Thursday, June 23, 2005

Reinventing The Wheel

I've not been spending much money on music lately (mainly because I don't have much to spend!) - but two albums which cautiously reshape established formulas have struggled to leave my CD player in the last few weeks.

The first and most heavily publicised is 'Get Behind Me Satan', the latest effort from The White Stripes. The packaging retains the band's love for stylised artwork, and the music still fits neatly into their defiantly minimalist framework. Yet, as many reviews have suggested, there's something different lurking here too. Partially, it's the instrumentation - although the idea that Jack White has abandoned the guitar is slightly misleading. There's certainly much less of the sharp, aggressive electric fretwork, and much more acoustic strumming. There's also plenty of piano. White has used this before, usually for the slightly twee side of the band's catalogue, but here he uses the piano as a full bodied rhythmic instrument, and the result is some of the band's most driving and insistent work. The critics perhaps make rather too much of the marimba, which sounds wonderful, but appears only on one track.

So is this a crisis of confidence or a bold new direction? I don't think it's really the latter - this is still recognisably a White Stripes album, just a more difficult and unusual one. Quirkiness has been amplified on a number of tracks - 'Red Rain' and 'The Nurse' both have familiar and exhilirating bursts of guitar noise, but the comfortable elements are refracted through a distorting lens of woozy weirdness. Both tracks are excellent, the latter sounding particularly exotic. 'Little Ghost' is a breakneck bluegrass hoedown - I'd like to think White gained the inspiration from it from The Broken Family Band, although I doubt he's familiar with Cambridge's finest.

Elsewhere, 'My Doorbell' is outstanding, a rare example of Meg's rudimentary drumming making for a simple, effective groove. The vocal phrasing is crisp, and the thudding piano chords and weight and energy. They replay the same trick for 'The Denial Twist', demonstrating how easy it would have been to make a rather repetetive album. All credit to Jack and Meg that they have resisted this temptation and have instead opted for confounding variety - 'Forever For Her (Is Over For Me)' is a brilliantly mournful stately ballad and 'Take, Take, Take' with its depiction of an encounter with Rita Hayworth, is one of the album's most singular and evocative moments.

Sometimes its hard to know whether Jack White lovingly recreates traditional forms, or whether he is actually parodying them. This is a particular problem with the final track 'I'm Lonely (But I Ain't That Lonely Yet)', a gospel tinged blues that hits all the right buttons, both with its lyrics and melody, but has a slightly detached, possibly ironic tone. It could be the perfect kiss-off, or it could be a clue to the band's approach for the whole of 'Get Behind Me Satan'. Turned over within a matter of weeks, was this a calculated gambit, or an unrestrained bit of fun that actually managed to secure a commercial release?

Either way, it's an intriguing, fascinating record - and one that they probably needed to make. The single 'Blue Orchid' suggested they were all too happy to remake 'Seven Nation Army' all over again - but this has not proved to be the case. Here, they show a willingness to do as much as they can within their aesthetic, and actually begin to show some real creative drive. That their most ambitious record also appears to be their least pre-conceived record to date shows that they have managed to retain all that made them special - an instinctive appreciation for the visceral force of blues-inspired music, a howling, primal form that still serves them well, even in quirkier, more muted form.

Earlier this year I crafted a highly critical review of 'Trials and Errors', a live album and the first official release from Jason Molina's new band Magnolia Electric Co. To these ears, the performances seemed stodgy and mostly overlong, and it did not bode well for the forthcoming studio album. That record has now been granted a full UK release. Entitled 'What Comes After The Blues', it is by some considerably distance the most accessible album that Molina has penned to date, and is likely to put yet more distance between him and his friend and mentor Will Oldham. It also comes as a merciful relief that it is also an absolutely fantastic record.

Not always known for his sensitivity in production techniques, somehow Steve Albinini has managed to muffle the colossal and insensitive drum thud that marred the live album. In fact, much of the playing here, whilst frequently exhuberant and spirited, is a great deal more subtle than I had expected. Even the most conventional tracks, where Molina's current Neil Young fixation is most apparent, have a wistful melodic appeal and are arranged with more restraint and care than anything on 'Trials and Errors'. 'The Dark Don't Hide It' opens the album with a sugar rush of chiming guitars and slide solos, along with a strident, almost infectious melody. It's a powerful statement, but actually somewhat misleading for the rest of the album. Elsewhere, Molina appears more reflective and less blustery.

