British Bards and Canadian Collectives

Time for a quick reviews catch-up - mostly albums I should have got around to writing about aaaages ago. Oh well. We'll start with two of my favourite British songwriters.

It's taken me some time to get to grips with 'Problems' the debut solo album from Steven Adams of the Broken Family Band, recording under the nom de plume of The Singing Adams. It was well worth persevering though, as this is actually album with as many, if not more, riches than the most recent BFB effort. Adams has adopted a less polished approach to the production here,opting for lo-fi bedroom methods rather than the polite Abbey Road sound of 'Welcome Home, Loser'. It serves these remarkably candid, occasionally dour songs very well. Adams' trademark dry sense of humour remains intact, but its often complemented here by a detached reflection on personal indiscretions and torrid affairs, during which he frequently refers to himself in the third person. Adams admits that he likes a good whine. It's lucky therefore that he's very good at it, elaborating his whinges with frequently incisive lyrical couplets.

Musically, there are plenty of pointers here at how BFB could avoid repeating themselves. The arrangements are subtle, and often folk-tinged (particularly the haunting 'St Thomas' which recalls Alasdair Roberts' reinterpretations of the Scottish folk tradition). There are guest contributions from some of the usual suspects - multi-instrumentalist Timonthy Victor, Piney Gir and Gill Sandell. The most striking musical feature is the predominance of vocal harmonies, which BFB have used relatively infrequently. This works very well on 'Minus Nines', which ends with some insistent and effective chanting. Some double tracked vocals elevate the melodic and melancholic qualities of 'You and Me', one of the more immediately appealing tracks here. The same trick is used on the banjo-heavy 'New Southgate Love Song'. Best of all is the haunting 'Hello Baby' which is completely unlike anything else Adams has recorded. With its softly moaning accapella vocals, it sounds like a masculine version of the sirens scene from 'Oh Brother Where Art Thou?'. Not even the introduction of dissonant squalling guitars at the end can spoil its extraordinary mood.

If it initially feels like it lacks the robust, relentlesss energy of the Broken Family Band, 'Problems' is a decidedly lo-fi, underplayed record with plenty of riches of its own. In its own way, it's a strangely confident sound, even if the lyrics display wry self-criticism, and frequently, some form of disgust. Adams may have a whole wealth of personal problems to draw on, but as a songwriter, he is maturing rapidly with his increasingly prolific output.

Even better is '9 Red Songs', the latest collection from Chris T-T. As the title implies, it's a collection of left-wing political protest songs which works well because it combines T-T's trademark observational writing with incisive comment and knowing humour. There are, after all, few political albums which end with a song about the frustrating pointlessness of protest songs, as T-T does here with the wonderful 'Preaching To The Converted'. Elsewhere, he wonders where all the other protest singers have gone, and pictures Billy Bragg going 'fishing in his 4x4'.

Regardless of how one might feel about its political content and motivations, '9 Red Songs' is quite comfortably Chris T-T's most accomplished musical statement to date. The arrangements are deliberately spare and acoustic, light on percussion and heavy on more unconventional instrumentation, particularly Gill Sandell's accordian and Timothy Victor's broad range of stringed instruments. In fact, it's musically very similar to the Steven Adams record, and T-T also attempts an accapella track with 'M1 Song', which works surprisingly well.

This is a brave and distinctly unfashionable record to release when we are so frequently being admonished into accepting the realities of the 'modern, globalised world', which tends to mean a tacit acceptance of the encroachment of private, market forces and corporate vested interests into the public realm. Although the war in Iraq predictably appears, T-T sinks his teeth into plenty of other issues, often displaying a nuanced understanding alongside his righteous anger and passionate humanism. It moves from endearingly impractical idealism on the opening 'Bankrupt', which envisages a mass boycott of banks in favour of the hiding place underneath the bed, to an effective juxtaposition of the corruption of two different kinds of worship (wealth and God) in the moving 'A Plague On Both Your Houses'.

Fox hunting still seems like a slightly obvious target for class conflict, and is an issue that frustrates me for its relative triviality. Still, T-T uses it deftly to highlight some of the broader problems concerning the town/country divide which have been ignored amid the furore. This is a neat example of how New Labour's policies have largely served to divide communities and exacerbate local problems and it also captures the intrinsic hypocrisy of the Countryside Alliance's claim to be standing for human rights and liberal values ('You loved the f*cking poll tax/you propped up Maggie Thatcher/And you didn't give a f*ck about Tony Blair until he threw your hobby back actha!'). Sadly, the final verse pushes it into provocative and senselessly extreme territory which does little to help the underpinning argument.

'9 Red Songs' is witty, incisive and, of course, occasionally a little whimsical. It has all the usual characteristics we've come to expect from a Chris T-T album, but filters them through a fresh, more considered musical approach and an explicitly political outlook. Sadly, T-T avoids confronting the dangers of New Labour's excessive statism over the individual (I would have liked to hear a demolition of the highly flawed arguments in favour of ID cards). It remains a challenge for the left to find practical means of implementing policy that resists drifts towards authoritarianism. That's hardly a songwriter's duty though, and it's more than enough that a British songwriter is at last engaging with significant issues. Chris T-T is a less conventional musician than the likes of Pete Seeger, and less radical and influential than Woody Guthrie. You get the impression they would both approve though.

Over in Canada, the prevailing idea that bigger means better has been applied rigorously by the sprawling Toronto collective Broken Social Scene. They can sometimes number up to 17 members, and their producer Dave Newfeld has admitted that their latest, eponymously titled effort (what exactly was wrong with 'Windsurfing Nation' as an album title then?) is a conscious attempt to create an even bigger and more confounding sound than that of their acclaimed 'You Forgot It In People' album (my favourite album of 2003). They continue to divide opinion. They certainly have their admirers (not least the Chicago based indie webzine Pitchfork, which has almost single-handedly bolstered the current wave of Canadian acts) - but there are plenty of detractors too. Whilst critical consensus often dismisses indie bands as 'underachievers', it seems that Broken Social Scene have moved too far in the other direction. For some, they are too dense and impenetrable - or simply just too ambitious.

On first listen to 'Broken Social Scene', I almost began to sympathise with this rather limited view. The songs are swamped in layers of fuzzy, distorted guitars and consciously portentous brass arrangements. The vocals are frequently mixed down to render the lyrics largely incomprehensible. Yet, despite the sonic overload, there's a real sense of spontaneity here, and many of the songs have a semi-improvisatory quality which reveal the BSS collaborative approach to songwriting. There's also a wealth of inventive ideas here - more than most bands have across an entire career.

For those that continue to dismiss them as merely an indie-rock band (as if that is in itself some kind of heinous crime), there's the lithe and groovy 'Hotel', with its swooshes of synth motifs. There's also the extraordinary (and brilliantly titled) 'Bandwitch' with its rickety percussion and ostinato female vocal lines. As with 'YFIIP', the band's strong point here remains its ability to manipulate vocals into a constituent part of the instrumental whole, rather than a necessary and conventional imposition. Specifically, they make more frequent and better use here of the distinctive talents of Leslie Feist.

Elsewhere, there are some conspicuous reference points. 'Superconnected' has the something of the sound and fury of early Dinosaur Jr., whilst the spectre of Sonic Youth looms large over '7/4 Shoreline' and ' Fire Eye'd Boy'. The latter seems to marry the Youth's chiming, detuned guitar style to the propulsive Gang Of Four-style groove currently favoured by the latest crop of British bands (hello Bloc Party).

Some have found this album frustratingly diverse and incoherently sequenced but to my ears it is a more conventionally cohesive statement that 'YFIIP' (if not necessarily a better record). The layers of guitar distortion create a hazy, smog-summer kind of feel that would have made the original working title for the album very aposite. It also seems to be structured around a very big opening and an even bigger finale. After an introductory overture, 'Ibi Dreams Of Pavement' is a huge chugger, with Kevin Drew's vocals veering away from regular ideas of pitch and melody. The closing 'It's All Gonna Break' is several songs combined - a sprawling monolith of experimental sound which still finds room for the most immediate and infectious pop song of the band's career so far. It's not a pretentious waste of eleven minutes though - it sounds euphiric and exhuberant, as if the band were enjoying the inherent self destruction.

Given time, 'Broken Social Scene' reveals a band that is not content with staying in its comfort zone. There is little respect here for the conventional boundaries of rock and roll - with occasional references to free jazz approaches and techniques, as well as the loose-limbed groove of the best Seventies funk bands. If Broken Social Scene are just an indie rock band, then they sound like the most inspired and accomplished indie rock band on the planet right now.

Rather less interesting, although not entirely without merit, is 'Apologies To The Queen Mary', the acclaimed album from Montreal's Wolf Parade. Rather predictably, they've already been touted as the heirs to the throne of The Arcade Fire, which is a bit ridiculous as it's entirely reasonable to assume that The Arcade Fire have many more great records left in them anyway. The album is produced by Isaac Brock of Modest Mouse and that band seem to have left a rather transparent influence on the overall sound and shape of the record. It's therefore not as original a prospect as the Broken Social Scene or Arcade Fire albums, nor indeed the best of Brock's own work.

