemen' seems like a radical statement of intent. It bristles with passion and fury, with a driving fuzz bass line at its core pitted against jazzy rhythms and asymmetric piano chords. It sounds like the band is imploding, albeit in a remarkable way. Further evidence of this comes with the barely controlled snarl of 'Patriot's Heart', possibly inspired by the trauma and misdirected energies of post-9/11 America. It works by cumulative effect, with its rolling, repetetive cycles becoming increasingly devastating. In between the two is a much more conventional piece, the delicately rustling 'Another Morning', effectively underpinned by sustained synth effects. In fact, it's worth pointing out that the addition of new recruit Marc Capelle on a vast array of keyboard instruments has considerably bolstered the band's sound.

Despite the ambitious arrangements and atmospherics, Eitzel's voice remains the main focus, and it's worth noting the variety of his tone and sound. Whilst some rock singers, say, Thom Yorke, have carved a niche for themselves with singularly distinctive voices, it's sometimes hard to believe that it's Eitzel singing on every track here. Sometimes he is furious and relentless, as on the aforementioned 'Patriot's Heart', at others he is wistful and whispery. More often than not here, he manages to remould his vocal to suit the mood of the song, which is a particularly impressive quality. His skill with a twisted lyric has remained intact, despite the rather unfocused nature of his solo career thus far. Perhaps reuniting with his old band has reinvigorated him. When the results are as stunning as closing track 'The Devil Needs You' with its mysterious and elusive instrumental coda, it's a timely reminder that not all reunions have to be a matter of simply going through the motions.

Catch-Up

It's been too long since I posted anything here, so there's a fair amount to catch up on in terms of new albums, even though the heavy burden of house deposits and rent has considerably reduced my purchasing power. Roll on a time when I can get access to free promos again.

Imagine my delight when the lovely Snowstorm record label prepare a compilation from one of my favourite 'lost' bands, the archly intelligent Animals That Swim. Now imagine my considerable frustration when it gets delayed for three weeks in a row and I can't find it anywhere. Eventually, a cheap promo turns up in the Music and Video Exchange in Camden, and I snap it up. I don't intend to say too much about it here as I have just finished a longer piece on the band for the forthcoming issue of The Unpredictable Same fanzine (which any regular reader of this blog would do well to order - see http://www.kingofquiet.tk/ for more details). It has a slightly eccentric tracklist - I can't really fathom why they have neglected 'The Greenhouse' and 'Kitkats and Vinegar' in favour of 'The Longest Road' and 'Dirt', but you can't have everything. Still, this serves as a very welcome chronicle of their distinctive brand of pub melodrama. The songs are intelligent, witty and often deeply strange, whilst retaining a touching but unsentimental brand of storytelling. They don't neglect to write tunes either - and 'Faded Glamour', '50 Dresses' and 'East St O'Neill' are particularly powerful. They may have been just a little too clever for the Britpop bandwagon. It's a quite wonderful album. The time must surely be ripe for re-evaluating this neglected and underrated band.

Whilst Animals That Swim are deeply entwined with England (or, at least, London), Mark Lanegan, formerly of The Screaming Trees and guest-for-hire for Queens of the Stone Age and the Twilight Singers, seems to have fashioned his solo career on traditional American songwriting. His latest, 'Bubblegum', seems to have more in common with Tom Waits than with the grungey rock of his former group. Predictably, there are an abundance of drug metaphors on this album, and it all gets a little murky and tiresome at times. Musically, however, it's a dense, fascinating web of ideas. In some ways, it's one of the more incoherent albums of the year, veering as it does from ramshackle rock n' roll to lo-fi homespun blues. It wins out because it is consistently engaging, and because the thick, deep timbre of Lanegan's voice imbues the album with a lived-in sense of wisdom gained through experience. In fact, at times he almost sounds haggard. Even the louder songs seem slightly restrained, with a dirty, effectively under-produced sound. Polly Harvey provides an inspired supporting vocal on 'Hit The City', one of the album's most immediate moments. However, the most inspired moments here are the most unusual. 'When Your Number Isn't Up' makes for a particularly effective opener, with its rudimentary drum machine and skeletal guitar lines. The vocal is rich and resonant, giving the song the dark edge it clearly demands. Many of the songs here, such as 'Like Little Willie John' or 'Strange Religion' sound like another logical step in the great lineage of American folksong. 'Bubblegum' must surely be ironically titled - it's not lightweight at all.

If you haven't heard of the trials and tribulations of Pete Doherty of The Libertines, then you must surely be living on a different planet. The Libs, as they are affectionately known, are one of those bands that I have tried desparately to hate. I certainly get frustrated by the way the media has constantly fed their myth, attempting to make them into a group that defines an entire generation after merely two albums. Only time will tell whether or not they have any real longevity, but right now they certainly make an endearing racket; a ragged, spirited noise inspired by seventies punk and the greats of English pop songwriting (Weller, Morrissey and Marr, Ray Davies). Their critics lambast them for being derivative and uninspired but, even on first listen to their eponymous sophomore effort, it's clear that there is an extra spark to them. Even on the most basic of songs, the guitars always sound interesting - with strange, Chuck Berry-esque licks trading off each other. This is a band not content to chug along safely. Also, the chemistry between Carl Barat and Pete Doherty is so tense and energised that it inevitably results in moments of genuine inspiration, even if they try their hardest to bury their talents on this riveting but intentionally imperfect document, much of which has the energy and flaws of first-take performances.