There are two superb examples of this - the eerie and mysterious 'Hard To Love A Man', which is beautifully performed to emphasise its ambiguities. More familiar is the charming, melancholy 'Leave The City', which bears a slight resemblance to Scott Mackenzie's 'If You're Going To San Francisco (Be Sure To Wear Some Flowers In Your Hair)', but manages to find its own distinctive voice by virtue of some beguling trumpet melodies.

Lyrically, this is clearly an unashamed attempt at capturing the great American vernacular. There are numerous references to highways, roads and north stars which place this firmly in Springsteen territory. The inspiration, according to Molina himself, was Hank Williams' 'I Have Seen The Light', a statement made explicit in the concluding song, cunningly titled 'I Have Not Seen The Light'.

The album is structured so that the calmer, acoustic moments come towards the end. This is not a structuring policy I would expect to appreciate - but it works surprisingly well here, as it allows the album to develop an increasingly elegiac mood. The final few tracks will be familiar to long-term Molina fans, but they are more immediate and less elusive than anything on 'The Lioness' or 'Didn't It Rain'. 'Hammer Down' and 'North Star Blues' are particularly memorable.

Throughout Jennie Benford plays a very effective Emmylou Harris to Molina's Gram Parsons, and she even contributes one quite remarkable song, the genuinely moving 'Night Shift Lullaby', which may as well have been written especially for me! The tone is vulnerable and delicate throughout, but Molina's voice appears to have assumed a new force, which works very well wheh paired with Benford's sweet harmonies.

The title 'What Comes After The Blues' is also illuminating. This is not a blues album as such, but it is full of the resonances, cadences and wisdom of traditional American music. Molina has now firmly placed himself in a songwriting tradition (that of Dylan, Young and Springsteen) and, as such, 'What Comes After The Blues' may be unfairly dismissed as his most conventional work. This would be a mistake, however. There is still some of the raw brilliance of the later Songs:Ohia albums here and plenty of Molina's distinctive way with mood and atmosphere. A remarkable album.

Saturday, June 11, 2005

Contort Yourself

A fun night was had by all at Twisted Charm's Club Twisted night at the Buffalo Bar in Highbury last night. Unit played our second gig in the bar, one of my favourite North London venues, as part of what turned out to be a pretty top bill. We played a pretty storming, highly energetic set, including the first 'proper' performance of new song 'Take Your Hangover Crosstown' (sadly marred by some annoying techincal problems with Chris' keyboard). Otherwise, it as a back-to-basics set with minimal instrument swapping, no synth and no laptop. Our full set was:

2 C Others As They See Me
The Explorer
Listen It Out
Edge Of Town
Lovers' Mesh
Take Your Hangover Crosstown
Television

There was a good crowd, hopefully now converted by Daniel's eager after-show promotional activities, and spirits were good. Tonight we hit Leicester Square's Marquee Club.

Also playing last night were Blah Blah Blah, a new project from Twisted Charm's Nathan Doom who played a short but sweet fifteen minute set of electro-punk. Ironic lyrics mixed with propulsive drum machine beats, some interesting non-chordal guitar playing and the odd burst of synth attack. Nathan's snarly vocals suited the music well, and this showed plenty of promise.

Next up were The Schla-La-Las, who started dreadfully, with a whole host of technical problems and bursts of rather uninspired two chord dirges. Once the problems had been resolved, however, I warmed to them considerably. Perhaps it's just because I'm a complete sucker for girl-pop, but songs like 'Are You Ready?' and 'Up For It' had cute harmonies and bucketloads of energy. Of course, the playing was decidedly sloppy (and, really, there's no need for two bass players when they both mindlessly strum the same parts), but as a punk band, it's much more about an aesthetic than intricate musicianship. In their uniform dresses, and with plenty of good humour to go round, the girls made for endearing performers. When the songs were good, the lack of musical innovation didn't really matter. One song sticks in my mind particularly - a list of foodstuffs in German followed by an hilarious chorus: 'I'm going back to Germany to stuff my face (she's going back to Germany to stuff her face)!!'. Quite brilliant. Mitch Benn and the Distractions may want to follow their wonderful parody 'Everyone Sounds Like Coldplay Now' with a sequel, 'Everyone Sounds Like The Shangri-Las Now', such is the currency of girl-pop right now. I fear, however, that The Schla-la-Las might suffer inevitable and unfavourable comparisons with the Pipettes, who are lighter, more subtle and probably better.