There's plenty here to like though, from the fractured off-kilter stutter of the opening to the insistent thrum of 'Modern World' and 'We Built Another World'. It ticks many of the expected boxes, but rarely veers beyond the comfortingly predictable. It's not thrilling and captivating like Funeral, but it's also not devoid of charm. Much of Wolf Parade's appeal rests on the interplay between their two vocalists, and this may be what makes them a distinctive prospect in the future. For now though, we have to settle for a record which is decent if not compelling.

Hot Chip Will Break Your Legs

...or so one of their rather threatening new songs seems to suggest. I'm not sure who it's all directed against!

I finally caught up with Hot Chip again at their low-key London comeback show at the Horseshoe Tavern this weekend. Now signed to EMI in this country, with LCD Soundsystem's DFA label distributing their work in the US, expect a greater volume of interest in this excellent band in 2006. The organisers had put a somewhat bizarre arrangement in place as the capacity of the venue was insufficient to meet the demand. Upon entry, everyone was provided with one of two coloured wristbands to designate which of the two Hot Chip sets we would be allowed to see. I was early enough to be ushered upstairs for the first set.

First, with an atmosphere of fearful silence (occasionally punctured by some embarrassing ringtones), we watched the support set from the Elysian Quartet, who played an intriguing and very original take on contemporary string music. The group are led by former Hot Chip member Emma Smith, and their set provided a fascinating and welcome surprise. The group seemed intent on breaking most of the conventions of quartet playing, with plenty of plucking and even a form of rhythmic strumming, between which were threaded intensely melodic passages. Chamber music it certainly was not. In case anyone felt it was all too stuffy, there was humour as well, courtesy of a somewhat drunken sounding ansaphone message (possibly from Emma's dad?). It was hysterical - 'Emma....I've just heard your new music - a load of old bollocks - sounds like a cat f**ing a bag of nails!'. Brilliant.

Hot Chip took to the stage and played a relentlessly energetic set comprising both old and new material. From 'Coming On Strong' we got an insanely manic version of 'Down With Prince', with a Sonic Youth-style freak out inserted into the middle which seemed reminiscent of the band's earlier days. 'Krap Kraft Dinner' sounded at turns mournful and bitter as usual, and remains one of their best songs. 'Take Care' has largely been left unchanged and provided some necessary familiarity.

The new material is neither as confounding nor as different as might be expected from a band that seems to move at such a rapid pace. If anything, the 80s synth pop element seems to have been amplified even further - so much so that one of my friends felt moved to identify all the possible references ('Human League! Duran Duran!'). This is not a problem though, as the band are so much more intelligent and engaging than, say, Goldfrapp (funnily enough, Hot Chip are support act on the forthcoming Goldfrapp tour). There also seems to be a more melodic approach at work, with Alexis Taylor's understated voice in particularly good form this evening. 'Boy From School' is particularly enervating, and the closing 'Over and Over' gets the entire crowd dancing, justifying Alexis' claim that the band are making a new kind of 'party music'. It's fantastic stuff but it's increasingly homogenous. One of their more reflective songs would have provided a welcome change of pace - I was hoping to hear the rather lovely 'Barbarian' from their latest EP of the same name. Still, it's difficult to resist the stabs of dramatically funky untutored guitar playing, or the increasing prevalence of crazy percussion - toms, cymbals, agogo bells! New album 'The Warning' is sadly still six months away - it'll be worth the wait.

There's Life In The Old Dog Yet...

Bob Dylan – Brixton Academy 23/11/05

Maybe it’s just that the Brixton Academy is a much more suitable venue for the current Bob Dylan band’s mix of blues and roots music than the cavernous hell-holes of the Docklands or Wembley Arenas, but this show was by some considerable distance the best of the four Dylan shows I’ve seen (all of them post-‘Love and Theft’). Dylan is now a notoriously inconsistent performer. All sorts of theories abound – the voice degenerates towards the end of each tour, sometimes he just can’t be bothered, some, such as Andy Kershaw, believe that he just shouldn’t be doing it anymore. Well, nonsense. Dylan concerts still offer myriad pleasures – not least the chance to hear classic songs deconstructed and rebuilt to fit that decaying but still determined voice. So, when the familiar tones of the ‘Fanfare For The Common Man’ and that subdued announcement ring out (‘Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the poet laureate of rock ‘n’ roll….Columbia recording artist Bob Dylan’) there’s still anticipation and apprehension in equal measure.

There’s no doubt that Dylan seems more engaged than usual tonight. He’s still playing keyboards throughout (is it arthritis or a back problem that now prevents him playing guitar?), but the keyboards are positioned centre stage this time round, rather than hidden at the back as on the previous couple of UK tours. He plays the role of bandleader tonight, ushering in inspired shifts in dynamics and tone with a series of bizarre gestures and signals. His keyboard playing, although sometimes buried in the mix, is actually brilliant, and tonight he trades motifs with the guitarists, and uses the keyboard to punctuate the vocal lines. He plays excellent accompaniment for the soloists too.

Not only this, but on a handful of the songs tonight, he sounded vocally controlled and in real command of the material. There’s a sublime reading of ‘Shelter From The Storm’ where the phrasing is crystal clear and even the melody is handled adroitly. It’s a far more subtle, graceful and sensitive performance than we have come to expect in recent years. I have been a little fearful of hearing the ‘Blood On The Tracks’-era material being delivered in the wayward growl, but this was a version that retained the beauty of the original. ‘She Belongs To Me’ and ‘A Hard Rain’s-A-Gonna-Fall’ are also delivered in powerful, controlled renditions which suggest that, despite his obvious vocal deficiencies, Dylan can still sound committed. The latter is re-arranged, perhaps a little too smoothly for the apocalyptic prophecies of the lyric, as a light country shuffle that is very pleasing to the ear.

More intriguing still is a mesmerising ‘Lonesome Death Of Hattie Carroll’, very similar to the miraculous version performed at Wembley in 2003, where he intones the lyric in sharp, caustic phrasing that actually adds weight to an already emphatic song. There’s no real attempt to deal with the song’s original melody, but the different delivery entirely suits the song’s mood of righteous indignation. Where Dylan’s outrageously gifted musicians sometimes threaten to render him anonymous in live concerts, band and singer integrated effectively and intelligently here.

He can’t sustain the vocal quality for an entire show however. There are still some wayward moments. ‘Positively 4th Street’ suffers from phrasing which is hurried and pinched, while ‘Most Likely You Go Your Way and I’ll Go Mine’ is a little half-hearted. The dreaded ‘upsinging’ (a bizarre device whereby Dylan mumbles most of the line in a low monotone and then leaps an entire octave for the final word of each line) is mostly kept to a minimum, and even used surprisingly effectively on ‘Hard Rain’. Most perfunctory are the obligatory encores of ‘Like A Rolling Stone’ and ‘All Along The Watchtower’, where verses are repeated and most phrases rendered completely indecipherable. The audience lap it up of course, and the band’s playing on both is so outstanding as to ensure that it doesn’t really matter.

The band has had a major line-up shift since the last UK tour, with only the confidently groovy rhythm section of Tony Garnier (bass, now Dylan’s longest serving sideman) and George Recile (drums) remaining in place. Gone are guitarists Freddy Koella (who only lasted just over a year) and the exquisitely gifted Larry Campbell. The hole left by Campbell might well have proved fatal were it not for the addition of the remarkable multi-instrumentalist Donnie Herron, who divides his time between two steel guitars, mandolin and banjo. Completing the ranks are the near-motionless Denny Freeman and the more exuberant Stu Kimbell on electric and acoustic guitars. They are more conventional soloists than Campbell, Charlie Sexton or even Koella, but they play expressively and frequently with real subtlety.

They open with a few bars of legendary guitarist Link Wray’s ‘Rumble’ (Wray died last week) before segueing straight into a riveting ‘Maggie’s Farm’, which appears to have become a staple set opener. Although Dylan professes to be apolitical, it’s hard to believe that the political resonances of the lyric in post-Thatcher Britain are entirely lost on him.

The band are arguably at their best for the ‘Love and Theft’ material. ‘High Water’ is particularly impressive, with Donnie Herron’s nimble-fingered banjo playing contrasting with the tempestuous punctuations of guitars and rhythm section. The section where Dylan brings the band right down in volume before letting them explode again is absolutely electric. The inventive shift between straight and shuffle grooves in ‘Cry A While’ is handled masterfully, whilst ‘Summer Days’ remains a dependably thrilling closer for the main set. The latter, with a knowingly comic touch, provides a canny snapshot of Dylan’s current predicament (‘Riding along in my Cadillac car/The girls all say “you’re a worn out star”’ or, even better ‘you say you can’t repeat the past/ Whaddya mean you can’t, of course you can!’).