The album opens and closes with arguably their best songs to date. These are songs that perpetuate the myth surrounding the fractured friendship between Barat and Doherty. They are songs in which they trade off lines with conviction, determination and bile. They are also notably crisper than anything else here - spiky and sharp, with a thrillingly brutal drum sound. 'Can't Stand Me Now' is one of the best pop songs of the year, an entertaining and touching stand-off between the two frontmen that also has something rather camp about it ('oooh, I can't take you anywhere', 'you can't take me anywhere' etc). 'What Became of the Likely Lads' is more wistful, and an ambiguous close to the latest chapter in the Libertines saga. There are hints of forgiveness, but also hints that this could easily be the last Libertines record. There's a sense of longing nostalgia for better times here.

In between the two, there's a complete riot. 'Last Post On The Bugle' starts off as a parting love song with appropriately thunderous drums, but then disintegrates into a beguiling mess of murmured vocals and bum notes. 'Music When The Lights Go Out' develops from a slightly whimsical acoustic introduction into a full-blooded singalong which borders on being funky. 'Narcissist' and 'Arbeit Macht Frei' are raucous, full-throttle punk thrashes. By means of contrast, 'What Katie Did' is a doo-wop inspired retro pop song. 'Tomblands' is another snarling rant, in which they spit out the great lyric: 'Didn't wanna be the one to tell you/she was only fourteen/sussed out your dirty sordid little scene'. Throughout, there are mistakes which even the tone deaf or pathologically unobservant could not fail to identify. There is also considerable charm which, in this case, proves to be considerably more effective than technical proficiency. The most polished moments here, all of them surely destined to be massive hit singles, give a hint of what the Libertines could achieve given a more sensitive producer. Nevertheless, there is still something thrilling in hearing a band full of the dynamism, spirit and energy of rock and roll, without the rough edges smoothed off. By comparison with this dangerous, defiant album, Razorlight and even The Strokes sound bland and tame.

'Medulla', the latest album from the perpetually extraordinary Bjork is the first album I've heard this year that truly transcends the ordinary and sounds like a significant statement. I'm reluctant to hail it as a masterpiece because, for me, it lacks the peculiar introspection that gave 'Vespertine' its entrancing coherence. Occasionally, it even sounds a little studied and forced. Nevertheless, it's still an engrossing, uncompromising album well beyond the boundaries of commerical pop. Bjork's solo career to date seems to have followed a similar trajectory to that of Kate Bush - a precocious and highly successful debut album, followed by a series of increasingly inventive steps away from the mainstream. 'Medulla' is arguably her boldest statement of intent to date. There are no instruments here - instead, all the sounds are produced by the human voice. Bjork has always worked best in collaboration with others, but this album is particular has demanded an even more co-operative approach. Guests include Faith No More singer Mike Patton, Icelandic human beatbox Rahzel and the peculiarly voiced pioneer Robert Wyatt. In some ways, the emphasis on voices is not necessarily radical, but more the logical conclusion of the choral approach she adopted for 'Vespertine'.

I'm slightly disappointed that this album employs conventional electronic beats that stutter and splurge in a largely predictable pattern. The beats on 'Vespertine' seemed less like unwelcome interventions and served more to enhance the atmosphere and mood of the songs. 'Who Is It', whilst infectious, is a pop song (and conceivable hit) that seems a little out of place here. There seems to be enough syncopated rhythm in the phrasing of 'Where Is The Line' for it not to need the additional emphasis of the manipulated human percussion. Some of the more effective tracks are free from this cumbersome baggage, and sound like they belong in an entirely different century, echoing monastic chants or plainsong. Some of them appear to be in Icelandic, or possibly, like the incomprehensible murmurings of Sigur Ros, they are simply nonsense songs. Either way, they are characterised by Bjork's paradoxical icy warmth - they sound like winter songs with a beating human heart.

Bjork's songs are at their most effective when they are shamelessly erotic. 'Coccoon', from 'Vespertine' is one of the most inspired songs about sex I've ever heard - in its minimalist arrangement, it actually sounded naked. It was extraordinary in its intimacy and absorbtion in the moment. On 'Medulla', the best songs are erotic in the broadest sense, in that they awaken the senses and induce a staggering synaesthesia. Opening track 'The Pleasure Is All Mine' is like musical temptation, a perfect soundtrack to the Garden of Eden, whereby multi-tracked Bjorks sound otherworldly and inviting. 'Mouth's Cradle' is brilliant, a succession of seductive images set to a complex musical arrangement that seems to be constantly seeking new and fascinating sounds. The single is 'Oceania', a song that Bjork composed for the opening ceremony of the Athens olympics, and it's a sensurround delight - a piece of music that somehow manages to sound visual. 'Submarine' is particularly weird, and it's fascinating to hear how well Bjork's voice integrates with that of Robert Wyatt - it sounds harmonious in more ways than one.

On the first few listens some of these songs seemed to wash over me, particularly tracks such as the penultimate 'Midvikudags' or the entirely accapella 'Show Me Forgiveness'. After a few listens, I think this is because the vocal arrangements manage to achive a strangely floating, almost hypnotic quality. This could have been a most effective mood for the entire album - but the more pulsating tracks interrupt the flow. 'Medulla' is an album of compelling imagery, from using the teeth as the gateway to the mouth's cradle, to the rolling of the stars like dice in the quietly superb 'Desired Constellation'. It also demonstrates that Bjork is an artist far more concerned with following her own increasingly individual pathway than with pandering to commercial concerns. Even this album's most tuneful moments will probably never make it to daytime radio playlists. This is a real shame, because 'Medulla', like all of Bjork's remarkable solo output so far, is an album that demands to be heard. Whilst a vocal-only approach sounds potentially restrictive, Bjork's has once again proved that her voice is the most versatile instrument of all.