Then came our hosts for the evening, Twisted Charm. Musically, this was ragged but completely inspired - with Nathan's guitar processed to sound like an 80s synth and Luke's howling saxophone pitted against rudimentary but thrillingly unhinged drumming. New single 'London Scene?' is bound to gain them new attention, with its slightly barmy rhyming lyrics about teenage mums taking over the streets whilst no-one has the time (or perhaps the inclination?) to read John Keats. Ironic? Probably. Entertaining? Very much so. Nathan Doom and Luke Livid may be slight of frame, but they make for charismatic performers, completely absorbed in a riotous, energetic noise. Whilst the lyrics sometimes tend towards the simplistic, at their best Twisted Charm are relentlessly exciting. We hope to play with them again some time soon.

Headlining tonight were C-Jags, probably the most musically proficient band on the bill, with some infectious vocal harmonising and manic, technically incredible drumming. There was something missing here for the most part though - good pop songs, performed with authority and conviction, but somehow a great deal more conventional than the blast of avant-punk that came before them.

Even better were the tunes spun between the sets - James Chance and The Contortions, The Lounge Lizards messing up Thelonious Monk, Acoustic Ladyland, Sonic Youth, Royal Trux, The Specials, LCD Soundsystem - awesome!

Friday, June 10, 2005

Cat People

South San Gabriel and The Ralfe Band - Borderline 29/5/05

I've been meaning to write something about this for ages, but have only just managed to compose my thoughts. This was a pretty major night for gigs - and I sacrificed seeing Hot Chip or Lou Barlow in order to come to this one. This was mainly because, at the time of booking, I was curious about South San Gabriel's new full length - an unashamedly whimsical concept album about the (mis)adventures of a cat called Carlton. Did the evening fulfil its initial promise?

First of all, a brief word must be said about the Ralfe Band, who were somewhat demented. Their music seemed to encompass a plethora of genres, taking in Calexico-style desert border strumming, campfire laments, klezmer, Les Dawson-esque comedy dissonance and invigorating hoe-downs. There was also a wealth of instrument swapping (even a viola, the most cruelly maligned of orchestral instruments, was deployed at one stage). It was a compelling and highly entertaining mix, although I did find myself wondering at one stage if the band's considerable ambition and ingenuity with arrangements might risk outstripping their songwriting skills. I'll reserve judgement until I've heard more, but there's no doubt that there is plenty of mileage here and an album from this band will be schizophrenic, challenging and, quite possibly, really very good.

South San Gabriel (one of many outfits for prolific songwriter Will Johnson, who also records under his own name and witl Centr-O-Matic) were considerably less wild. In fact, they were arguably a bit one-dimensional by comparison. We basically got the whole of the new record and the same problem that afflicted the record transferred to the show - it's a bit one-paced, and the pace is relentlessly slow and drawn-out. The songs are long, stretched and very deliberate.

Still, the music is plaintive, haunting and extremely beautiful. Also, in constructing a cohesive style, the band have very much defined their own sound (although obvious influences such as Neil Young hover in the background). It's like a more reflective My Morning Jacket (withouth the occasionally intrusive 70s rock behemoth tendencies). Everything is bathed in eerie reverb, and the presence of slide guitar enhances the dusty, otherworldly effect.

Johnson also makes for a compelling performer. Even though he remains seated throughout the entire performance, he appears completely committed to the music, and totally absorbed within it. His vocals are soft, soothing but with a vulnerable quality - and the band have a remarkable ear for harmony. If you were not familiar with the material, you'd be hard pressed to know it was all about a cat - it is performed tonight in considered and serious fashion. 'A bit presumptious of me to know what a cat is thinking about...' Johnson concedes dryly, but he appears to have done a good job.