The show ends, as ever, with the entire band gathered around the drum kit in hilariously motionless poses, Dylan holding his trusty harmonica. They come back for the predictable aforementioned encores, but also find time for a surprise version of Fats Domino’s ‘Blue Monday’, although I can’t say I actually recognised it at the time as anything other than a blues standard.

The whole show is a carefully balanced mix of fiery blues and steel-guitar dominated roots country. It’s all a little more conservative than the ‘thin wild mercury sound’ that Dylan patented in going electric in 1966, but it makes for a refreshingly old-fashioned, anti-modernist combination. Even after the departure of Campbell, Dylan’s band may well still be the best blues band in the world.

Dylan continues to transform himself in ways that are wilfully perverse and frequently contrary to the expectations of his followers. Yet, it is this that has kept him relevant for over forty years. It is this that means he can get away without introducing the frequently unrecognisable versions of his songs, or even with a conscious failure to address his audience. If his interaction with his musicians and commitment to the finest moments of his back catalogue remain this strong, he’s not likely to quit for a while yet. Until next year, then….

Drawing the Curtain on 2005

In a bid to start work on my final albums of the year list, I've updated my 2005 tracking list over at Rate Your Music.

http://rateyourmusic.com/list/d_pat/in_league_with_patons_best_albums_of_2005

I've seen a number of bloggers claim that 2005 has been a disappointing musical year. How, exactly? To my mind, there's been a wealth of excellent releases, with some artists even having more than one entry in the list (Iron and Wine, King Creosote, Bonnie 'Prince' Billy, Howling Hex etc). I'm still not sure how the final top 75 will end up, but it's certain that a number of really good albums are going to miss out completely.

October and November always seem to bring gems - the new Broken Social Scene album on import, the excellent Wilco and Bonnie 'Prince' Billy live albums. The Nine Horses album is really interesting - a late bid for the top 10 perhaps?

The Top 75 will come just before Christmas, along with the singles and films of the year as well.

The Real Super Monday (Part Two)

A proper analysis of the superb set of releases from October 17th was promised a month ago – at last it is now here!

The most eagerly anticipated release of that day (aside from Stevie Wonder, which I’ve yet to hear) was ‘Playing The Angel’, the first album in over four years from Depeche Mode. The Mode are often either touted as stadium crowd-pullers to rival U2 or REM, or denounced as pitiful 80s throwbacks. Neither description captures the distinct quality that the band have captured on all their albums since ‘Violator’. ‘Songs Of Faith and Devotion’ had a strong spiritual-gospel dimension, whilst ‘Ultra’ was their darkest work since ‘Black Celebration’ (now nearly 20 years old and still their masterpiece), with Dave Gahan at his lowest ebb during the recording sessions. Tim Simenon’s production also leant it additional gravitas. By contrast, the now widely disliked ‘Exciter’ mostly sounded calm and dreamlike. To these ears, it pushed the band into new and subtler territories, but its approach has been almost entirely rejected for ‘Playing The Angel’, which frequently sounds like a very self-conscious attempt to recapture the popular essence of ‘Violator’.

It opens brilliantly, with a harsh wall of guitar fuzz and one of the band’s most immediate and powerful opening gambits. ‘A Pain That I’m Used To’ is hardly anything surprising, but it’s crisp production and neat contrasts between smooth and savage sounds make it remarkably effective. Dave Gahan’s voice is in fine form here, richer and less imposing than on previous albums, but with more a great deal more depth and control. If he’s been taking voice coaching, it’s clearly paid off, as what follows is even better. On ‘John The Revelator’, a superb recasting of the classic blues standard as a sermon against religion, Gahan growls with glee.

Gahan in fact dominates all the finest moments here. Much has already been written about his confrontation with Martin Gore over the share of the songwriting, and his three efforts here are surprisingly good. ‘Suffer Well’ again fits a classic Mode model, with a memorable melody and intelligent, thoughtful production values. ‘I Want It All’ is slower, denser and less penetrable, it’s essence seemingly buried beneath atmospherics. ‘Nothing’s Impossible’ is a real grower though, and one of the best tracks here.

For all that is dependably impressive about ‘Playing The Angel’, there are also significant problems. Martin Gore has always walked a perilous path as a lyricist, and there are certainly lurches into hideous self parody here. The worst is the appalling ‘Macro’, where Gore sings in grandiose mock-operatic tones about seeing ‘the microcosm in macro vision’. Hit the skip button on your CD player at this point. Equally disappointing is Gore’s other vocal effort, ‘Damaged People’. Musically, it’s perhaps the closest track here to the ‘Exciter’ sound, but its theme of suffering outsiders perhaps suggests that Gore has now rewritten this song too many times.

Those who hoped that producer Ben Hillier (Blur’s ‘Think Tank’ and Elbow’s ‘Cast Of Thousands’) might alter the band’s approach or reinvent their sound may come away disappointed, although ‘Playing The Angel’ frequently sounds impressively slick and atmospheric. It’s just that it doesn’t quite reach the alchemical heights of the Mode’s best work – it’s neither their best nor their most original.

By contrast, My Morning Jacket’s fourth album, the mysteriously titled ‘Z’, has been hailed as a complete reinvention. Following the departure and replacement of two key members, things have certainly changed (most notably with the hiring of John Leckie as producer), although I’m not sure that this isn’t more a broadening of the palette than a radical transformation. They certainly haven’t completely abandoned their defining reverb-drenched sound, as many reviewers have mistakenly claimed.

Perhaps it’s because the tracks that sound most unlike their earlier incarnation come first. ‘Wordless Chorus’ and ‘It Beats For You’ are the two tracks that most clearly betray Jim James’ self-confessed fascination with modern R&B and soul. The former displaces guitars to the background in favour of some sweetly processed squelchy keyboards and a particularly limber drum beat. It also does exactly what it says on the tin in the sense that the chorus is indeed wordless. The layers of Jim James’ vocals sound superb. ‘It Beats For You’ is perhaps more elusive, with a spindly melody and understated arpeggiated guitar line. It’s still meticulously constructed, however, and the band have clearly benefited from the introduction of an outside producer.

Best of all are the two epics, the sinister waltz ‘Into The Woods’ (has Jim James really been listening to Sondheim?) and the extended closer ‘Dondate’. ‘Into The Woods’ has what may be the greatest opening line of the year (‘a…., a baby in a blender/both as sweet as a night of surrender’) and sounds something like a musical version of Neil Jordan and Angela Carter’s exquisite film ‘The Company Of Wolves’, which is stunningly appropriate.

Elsewhere, there are extensions of recognisable formulae. ‘What A Wonderful Man’ brings back the guitars and the bone-crushing drums, but adds a twist of ironic gospel. Similarly, the deliberately dragging pace of ‘Anytime’ is recognisable, but its twisting, unpredictable emphasis is. The reggae/ska dimension, previously a passing fascination, is brought spectacularly into the fore in the decelerated skank of ‘Off The Record’. It’s extraordinarily infectious, and even manages to pull of the trick of plagiarising the theme tune from Hawaii 5-O. Even more audacious is its subtly extemporised coda, which sounds like the band at their most effectively collaborative.

‘Gideon’ is perhaps the track that would have sat most comfortably on ‘It Still Moves’, with its massive, almost bombastic rock sound. Yet, it has a depth and control that that album never quite achieved. The same point makes works equally well for a comparison of the entire two albums. ‘It Still Moves’ was a monolithic rock behemoth and, at CD-busting length, far too heavy an experience for one straight listen. ‘Z’ meanwhile, at a clipped 41 minutes, is mercilessly concise, but still every bit as expansive and impressive. In seeking to develop the sound, My Morning Jacket have successfully retained their elemental potency.

Are Boards Of Canada really the reclusive world-changing saviours of electronic music or are they over-hyped, allowing their self-imposed mystique to overpower their music? If ‘Music Has The Right To Children’ was deceptively calm, with very sinister undertones in its repeated sampling of childens’ voices, ‘Geogaddi’ pushed them into terrifying territory. It frequently sounded threatening or menacing, and maintained a refreshing detachment from the wider trends in electronic music at the time. Yet, it also presented a quandary for the duo. Having defined a sound so perfectly, were they now in danger of falling victim to their own formula? The next album would have to be a defining statement to justify the adulation.

On first listen, ‘The Campfire Headphase’ is something of a disappointment. It sticks so rigidly to what is now a very familiar template that even its cover design closely resembles that of ‘Music Has The Right…’. It continues the rather frustrating structural approach of alternating full length pieces with frustratingly brief interludes. Sometimes the short sections are so effective you wish they had developed the ideas a little further. As a whole, the album threatens to become soporific, so cohesive and singular is its identity.

The most obvious change from previous albums is the addition of ‘live’ guitar parts, although they are mostly take the form of heavily manipulated samples. They are something of a double-edged sword, for although they help BoC make tentative steps towards something new, they also help ensure that ‘The Campfire Headphase’ is their most conventional sounding album to date. It’s the closest they have come to actually fitting the generic terms ‘pastoral electronica’ or ‘folktronica’ so often dished out to describe them.