Thursday, June 09, 2005

Dinosaur Rock!

Dinosaur Jr. at The Forum 8/6/05

They say it takes a lot to get J Mascis out of bed. Well, someone must have offered him a real cash prize because not only as he come over to England for tour dates, including this weekend's Download Festival, but he's brought the original line-up of Dinosaur Jr. with him! I'd just about given up hope of ever seeing Dinosaur Jr. live, and certainly never thought J Mascis and Lou Barlow would bury the hatchet and perform together again. Yet, here they are, two of the musicians most influential to me, shuffling on stage as if they were completely inconsequential!

True to slacker form, J, Lou and Murph step out and spend what seems like an eternity tuning up. Did the sound tech people not just do all that for them? Yet, by the time they're plugged in and bursting into a terrifying rendition of 'Gargoyle', all doubts are immediately dispelled. This show really did lay down the gauntlet for all reunion shows. Unlike the Pixies show I saw last year, which to me felt forced, uncomfortable and mostly perfunctory (although I concede almost everyone disagreed with me) - this was energised, persuasive and very, very loud. Subtlety was never really a Dinosaur trait and here they are, looking older (is J's long hair greying, or just dyed blond?) but still every bit as visceral and aggressive. Lou hammers seven shades of shit out of his bass, playing with almost total disregard for technique. J attacks his guitar in numerous lengthy solos, which work wonderfully because his guitar playing is paradoxically both unnervingly unhinged and musically considered. Murph is also an absolutely terrific drummer, and plays with thunderous enthusiasm tonight. Lou Barlow genuinely seemed to be having fun (unusual for such a famously, err, reflective chap) and J even seemed to smile a couple of times, even if his rapport with the audience didn't really go beyond the occasional strange whistle or grunt.

As this was the original line-up, there was unsurprisingly no material post-Bug. It would have been great to hear the original band reconfigure some of J Mascis' later material, but not really something surprising or worth complaining about. From those pivotal early albums, we get just about everything we could ask for in a necessarily brief but thoroughly invigorating set. Almost unbelievably, this was the first time 'Little Fury Things' had been performed live with Lou on bass, despite it being one of the most popular songs from the first Dinosaur era. This lent it a renewed thrill and intensity that went beyond mere nostalgia. Other highlights included a swampy 'No Bones', a savage blast through 'In A Jar' (dispensed with quickly, surprisingly early in the set) and kinetic takes on 'Forget The Swan' and 'Repulsion'.

The closing moments seemed to come from nowhere. Suddenly, they're playing 'Freak Scene', one of alternative rock's finest moments and a pillar of proto-grunge. J Mascis messes up the stripped down bit completely, adding humour to the 'don't let me fuck up will you...' line, but it doesn't matter. It sounds committed and fiery nonetheless. It seemed that they might be too cool for encores, but they return with a full blooded performance of their interpretation of The Cure's 'Just Like Heaven' and a fractious, stormy 'Does It Float'. Despite Lou having savaged his bass to such an extent that strings have broken, he straps on a new bass, and they finish with a determinedly sludgy 'Mountain Man', which seems to encapsulate all the messy, untutored power that this remarkable band command.

Older, but seemingly wiser, Dinosaur Jr. still rocked righteously. As I left the venue I heard someone say 'I'm so glad it wasn't shit'. I'll second that - reunion exercises can be dour and unpleasant, this one was something special. Download is in for a treat.

Tuesday, June 07, 2005

The Big Guns Shoot Down The Real Heroes

So, while I've been out and about soaking up the sunshine in Seville, the big albums on which the very lifeblood of the record industry seems to depend have finally emerged. This week, what the NME has referred to as 'Super Monday' brought the ludicrously over-hyped new Coldplay album, along with 'Get Behind Me Satan', the album which supposedly sees The White Stripes move beyond their guitar-drums thrashing template, possibly with mixed results. I've yet to hear the latter, but I've plenty to say about the former (surprisingly, given that my usual reaction to Coldplay is complete indifference). Also, last week brought another Oasis album. 'They've rediscovered what made them great!' trumpeted the predictably unsubtle Observer Music Monthly, obviously attempting to lead some sort of premature critical rehabilitation, and conveniently ignoring the fact that Oasis were never actually great in the first place.