It all flows seamlessly, as one might expect, although this time there are some obvious standouts. ‘Chromakey Dreamcoat’ relies heavily on the duo’s gift for developing repetitive patterns, whilst ‘Dayvan Cowboy’ most effectively integrates harmonic guitar parts with interjections of programmed melody. The beats here are also carefully realised, with seemingly untamed and disorientating crashing cymbals.

The music here is frequently pretty, evocative or otherworldly (most particularly the hypnotic ’84 Pontiac Dream’). However, there isn’t much that really breaks the mould and it never quite captures the attention in the way that its two predecessors managed. It’s becoming increasingly clear that the Boards Of Canada are going to have to reinvent themselves if they are to stay at the forefront of the genre.

Plucked from folk obscurity by a smattering of the new ‘freak-folk- fraternity (Devendra Banhart and Adem both guest), Vashti Bunyan has returned with her only collection of songs since ‘Just Another Diamond Day’, her collectable debut from 1969. Disappointed by the lack of recognition afforded the album on its original release, Bunyan disappeared, but has since become something of a cult figure. Her collaboration with the fantastic Animal Collective on the fascinating ‘Prospect Hummer’ EP earlier in the year brought her back into the limelight and augured well for this new set of songs.

Producer Max Richter has crafted a warm, intimate and absorbing setting for these touching and understated songs, allowing Bunyan’s timid but captivating voice plenty of space in which to weave its alluring web. Like Kate Bush’s comeback album Aerial, many of Bunyan’s new songs deal with domestic concerns, most prominently motherhood and the desire to protect her children. The clearest parallel with Bush’s record comes in ‘Wayward’, where Bunyan sings of ‘days going by in clouds of white washing, life getting lost in a world without end’. There’s also a sense of regret here though. In the same song, Bunyan confesses: ‘I wanted to be the one with road dust on my boots and a single silver ear-ring’.

Most of ‘Lookaftering’ is so exposed that it feels like it was recorded completely solo, with no superfluous intervention. There’s actually a wealth of additional accompaniment though. Richter himself plays a bewildering array of instruments, including glockenspiel, piano, mellotron, recorders and carefully integrated passages of Hammond organ. The recorder, always a callously despised instrument, actually helps imbue the set with a sense of wisdom gained through experience.

The melodies are skeletal and all the songs are remarkably concise. Similarly the lyrics eschew verbosity or poetic conventions in favour of capturing more universal emotions. Sometimes, however, Bunyan conjures words with the touch of magician. ‘Against The Sky’ tells of a tree being cut down, its stately delivery barely concealing a palpable sadness. ‘Turning Backs’ is more abstract, ending with the beautiful lines ‘indifference is the hardest ground, it is the stony silent sound, of plainsong echoing unfound until all the voices have left town’. Bunyan seems as apt at handling isolation as she is at domestic contentment.

In a world of unrestrained warblers, it’s refreshing to here such an unashamedly vulnerable and controlled singer, capable of delivering real and sincere feeling. ‘Lookaftering’ may well be the quietest triumph of the year.

Best of the bunch may well be the third album in as many years from Bunyan’s prolific collaborators Animal Collective. ‘Feels’ is certainly their most coherent statement yet – by some distance the most comfortable to listen to from start to finish. They have largely tamed their tendency for unwarranted provocation, although ‘Feels’ still contains plenty of material that could easily be described as ‘challenging’. It succeeds in assimilating the disparate elements of their sound – the peculiar yelping vocals, Syd Barrett-esque whimsy, the droning electronics and the clattering rhythms provided by percussionist Panda Bear.

The first half of the album is the most immediately stimulating, and contains the band’s most memorable songs to date. The single ‘Grass’ is outstanding, lulling the listener into a false sense of security before piercing the bubble with a series of savage staccato interruptions. Even better is opening track ‘Did You See The Words?’ with its intuitive grasp of melody. ‘The Purple Bottle’ may well be their densest track to date, brimming with nonsense wordplay and compositional invention. It’s unconventional structure is characteristically perverse, and a defining part of its intrigue.

The second half of the album is abstract, slippery and arguably even more unconventional still. It requires a considerable amount of hard work from the listener, as the drones and electronic elements become more prominent on tracks such as ‘Banshee Beat’ and ‘Loch Raven’. As with the Collective’s earlier albums, it’s all about the hints and glimmers of ideas that lurk just beneath the surface, and close listening is essential to uncover many of this exquisite record’s many subtleties.

There’s a whole load of catch-up reviews to come when I get round to it – including live albums from Wilco and Bonnie ‘Prince’ Billy, as well as studio sets from Chris T-T, Fiery Furnaces, Broken Social Scene, Bettye Lavette and much more!

Better Late Than Never

Kate Bush - Aerial

Twelve years! When Kate Bush last released an album (the criminally underrated 'The Red Shoes' in 1993), we had a Conservative government and Oasis had yet to even release 'Definitely Maybe'. Whole genres have passed by in the interim - Britpop, New Wave of New Grave, the New Acoustic Movement, Drum and Bass, Garage - much to her credit, Bush has existed independently of all trends, be they manufactured or sincere. Her long silence has of itself reaped many benefits. Whilst Kate has focused on motherhood and the domestic life, the extraordinary mystique that surrounds her has grown, enabling her to do the bare minimum of promotion in support of 'Aerial' (one interview to Mojo magazine, two more for BBC Radio) whilst the media publicity machine does most of her work for her. It would have been very easy for many of the female artists who betray her influence (Bjork, Tori Amos) to steal her thunder, but Bush has managed to secure her legacy with consummate ease.

As might be expected, 'Aerial' is wildly ambitious and, in places, quite barmy. It is by no means a masterpiece, but then Bush is too idiosyncratic an artist to produce completely flawless works. It is split into two short discs (around 40 minutes each). The first, subtitled 'A Sea Of Honey' is a collection of seven self contained songs, which are fascinating, peculiar and frequently frustrating. The second disc, subtitled 'A Sky Of Honey' is a conceptual suite, dealing with the passage of the seasons through the course of a single day. Potentially, it's a project riven with pitfalls and could easily have descended into cliche, but Bush just about makes it work (although it perches precariously on the precipice whenever she bafflingly decides to imitate birdsong).

'A Sea Of Honey' is bookended by two remarkable songs. The single 'King Of The Mountain', in which Bush envisages Elvis hidden away in Citizen Kane-style isolation opens the album in a suitably dreamy manner. In a career characterised by the marriages of seemingly opposing musical styles, this is one of Bush's most effective hybrids to date. Its clattering, off-kilter drumming and bizarre reggae chug meld effortlessly with Bush's strangely restrained vocals. It's an entirely charming piece. At the end comes 'The Coral Room', a stripped back piano and vocal ballad that deals obliquely with the death of Bush's mother. A close relation of the heart wrenching 'This Woman's Work' (from 1989's 'The Sensual World'), it is dramatically conceived and exquisitely touching. It provides a powerful reminder of Bush's artistry.

The tracks in between are more problematic. I'm actually rather taken with 'Pi', which finds Kate singing the number to 109 decimal places and marveling over a man infatuated with numbers. It's entirely in keeping with the album's overall theme of awe at the wonder and order of the natural world, and the unique fretless bass sound of Eberhard Weber enhances the texture and sound. 'Mrs. Bartolozzi' appears to be a paen to laundry, with apparently ludicrous lines like 'Washing machine, washing machine/sloosy sloshy, slooshy sloshy/Get that dirty shirty clean'. This being Kate Bush, it's probably about a whole lot more than that, and the lyric about her blouse wrapping around the man's shirt reinvents her old talent for investing the mundane and everyday with erotic imagination. Musically, it is delicate and vulnerable, but suffers from a somewhat hesitant and meandering melody.

'Bertie' is a song for her 'lovely' son. Delivered in a mock-baroque style, it is immensely twee and for every person who is touched by it there will be someone who finds it insufferably nauseating (one wonders what Bertie himself will think about it in a few years' time). With lyrics like 'you bring me so much joy and then you bring me...more joy', it's disappointing that Bush has not found the means to express her obviously genuine emotions more eloquently. 'Joanni' (Joan of Arc) is tough and memorable, with one of the album's more immediate and engaging melodies, but its clunky beats and dated synth string pads do it more harm than good. Much better is 'How To Be Invisible', with its lithe, lightly driving rhythm section and peculiar lyrical incantations. It's the kind of magical realism that only Bush can really pull off. In essence, 'A Sea Of Honey' is never dull, but its experiments are not always successful.

Despite its pretentions, the suite largely fares better. Skip the insipid spoken word intro from Bertie and you arrive at the exquisite 'Prologue' which marks a welcome return for the big drums that worked so well on 'King Of The Mountain'. These produce the album's grandest musical statement when coupled with Michael Kamen's oustanding string arrangement. Kate is in her element here, celebrating the passing of Summer into Autumn with lines like 'it's gonna be so good, we're gonna be dancing'. No doubt someone will describe it as 'pagan', without having any idea what Paganism really is.