In the meantime, two albums slipped out quietly, highly unlikely to sell in bucketloads, but of much greater musical significance. Sleater Kinney's fruitful collaboration with Dave Fridmann 'The Woods' is dependably exhilirating, whilst Smog's 'A River Ain't Too Much To Love' suggests that the more accessible 'Supper' was a cheeky bluff - this is one of his more abstruse and challenging collections. Read on for my thoughts in full.

Coldplay - X&Y

As we all know, the delays and botched recordings in the sessions for 'X&Y' gave rise to disgruntled feelings among EMI shareholders and a major profit warning. Listening to it after all the hype, EMI really needn't have worried. 'X&Y' comes with swathes of synth strings and keyboards, but is really just a bigger, more confident (occasionally even strident) update of the familiar Coldplay template. Its sound is collossal and, at least initially, genuinely impressive. Even the most ardent of Coldplay haters would have to accept that this is leagues ahead of the inconsequential strumming of their debut, or even the mundane chugging of much of 'A Rush Of Blood To The Head'. There are healthy signs here that Coldplay have finally realised that the arrangement of a song is as important as its melody or sentiment. Hence, they even (gasp!) play on the offbeats, or employ some pleasantly substantial echoey guitar effects, even if it occasionally sounds too much like an attempt to replicate latter-day U2. Even the basslines have become more propulsive and less grindingly predictable. The production is effective, but there remains the linering doubt that it is all a bit clinical - big guitars suddenly emerge to underpin Chris Martin's none-too-subtle overwraught emoting.

When it works, it's easy to understand why it will no doubt be the stadium soundtrack of the summer. The opener, 'Square One' is bold and muscular, with an intriguingly twisting melody. The overall sound of first single 'Speed Of Sound' is a fair pointer - much of 'X&Y' sounds very polished and not too far from the likes of A-ha. The real focus of the album is the lengthy, spacious 'White Shadows', which neatly segues into the album's killer big ballad 'Fix You'. The former is the album's most impressive arrangment, with more rhythmic interest than anything Coldplay have previously recorded, whilst the latter flagrantly tugs the heartstrings. It would be churlish to deny the impact of its deceptively simple, haunting melody and the characteristically vulnerable tones of Martin's vocal. I suspect it will be released as a single, and will likely propel the album to become one of the all time biggest sellers. Quite how such an unassuming and generally unambitious band got to this stage is somewhat baffling.

Elsewhere, they try to prove their cultural worth by stealing the melody line from Kraftwerk's 'Computer Love' on 'Talk', although they don't do much of interest with it, using it as the main melodic device for the chorus vocal and the guitar line. A dialogue where both participants persist in repeating the same script does not hold the attention for long. Whilst the arrangements here are undoubtedly much improved, 'X&Y' still seems to suffer from a paucity of ideas. It's their most cohesive album to date, and seems to be striving for the big studio sound so successfully realised by the likes of Doves and Elbow. Unfortunately for Coldplay, those two bands have a much wider musical palette to draw from, and its difficult to detect the same instinctive acuteness on 'X&Y'. Still, those that admire the sound will no doubt not object to twelve tracks all adopting much the same approach at varying tempos. For these ears, the concept really starts to wear thin towards the end, where 'The Hardest Part' is pretty, but played rather conventionally (and therefore struggles to rise above blandness), 'Swallowed In The Sea' is dreadful and 'Twisted Logic' sounds big, but also somehow predictable and safe.

The real problem here is the lyrics. At best, they are banal. 'Speed Of Sound' and 'Square One' attempt to ask the big spiritual questions, but end up sounding thoroughly meaningless and somehow simultaneously cliched. The forced rhyme schemes reach an appalling apotheosis on 'Swallowed In The Sea' ('You put me on a she-eee-eelf/ And kept me for yourse-ee-eelf/ I can only blame my-see-eelf' etc) where Martin takes his uncomfortable emoting to ridiculous levels. Even the big love songs ('Fix You' aside) sound strangely self-conscious. Initially touching, repeated listens reveal 'What If' to be a merely skeletal lyric set to moody piano chords. Ironically, the simplest and least problematic love song is the uncredited 'Til Kingdom Come', the song the band originally wrote for Johnny Cash, a rare soujourn into countrified acoustic lament territory.