Rolf Harris, who first guested on 'The Dreaming' returns here as The Painter, and it's hard to imagine how he resisted the temptation to add the lines 'can you guess what it is yet?'. His jovial, Cartoon Club/Animal Hospital persona doesn't sit very comfortably with the idea of 'A Sky Of Honey' as a grand artistic statement though, and there's something slightly uncomfortable about his appearance, despite its brevity.

'The Architect's Dream' is again exquisitely arranged, although its percussion does sound as if it may have been programmed with the drum pads on a 1980s Yamaha keyboard, but we'll forgive this quirk. Best of all are the closing tracks, which are energised, and full of the highly inventive vocal dexterity for which Bush is rightly lauded. 'Nocturn' is passionate and haunting and with the titles of both discs included in the lyrics, it neatly ties the themes of both discs together, giving the whole bizarre enterprise an appropriately cyclical feel. 'Aerial' is the first piece here that suggests Kate may actually have listened to anything even vaguely contemporary. Its pounding four to the floor bass drum and shouted chorus ('I wanna be up on the roof!') hints intriguingly at club music, most specifically the relentless vocal and rhythmic dynamics of Underworld. Still, with its meticulously realised vocal arrangement, this is still singularly the work of La Bush.

As, if we're honest, is everything else here. It may not be perfect, or even always comfortable, but it's hard to imagine any other artist with this level of courage and conviction. Occasionally her ideas guide her exceptionally well, at others they seem stifling and misguided. It's hard to know what to conclude about such a baffling and confounding record other than at its best, it is the most serious-minded and ambitious pop music of the year and it's certainly good to have her back. It seems unlikely that Kate will perform live again, however, and one serious question remains - is this the start of a new phase of Kate Bush's career, or is it her farewell transmission?

Primitive Technology

The mixtape still has a proud home in my ageing car stereo - so glad to see that others support its dying cause!

http://www.bbc.co.uk/dna/collective/A6643172

That's Entertainment!

Jamie Lidell – The Scala, London 3/11/05

Yet again, the Scala was packed out for another Eat Your Own Ears promoted extravaganza, this time celebrating the brightest lights of the current Warp roster. Whilst Richard D James continues to abrogate any responsibility to his audience (packaging his only new material in impossibly expensive collectors’ editions), the young pretenders may be about to steal his electro crown.

First up was French maverick Jackson, whose ‘Smash’ album is arguably the most thrilling electronica album of 2005. His set tonight is uncompromising, furious and pulverising, alternating between glitchy, arrhythmic stutterings and dramatically powerful bass hits. It’s all a little disorientating but undoubtedly effective when he develops an idea into something that reaches the feet as well as the guts.

Next up was a very peculiar Japanese duo. I’m still not sure exactly who they were. If anyone can enlighten me, please leave a comment or email me! They positioned themselves shamelessly on that fine line between experimental genius and complete piffle, although more often than not I fear they crossed over into the latter. The audience were clearly divided, some nodding appreciatively and attempting to dance, whilst others booed ferociously. They consisted of a sampling device deployed to create swathes of sound, a remarkably unconventional drummer and a singer who screeched what sounded mostly like nonsense over the top of it all. Sometimes they generated ideas that sounded promising (particularly in their complex polyrhythmic figures), but all the elements always competed for attention. Frequently, the drummer seemed to be playing against the samples rather than with them and all the yelping and screeching became irritating after a while, a million miles from the cleverly choreographed vocal interplay of Animal Collective.

Jamie Lidell was frankly a revelation. Beginning his set on stage alone, he used live sampling and mixing to manipulate his vocals into entire layered performances. It felt like watching someone remix their own work live on stage, and really has only one precedent in modern dance music – the equally adventurous live sampling of Matthew Herbert, with whom Lidell has already collaborated. ‘Music Will Not Last’ makes for an awesome opener, and Lidell shows himself to be in adventurous spirit right from the outset. After a crazy cut-and-paste refashioning of crowd-pleaser ‘A Little Bit More’, he introduces the very special guests who join him for tonight’s show, the first time he has played with a live band on British soil.

Most of the guest musicians are gathered from hip Berlin label Kitty Yo, with Gonzales providing some gospel-infused piano flourishes, Taylor Savvy some exhuberant if slightly untutored drumming, Mocky the rock solid basslines and Snax the essential funky Rhodes keyboards and synths. They replay ‘A Little Bit More’ in the more conventional funk style that Lidell has recently adopted, and Lidell involves the crowd in some shameless call-and-response audience participation, every bit as good an ‘entertainer’ as that tedious twit Robbie Williams.
The band play through most of the excellent ‘Multiply’ album, with Lidell successfully wearing the clothes of his major influences – Otis Redding on ‘What Is It This Time?’, Sly Stone for ‘You Got Me Up’ (for which Mocky cheekily nicks the bassline from ‘Thank You For Talking To Me Africa’). Lidell generates so much energy and enthusiasm that this performance genuinely has some of the spirit of the legendary Stax/Volt revue shows. It’s just a shame that, drawing exclusively on ‘Multiply’ and ignoring Lidell’s radically different glitchy techno debut ‘Muddlin’ Gear’, it’s such a brief thrill. Lidell has been dismissed in some quarters as a Joss Stone for the electro set, which is grossly unfair. He arguably has a more instinctive feel for the music than Stone, despite her established soul patrons, and he always filters the past through a decisively modernist prism. If anything, it’s just great pop music.

Pornography and Death - A Winning Combination!

I’ve been quite fortunate in 2005 to catch some significant bands in their debut appearance on these shores – not least the remarkable Arcade Fire gig at King’s College. Tonight was the turn of the marvellous supergroup The New Pornographers, their first time in London at the wonderful Borderline venue for what turned out to be a very sweaty gig. That both bands should be Canadian is a happy coincidence – but one that hints at the quality and invention of the current crop of independent bands from that particular country. Some of the Canadians in the crowd tonight were clearly proud to be flying the Maple Leaf flag, despite being berated as ‘nerdy’ by lead vocalist Carl Newman. Fortunately for them, he checked himself – ‘don’t worry, it’s the kind of nerdiness that will get you laid every single night!’

First, a few words about the opening act, Immaculate Machine, who featured the talents of erstwhile New Pornographer Katheryn Calder, along with guitarist/co-vocalist Brooke Gallupe and demented drummer Luke Kozlowski. They turned in a set so bristling with energy and enthusiasm that even the NP’s own supercharged blitz seemed sedate in comparison. Their taut yet exuberant sound shared elements with the NP’s infectious, yet meticulously arranged music, although if anything they amplified some of the quirkier dimensions to this pop confection. With intricate harmonies set against the thunderous and unrestrained clatter of the drumming and some Marc Ribot-esque excoriating guitar they provided both volume and intelligence. There are some remarkable songs here too that span from the immediate and infectious (‘Phone No.’) to the more wiry and angular (‘No Such Thing As The Future’) via the deliberately insistent (‘So Cynical’).

Sadly, they currently have no distribution in the UK, but their excellent ‘Ones and Zeroes’ album is well worth investigating should an import copy crop up anywhere. The recorded sound is a little less colossal, but the songs still stand up well. They are possibly the best support act I’ve seen this year.

It’s tremendous credit to the New Pornographers that they manage to perform such a ferocious and engaging set, despite the absence of two crucial members. Dan Bejar, whose songs contribute a more contrived (in the original, positive sense of the word) dimension to their work, does not tour with the band. The enticingly glamorous Neko Case was absent from these European dates, apparently due to scheduling conflicts. Perhaps she was busy putting the finishing touched to her forthcoming album, expected early in 2006. It’s therefore a bit less of a supergroup than on record, and one that perhaps loses some of its range, albeit none of its bite.

It’s a show that mostly focuses on the songwriting talents of AC Newman, and he delivers his increasingly unpredictable pop songs with considerable gusto. It’s always a bit of an obvious tactic to open a show with the first track on your new album, but ‘Twin Cinema’ sounds so commandingly jagged tonight that it’s difficult to see an alternative selection. It’s also difficult to imagine a more captivating opening three than the aforementioned opener, followed by ‘Use It’ and the brilliantly compelling ‘Mass Romantic’. These are fabulously constructed pop songs, which sound both crisply comforting and uniquely ambitious. Calder does a confident job handling Neko Case’s vocal parts on the latter.

There are some rough edges, including some botched harmonies and an apparent uncertainty over the set list, but these only serve to add charm to an already blistering performance. Intelligently, they draw from all three of their albums, but for me the newest material sounds the most refreshing. ‘Twin Cinema’ is an album with many listens in it – its unusual songs twist and turn in numerous unexpected directions. ‘Jackie Dressed In Cobras’ is particularly unconventional, whilst ‘Sing Me Spanish Techno’ has a gleeful melodic playfulness as its focus. Tonight’s performances enhances its more aggressive, attacking qualities and reminds me that it will be due a high place in my increasingly crowded albums of 2005 list.

This was a gritty, convincing show – just a shame that it all seemed to be over so quickly.

The same could not be said of the wonderful HBO TV series Six Feet Under, which after five seasons of overwhelming, convincingly portrayed trials and tribulations, has become a regular delight that I’ve almost taken for granted. Tonight on E4, we were treated to its concluding episode. There will now be no more – a wise decision, for many of these things are recommissioned to tedium, whereby they lose their original impact and descend into pseudo soap operas. By ending before the inevitable rot could set in – Six Feet Under may well secure its place as a classic of modern American television.

This is not to say that the show was without its flaws. It suffered from a tendency to stereotype minor characters, we well as occasionally drifting into overplayed histrionics. Yet it could survive its more hysterical, or even its more whimsical-surrealist moments, because its central characters, with their inherent contradictions and self-righteous traits, were so convincingly human.

In a TV world dominated by endless generic sitcoms and hospital and police dramas, Six Feet Under seemed bracingly original. It’s difficult to imagine any UK writers pitching a show about a family business, let alone a family of funeral directors. In skilfully interweaving each episode’s self-contained personal story surrounding a particular death with the continuing journeys of its central characters, the show sustained quality and interest remarkably well.

This final series has been particularly effective, drawing on some of the show’s familiar themes and concerns without seeming repetitive, as each of the characters has moved to some sort of resolution. The performances have remained superb, particularly from the complex female roles. Rachel Griffiths has managed to make the turbulent Brenda sympathetic and repulsive in equal measure, and this series has been brilliant in detailing her mixed emotions towards Nate. Frances Conroy treads the fine line between regal presence and innate vulnerability masterfully as the matriarch Ruth Fisher – it’s her performances that will be most missed. Her brief turn in Jim Jarmusch’s Broken Flowers suggest that film roles may still await her. Best of all in this series has been Lauren Ambrose as the extreme and passionately rebellious Claire Fisher. In finally confronting both her need for escape and her need for something more regular, she achieves perhaps the toughest transition of all. Her unlikely relationship with Republican lawyer Ted was played out with plausible tenderness and compassion.

The final episode was perhaps not the greatest – with its obligatory tying up of all the remaining loose ends. It did, however, realise a convincing unity within the Fisher family and their associates – perhaps the first time all dysfunction and frayed emotions had been cast aside to give ‘a toast to Nate’ (brilliantly, his death earlier in the series had been the terrible catalyst for change). This would have made for a resoundingly positive ending, which the writers resisted. The camera then cut to an hilarious dream sequence with Peter Krause’s Nate in a pop promo from the heavens that completely shattered the mood. The remaining few minutes dealt mostly with Claire’s departure for a new life in New York. Leaving by car, her journey down the open road was intercut with a montage sequence illustrating the future deaths of all the major characters. A neat idea in theory – but the terrible make-up designed to show the ageing process undercut the pathos with a perhaps unintentional comedy. Six Feet Under has certainly always had a black comic streak – particularly in its tendency to always make the unthinkable happen. Yet, this didn’t quite work somehow. It reminded me a little of the ending of Spike Lee’s disastrous 25th Hour. Perhaps a more ambiguous final scene might have been better. If not that, then the episode centred on Nate’s funeral was so brilliantly handled that it might have made for a superior parting shot. That being said, it’s typical of this wonderful show to leave its audience not knowing whether to laugh or cry.

So Far Behind They Think They're Ahead

Uncut have already published their albums of the year list - with, ahem, this blog's 2nd favourite album of 2004 (The Arcade Fire) at the top spot! I suspect this is not the only list this band will top this year - and the passage of 'Funeral' from impressive debut to genuine classic now looks certain. It's intriguing that the UK press only picked up on them after they became a word-of-mouth success.

As for the rest of the list, there must be a marketing logic to being the first publication to compile an end-of-year list, but it looks very silly indeed from a critical perspective. They may have just given Kate Bush's comeback a somewhat confused and lukewarm review - but it's not unreasonable to expect many of their journalists would have included it in their voting had they actually heard it at the time of voting.

In Uncut's favour, they've manged to include genuinely excellent albums from Animal Collective, Boards Of Canada, Ariel Pink, Elbow and Doves, most of which occupy relatively lofty positions. Yet, if we look at how well Animal Collective are currently performing in the Rate Your Music (http://www.rateyourmusic.com) 2005 list, and their sell-out show at the Scala last week, we can see that there is much more of an appetite for challenging independent music than much of the industry accepts.

It's otherwise a mostly predictable list, and skewed in favour of rock/Americana and the trad canon. I've already confessed my guilty enjoyment of 'A Bigger Bang' - but in no way would I suggest it's the sixth best album of the year. Bob Dylan's 'No Direction Home' is at 3 - it's a compilation mostly consisting of alternate versions from his classic 60s period with no new material whatsoever! For some reason they do not elect to extend this bizarre logic of what constitutes new in 2005 to the collection of previously unreleased material from Judee Sill, which is considered a reissue!

I'd concede that it's not been a great year for electronica or hip-hop - but the likes of Roots Manuva, Dangerdoom, Sage Francis, Four Tet, Jackson and His Computer Band, Jamie Lidell and The Books all deserved consideration.

Even if we accept Uncut's trad-rock focus uncritically - why have they criminally ignored the likes of John Prine, Erin McKeown, Teenage Fanclub, The Broken Family Band, Smog, South San Gabriel, M Ward, Okkervil River, Sleater Kinney ('The Woods' surely channels the spirit of the blues as well as anything Jack White has been involved in), New Pornographers, Magnolia Electric Co etc?? The Calexico and Iron and Wine collaboration is a stunning omission - easily the most accomplished Americana release of the year. These are all records that their core readership could be expected to enjoy.

Like the NME in the early 90s, who would regularly give excellent reviews to the likes of Animals That Swim, whilst never affording them any real promotion, Uncut is continually failing to invest in the bands it purports to support. Even after his death, there has still been no cover feature on the great Warren Zevon. Why not! If Richmond Fontaine really are as great as Allan Jones claims - why have they not been given any real column inches outside the reviews section. Even with all this fuss over Arcade Fire - the cover feature still goes to David Bowie for the umpteenth time (at least it's a piece on The Man Who Fell To Earth, which I shall read before I judge too harshly). To expect any real quality of research or appreciation of different genres is too much to hope for when they can't even manage this!

Those tedious Britpop revivalists Kaiser Chiefs and the wildly overrated MIA get token entries at the arse end of the top 50. Mercifully, Coldplay are excluded!!

Family Affairs

Mike Leigh’s Two Thousand Years is conventional and disappointing

Part of my high expectations for Mike Leigh’s return to the stage for the first time in 12 years undoubtedly sprung from his exemplary record as a film director, but I’d be deluding myself if I didn’t concede that I’d also fallen victim to the press hype and hyperbole surrounding this production. There has been much speculation and excitement about Leigh’s improvisatory working methods (which have been in place now for many years) and the fact that the work did not even have a title when commissioned by the National Theatre in London. In this case, I’m saddened to report that the weight of considerable expectation has proved to be an overwhelming burden.

‘Two Thousand Years’ delves once again into that familiar Leigh theme, dysfunctional family life, but with far less insight and impact than he managed with his award winning ‘Secrets and Lies’. Danny and Rachel are a middle class, liberal and avowedly secular Jewish family living in Cricklewood, North West London. Danny is a dentist and loves to tell appalling jokes; Rachel is supportive but independently minded. Despite (or perhaps because of) being born on a Kibbutz, Rachel and her family have consigned any religious dimension of their heritage to the scrapheap of irrational beliefs.

They are therefore shocked when their disconnected, vacant and moody son Josh turns to religion. His adoption of Jewish study and ritual is just the first in a series of events which bring simmering tensions in the family to boiling point, and one might expect it to usher in a typically incisive examination of unspoken feelings and passions.

Sadly it doesn’t. Leigh has deliberately elected to set the family’s story against the backdrop of the past year of political life, both globally (terrorism, Israel/Palestine and the war on Iraq are all discussed) and nationally (Rachel’s socialist father is horrified by the convergence of Labour and Tories). Perhaps it’s a product of the somewhat stereotyped nature of the characterisation (Danny and Rachel read The Guardian!), but much of the political discussion felt forced and unconvincing.

There are some very witty moments, such as when the idealistic daughter Tammy answers the question ‘why are we all here?’ with her desire to play her part for good in the world and Danny takes up this theme by stating ‘that’s why I still take NHS work – that’s my attempt to do good’. John Burgess does an excellent job in his role as Rachel’s disgruntled, sardonic and confrontational father. Mostly the humour is, however, very conventional (much of it feels less adventurous than an episode of ‘One Foot In The Grave’), and the descent into farce in the closing 30 minutes following the arrival of Samantha Spiro’s histrionic estranged family member is clumsy and predictable (her character achieves the extraordinary feat of appearing more shallow than Dorian from ‘Birds Of A Feather’). Her unannounced arrival after eleven years of silence would certainly be expected to cause shock and conflict, but the overacted comedy here fails to explain why Josh suddenly appears to resolve many of his personal issues in the final scenes. The implication is that he embraced religion as a means to escape the mundanity of domestic family life – and has now rejected it because he has now been shown the importance of maintaining close familial relationships.