'X&Y' is not a bad album and in aiming to beef up their sound Coldplay have, ahem, put to bed all those criticisms of their 'bedwetter music'. Unfortunately, the lyrics rather leave those feelings lingering, despite the band's best efforts, and there is still the tendency towards meandering blandness and plodding tempos. For much of its first half, 'X&Y' shows a real sense of progression, but the latter half reveals that Coldplay are still shrouded in a restrictive safety net.

Oasis - Don't Believe The Truth

Indeed - don't believe it, for it is rubbish. By capturing the British mood for brash nostalgia during the mid-nineties Britpop boom, Oasis have had ridiculous expectations heaped upon them ever since. Essentially a pub rock band made good, they have struggled to recapture the undeniable thrill that catipulted them to fame. Through numerous line-up changes and fractious disputes, it's now been seven years since Oasis last made a half decent record, yet they still inspire ardent devotish from their closed-minded, loutish fans and can still command the odd magazine cover and deluded rapture from critics. Even I, long completely indifferent to the band had hoped, following my rather guilty enjoyment of their nostalgic headline set at Glastonbury (far from the disaster many reports denounced it as), that 'Don't Believe The Truth' might at least be enjoyably insubstantial. It's not at all - it sounds ham-fisted, unimaginative and, despite its lengthy gestation, somewhat rushed.

The spontaneity and humour of 'Definitely Maybe' has long given way to a monolithic, monotonous guitar thrum. Occasionally, they break the mould by adding piano or acoustic guitars, but the chord progressions remain familiar, and most of the melodies are predictably lifted from much better records. Noel Gallagher has never been one for original ideas, but with the new democratic approach to songwriting there seem to be more people on-hand to plagiarise. Noel's own 'Mucky Fingers' is a hotch-potch mix of the chugging rhythm of The Velvet Underground's 'I'm Waiting For My Man', the chords from the Ska classic 'A Message To You Rudy' and, more frustratingly, part of the melody from the godawful 'Smile' by The Supernaturals. The result is lumpen and thoroughly unengaging, but at least they are new influences. Liam's 'Guess God Thinks I'm Abel' pales into insignificance next to Elvis Costello's more inventive use of a similar pun, and shamelessly lifts the tune from 'I Wanna Be Your Man', conveniently a hit single for both The Beatles and The Rolling Stones, the two touchstones for this band. More bizarrely, Gem Archer's 'A Bell Will Ring', which is at least serviceable, faintly resembles Abba's unwitting gay anthem 'Does Your Mother Know?'.

Even more problematic than the chronic lack of invention is the terrible delivery of these limited ideas. Where once Liam Gallagher sounded snarly - a mix of compelling arrogance and untrained charm, he sounds lazy here. Whether it be imitating John Lennon on the utter piffle that is 'Let There Be Love', or simply disinterested on his own 'Love Like A Bomb', not even his vocal character can rescue such thin material. The drums are persistently thunderous, but with no dynamism whatsoever to the playing. The relentless strum and thump obliterates any sense of fun or enjoyment, and renders most of 'Don't Believe The Truth' thoroughly charmless.

A small handful of songs do at least manage to linger in the mind. Few would claim first single 'Lyla' to be one of their greatest achievements, but it at least has a catchy singalong chorus. Noel suggests he might eventually develop some subtlety with 'The Importance Of Being Idle' and 'Part Of The Queue', both of which resort to well-worn themes, but at least sound almost relaxed and comfortable.

This will no doubt sell enough to keep Oasis in business, but even that demonstrates what Oasis have become. They are their own corporation, and will keep putting out records because it is what they do. Yet, increasingly, they simply deliver a product designed to sell, but for which very little craft or industry have actually been deployed. The band sound like they were in separate rooms when this was recorded - there are no signs of chemistry or life here, no rush of blood, no thrill.