Leigh is usually a master of integrating the personal and political – but the real theme at the heart of ‘Two Thousand Years’ is singularly personal – that of relationships between parents and their children. The political dimension is therefore somewhat fudged. I’m aware of Jewish families who see their religion in cultural rather than spiritual terms – but would any family really be so shocked that their son had taken an interest in his family history, whatever their opinions on faith? Religion seems so significant an element of world politics at the moment that Leigh could, and arguably should, have made more of these issues, rather than simply giving them cursory debate over endless cups of tea (the one residual element from Leigh’s last film project, the excellent ‘Vera Drake’). This is the sort of project described in less enlightened quarters as ‘very politcal’ – but in many ways, the politics of this production are mostly banal. This is a strength in as far as Leigh’s directorial presence is mostly detached and non-judgmental (more evidence against those who accuse Leigh of being ‘patronising’ towards his characters), but it also means that arguments remain fragmentary and undeveloped. At times Leigh just seems to be throwing too many ideas and subjects into what becomes a somewhat cloudy mix. In characterising Josh as withdrawn and uncommunicative, we don’t get a sense of where he draws his palpable anger from and his reasons for embracing religion remain frustratingly elusive. His rebellion and defiance includes a firm refusal to respond to interrogation or justify his actions.

If Leigh remains unconventional in his working methods, this time the result lacks originality. The confrontation at the end feels like a deliberate retread of 'Secrets and Lies' but there are no overwhelming revelations and it seems like a rather obvious device to bring about a somewhat straightforward and contrived resolution. Where there are signs of directorial influence from Leigh - they are not entirely encouraging either. The structure of the play is very bitty, with short, often perfunctory scenes split by snatches of music. Where on screen Leigh is a master of sustained and believable emotions (always heightened by his use of close-up shots), he seems here to be constrained by the limitations of the single location stage play. Whilst 'Two Thousand Years' is intermittently entertaining, it's hard to believe watching it, that Leigh once mastered this very form so thoroughly with 'Abigail's Party'.

The stage set is a pointed and accurate replica of a liberal North London family home, made all the more amusing when Tammy introduces her new Israeli boyfriend. She points at the small collection of books – ‘here is the library, where I received my education’. It’s therefore an even greater pity that the action that takes place within it seems so surprisingly stilted.

Wildlife Extravaganza

Animal Collective/Caribou/Aoki Takamasa and Tojiko Noriko/Kieren Hebden – The Scala, London 25/10/05

Bloody hell – I should really make it to Eat Your Own Ears gigs more often. What a superb line-up! Well, now I’ve got the free advertising for an excellent promotions company out of the way, we can get down to the nitty gritty of reviewing the evening’s music…

The Scala was packed out tonight, which I found pleasantly surprising after my last experience there (a half-empty but entertainingly shambolic Alfie gig). Given that these acts make challenging, sometimes confrontational music that is unlikely to get much in the way of radio or TV exposure, it’s refreshing to realise that such material can indeed attract a substantial audience. The Scala makes for the perfect evening for this sort of affair, and it was pleasing to see joyous dancers and chin-strokers in equal measure.

First up, Aoki Takamasa and Tojiko Noriko soothed us with their beguiling electronic reveries. It was certainly all very pretty, but really no more than exactly what you’d expect a Japanese male/female laptop electronica duo to sound like. Of all the acts on tonight’s bill, they were the least concerned with pushing boundaries, dealing as they did with the kind of delicately rustling sounds so familiar to anyone who has ever heard the likes of Susumu Yokota.

That could not be said for DJ Kieren Hebden (Four Tet) who managed to play intelligently selected and frequently inspiring records in between the live performances. I must confess that I have no idea what most of these records were, but Hebden’s avowedly anti-specialist sets veered between genres with effortless ease.

Dan Snaith’s Caribou may have had an enforced name change, but their sonic brand remains very much intact. Despite an obvious reliance on electronics and backing tracks, it’s often hard to believe that there are just three musicians on stage, especially when two of them are bashing seven shades of shit from two drum kits. This is highly kinetic, thrilling stuff. The Krautrock-inspired grooves are appropriately relentless, but it’s the unrestrained arrangements which add originality and invention to the mix, and the mid-song instrument swapping is a joy to watch. It all seems to have been mapped out with mathematical precision, although Snaith is wise enough to leave room for an old-fashioned, summery approach to a good melody which contrasts neatly with the frequently frenetic music.

If Animal Collective are sometimes baffling on record, as a live band they are totally bonkers. It’s not too much of an exaggeration to state that this really sounded (and arguably looked) like nothing else around. It was a complete performance, with Panda Bear standing, energised and focussed behind his skeletal drum kit, and Avey Tare and Geologist trading quirky physical movements. Animal Collective’s killer weapon lies in their brilliantly executed vocal choreography, not just in terms of conventional harmonies, but also in their intricately competing yelps and screams. This made for a percussive performance in the broadest possible sense of the word.

Tonight’s set was divided into four extended segments which combined pre-released material (mostly from the excellent new album ‘Feels’) with the band’s customary tendency to develop prototypes of new material on the road. The integration of drones and electronic sounds with post-rock infused guitars arguably sounded more comfortable than it does on record, and it’s pleasing that the band seem to be leaving the more provocative, high-treble feedback experiments of their earlier records behind. Where once they may have preferred to bury their peculiar lyrics and turbulent melodies beneath thick swathes of noise, they have now developed an effective means of combining the various elements of their sound.

Influences can be detected beneath the dense and quirky exterior – perhaps the clearest is Syd Barrett’s taste for nonsense poetry and confounding song structures. If Animal Collective refer to any formative template though, they have stretched and manipulated it into something modern and largely unrecognisable. They have crafted a weird and wonderful world that is entirely their own.

It Was The Colonel, In The Kitchen, With The Lead Piping

Colonel Bastard - Halcyon Days

At last - a proper album from these very fine quirky popsters from Cornwall via Cambridge. Wisely, it gathers together most of the band's live favourites into a brilliantly concise, immediately appealing collection. In Martin White and Ben Garnett, the band possess two gifted songwriters with neatly contrasting styles. White's songs brim with energy and exhuberance, whilst Garnett's, sometimes more refective and subdued, require a few listens before they work their magic. Both have a mastery of infectious melody and the combination results in an album that is much more than the sum of its parts.

Were anyone to offer Colonel Bastard a sizeable advance, it's conceivable that they could be lumped in with the current Britpop revival alongside the Kaiser Chiefs and their ilk. They certainly have an unmistakeably British sensibility informing their work (an American band would surely never rhyme 'lager' with 'aga'). They are better than our current chancers though, and the influences are more subtle. Whilst there are hints of Blur and Supergrass here, the band seem to possess something of the alchemical talents of the likes of The Boo Radleys and Teenage Fanclub (relatively underrated bands at the margins of the original Britpop explosion) for infusing 60s-tinged, summery pop with a quirkier, spikier edge.

It's clear that a number of these songs have been kicking around for a while, at least judging from the band's choice of cultural references. Internet porn no longer seems like a particularly cutting edge subject for a song, but somehow 'Surf The Sexx.Net' manages to sound like a fresh discovery. Peter Sissons is hardly the BBC Newsreader of choice these days, yet his name provides the title for Martin White's hilarious tale of crime and misfortune. Ben Garnett's 'The Day I Met The Bloke From Hollyoaks' might be a little behind the times too - isn't it all The OC and One Tree Hill these days? A US teen soap would seem inappropriate though - far too glamorous and glossy for this band's closer-to-home concerns. The songs are smart and engaging enough to transcend their references. 'Peter Sissons' benefits from a spiky, angular guitar riff that wouldn't sound out of place on a Franz Ferdinand single, whilst '...Hollyoaks' seduces with its truly irresistible chorus.

The lyrics are witty and incisive throughout. There's no Dylanesque verbosity here, but there are plenty of pithy, humorous couplets. My personal favourite is the fantastic opening line to 'Bubblegum Bears' - 'Well she's a honey and I'm Winnie The Pooh/I wanna get my paws on her 'fore the other bears do'.

They're not afraid of a good guitar solo either, but the musicianship is instinctive and thrilling rather than studied or virtuosic. The production is suitably under-polished, with well-arranged harmonies, but a gritty drum and guitar sound that captures the spirit of the band's live performances. Perhaps even last year, I might have described this as endearingly unfashionable, but with guitar pop rapidly squeezing out the pure pop market, I can't think of a better time for Colonel Bastard to make a bid for success.