Sleater-Kinney - The Woods

Unfortunately, another Sleater-Kinney album is unlikely to register beyond their small but devoted fanbase. This is a shame, as here is a band constantly seeking to reshape and redefine their sound. Much has already been written about how this Dave Fridmann produced effort is substantially harder and heavier than previous outings. This is not entirely untrue, but the blues-rock dominated 'One Beat' had already given hints at this direction. Scuzzy opener 'The Fox' sets the tone defiantly, with a raw and relentless rhythmic hammer underpinnning Corin Tucker's uncompromising guttural howl.

For me, what really impresses about 'The Woods' is not its heavier approach, but the way in which it has substantially broadened the band's musical outlook. There are still hints at more melodic girl pop on the intriguing 'Jumpers' and the uncharacteristically breezy 'Modern Girl' (the latter suggesting that Sleater-Kinney can do summery pop as well as blisteringly intense wig-outs). There is bluesy-garage on the kinetic 'Rollercoaster' and a ferocious and righteous anger on 'Entertain', which seems to combine at least two different songs together with thrilling results. Much of 'The Woods' ups the ante in terms of ambition - 'Let's Call It Love', far from the bland platitudes of Coldplay or Keane, actually encompasses the tumult and wonder that its title suggests, descending into an extended 'jam' that is both temporarily unhinged and carefully controlled. It then seques into the loose, dense and groovy 'Night Light', both tracks showing the band pushing into new ground, much of their experimenting propelled by the energy and vigour of Janet Weiss' drumming.

The news that 'The Woods' had been produced by Dave Fridmann could have been viewed as overwhelmingly exciting or as a cause for concern. Fridmann has helmed his fair share of classics ('The Soft Bulletin' and 'Deserter's Songs' spring immediately to mind) but he also frequently over-eggs the pudding. The booming drums of Mogwai's 'Come On Die Young' occasionally threaten to overpower any sense of melody, whilst the numerous bleeps and glitches of The Flaming Lips' 'Yoshimi Battle The Pink Robots' infuriate. This year, however, Fridmann really has excelled himself, largely through some unusual and fruitful collaborations. First, Low's 'The Great Destroyer' retained all that band's myriad strengths, whilst bolstering a previously fragile sound. Now, with 'The Woods', he has sensibly resisted adding much in the way of production trickery. He has simply captured the thrilling essence of a band still seemingly in their prime. A techincally assured, wonderfully exciting record.

Smog - A River Ain't Too Much To Love

At last, those infuriating parentheses have gone! Does this mean a new, less obtuse, more contented Bill Callahan? Fat chance! 'A River Ain't Too Much To Love' reneges on much of the promise of 'Supper' (which added slide guitar, keyboards and lingering melodies to Callahan's famously dark wit), but with intriguing results. This is mostly pared down acostic music, occasionally interrupted by Jim White's brilliantly cluttered, off-kilter drumming, but it is far from twee. It's one of Callahan's most challenging records to date - his voice is deeper and more conversational than ever, and the harmonic basis is defiantly minimal. Callahan seems determined, wherever possible, to wring as much as possible from just one chord or, occasionally, just one note. There is nothing out of place on 'A River...' and nothing is made more complicated than it need be.

On most of the songs here, Callahan sounds frustrated and uncomfortable. On 'Say Valley Maker' we find him sailing down river, singing simply 'to keep from cursing'. By the end, he's promising to rise Phoenix-like from his own ashes. On the utterly brilliant 'The Well' he begins his lenghty, opaque narrative in a restless state, throwing a bottle into the woods and then searching for the pieces. On 'I Feel Like The Mother Of The World', he puts a stop to any theological debate. 'God is a word', he states flatly 'And the argument ends there'. Lyrically, he's on terrific form, and fans of his mordant irony will find an abundance of riches here.

Musically, 'A River...' is deceptively simple, its drones and repetitions acting as smoke and mirrors for its entrancing overall impact. It sounds appropriately rustic and isolated, but also ghostly and fragmentary. Despite its basic, mostly traditional instrumentation, it still sounds peculiar and highly original. It is haunting and hypnotic, and a difficult beast to get to grips with. It lacks the immediacy of 'Knock Knock' or 'Supper', but with the almost dangerous , sinister intrigue of songs like 'The Well' or 'Running The Loping', and the bleak hilarity of 'I'm New Here', it may prove to be one of his more enduring works - a 'Wild Love' rather than a 'Rain On Lens'.