See Colonel Bastard and Unit live tonight - LSE Student Union, Quad Bar, Houghton Street, London. Doors 7.30pm.

The Real Super Monday (Part One)

Back in June, the NME, with its finger firmly on a great cross-promotional marketing opportunity, eagerly declared June 6th to be 'Super Monday'. Released on that day were the latest efforts from the perenially worthy Coldplay, blues infused garage rock duo The White Stripes and jangle-indie revivalists The Tears. Whilst The White Stripes album certainly had its merits, it was difficult to get truly excited about another Coldplay album and The Tears, whilst pleasant enough, could hardly be deemed significant.

No doubt the modern NME, now almost entirely a narrow 'indie rock' genre publication (yet one that still has the temerity to use the image of champion of diversity John Peel for front cover crredibility), will ignore the diversity of releases on offer this coming Monday, October 17th. There is the eagerly anticipated new album from reclusive electronica duo Boards Of Canada, the first new album in 35 years from folk legend Vashti Bunyan, a dependably impressive new Depeche Mode album, an outstanding reinvention from southern rock behemoths My Morning Jacket, yet another album from the prolific New York electronica-meets-hippy-folk Animal Collective, the first new material in over ten years from Stevie Wonder, yet another new album from sadly defiant homophobe Sizzla (who I've rather lost touch with over the last couple of years) an essential collaboration between two of the brightest stars in modern hip hop (Dangermouse and MF Doom), a new record from Scottish melancholics Arab Strap and, for some at least, a long awaited full commercial release for The Crimea's 'Tragedy Rocks' album. Take a deep breath and dig deep into the wallet!

Reviews of some of these releases will follow shortly...

Formats and Concepts

Forgive me for sounding like one of Petridish's dreaded Guardian reviews for a moment, but there have been two notable trends in 2005 - the return of the formerly derided 'concept' album, and a new enthusiasm for the stop-gap mini album. In the former category, there have been some ambitious and remarkable achievements and adoption of a more 'thematic' approach to the long-player has been most welcome, with artists finding some imaginative context for their material.

Perhaps most impressive of all has been Matthew Herbert's radical 'Plat Du Jour' project, a largely wordless polemic against the manipulative and exploitative tendencies of the food industry. Herbert has long been a fervent musical adventurer, although he works within the confines of some stringent self-imposed regulations which see him find samples and sounds in the most extraordinary of places. Having sampled human digestion and his pet hamster exercising in its cage on his fantastic bodily functions album, Herbert has now made a righteous political statement constructed from the sound of food and its industrial production.

Whereas his recent production duties for Roisin Murphy's 'Ruby Blue' album traded in quasi-sophisticated and polite textures, 'Plat du Jour' is considerably more confrontational. The result is a sometimes severe but frequently dazzling new form of 'musique concrete' that makes for Herbert's most challenging listening experience to date. The fascination with jazz forms made explicit with his big band project is perhaps less overt here, but the contributions of jazz musicians Phil Parnell, Dave O' Higgins and arranger Pete Wraight are again fundamental to the overall sound of the album. All three improvise inventively with the sampled sounds, adapting confidently to what may have seemed initially an unfamiliar idiom. 'Plat du Jour' is as much a celebration of contemporary musical diversity as it is a political statement. The combination of modern composition, electronic production values and improvisatory spirit makes for an original and winning formula, with a consistent mood and tone pervading across the whole album.

In spite of this, 'Plat du Jour' cannot be appreciated fully without its lengthy and compelling set of inlay notes. Anyone who illegally downloads this material without the packaging will be missing out on reams of explanation and extrapolation. Herbert meticulously lists the sources for all his sounds, including live concert audiences eating apples on 'An Apple A Day', 30,000 broiler chickens in a barn on 'The Truncated Life Of A Modern Industrialised Chicken', and perhaps most ingeniously of all, the sound of a tank driving over a reconstruction of the meal prepared by Nigella Lawson for the 20th November 2003 meeting between George Bush and Tony Blair. The latter neatly combines the food theme with Herbert's passionate opposition to the war in Iraq.

Many of Herbert's political concerns are also expressed in his customarily didactic fashion. 'These Branded Waters' contrasts the recent obsession with corporate bottled water with the lack of access to sanitary services in parts of India and Bangladesh. The apocalyptic 'Empire Of Coffee' deals with the devastating trade problems in the coffee industry. 'Celebrity', the most accessible track on the album thanks largely to Dani Siciliano's sultry vocal and its unabashed sense of humour, is constructed entirely from the sounds of celebrity endorsed food products, most of which are, according to Herbert, of 'dubious nutritional value'. The track has a fantastic slightly delayed rhythm and its central ironic cheerleading chant of 'Go Gordon! Go Ramsey! Go Beyonce! Go Beyonce!' is brilliant.

Herbert's decision to make the majority of 'Plat du Jour' instrumental proves to be inspired. The message is invoked through the use of sounds rather than through forced or hackneyed 'political' lyrics. 'Plat du Jour' is suddenly remarkably topical in light of the recent Jamie Oliver school meals campaign and government policy on junk food (although my more liberal side feels New Labour's controlling element may have yet again too far in imposing a ban on all junk food sales). 'Plat du Jour' goes much further than this rather superficial debate, however - it does not merely consider the content and nutritional balance of modern diets, but also asks uncomfortable questions about the unsavoury role of corporate bodies, multinational organisations and aggressive marketing strategies in global health. It is as much about the destruction of independent businesses as a result of supermarket culture as it is about the fat content of McDonald's products. Following 'Super Size Me' and the Jamie Oliver series, there has been plenty of debate about the effects of poor diets, but few have been prepared to link the food industry with wider global trends quite as convincingly as Herbert does here.

Herbert is a passionate believer in the power of the individual to effect change through direct action. He at least largely puts his money where his mouth is (he now refuses to fly except to visit his family in America once a year). The central motto of the inlay to 'Plat du Jour' is 'avoid supermarkets'. If only this were so straightforward for people living in areas where a supermarket is the only food outlet available. Herbert's committed environmentalism and political awareness is commendable, and he remains one of the most vital musical artists at work in Britain today. 'Plat du Jour' makes for a thrilling education.

Sufjan Stevens has taken the concept album to new levels of excess with his surely unrealisable 50 states project. Nevermind that Stevens would have to produce an album a year until he was over the age of 75 to complete the Herculean task, he's continuing apace anyway. 'Greetings From Michigan' was an inspired collection that balanced sombre and incisive reflections on industrial decline with more rousing celebrations of his home state with remarkable aplomb. Its follow up, 'Illinois' (full title 'Sufjan Stevens invites you to: Come on feel the Illinoise') dismisses any concerns that Stevens would be unable to apply the same range of sympathy and compassion to the other US states. It is personal odyssey, historical document and geographical commentary rolled into a giant, monolithic statement.

On the surface, 'Illinois' is very impressive, displaying the same aptitude for exquisite arrangement that made 'Michigan' such a treat. It's this undeniable quality that most likely helps explain why 'Illinois' has been sitting pretty at the top of the rateyourmusic.com and metacritic albums of the year since Asthmatic Kitty issued the first pre-release mail order copies.

There are problems here though that make me slightly suspicious of the zealous critical praise 'Illinois' has enjoyed. Sadly the ludicrously verbose song titles, a refreshing conceit on 'Michigan', now appear slighly pretentious and do much to detract from the poignant and literate quality of many of the songs. At over 74 minutes, it's also massively overlong, and Stevens' richly detailed arrangements acquire an unwanted twee and sugary quality as a result of overexposure. Some more judicious editing might have transformed 'Illinois' from an exceptional record into a solid gold classic.

These are not severe or insurmountable setbacks though, and there is so much to admire on 'Illinois' that it will most likely retain a top 10 position in my albums of the year list. I'm beginning to prefer Stevens at his more delicate and restrained, and one of the clear highlights here is 'John Wayne Gacy, Jr.' a song ostensibly about a murderer, but really dealing with the wider issue of the secrets we keep concealed. It ends with a remarkable lyric - 'And in my best behaviour/I am really just like him/Look beneath the floorboards for the secrets I have hid'. It is a controlled and moving testament. 'Decatur' is an equally assured banjo and vocal harmony dominated track, with a remarkably infectious central melody. Here, Stevens neatly captures an American historical spirit ('Sang-a-man river it overflowed/It caused a mudslide on the banks of the Operator?Civil war skeletons in their graves/They came up clapping in the spirit of the Aviator').

John Kell (http://www.kingofquiet.co.uk) has described Stevens in passing as being 'a bit plinky plonk'. Elsewhere on 'Illinois', these tendencies are further amplified so that he could be derided as 'a bit happy clappy'. The vocal choruses increasingly resemble child choirs, and parping crumhorns and chiming bells dominate the sound. At their best, these moments are uniquely uplifting, such as the title track's combination of a deconstruction of the American dream with a vivid description of a visitation of the ghost of Carl Sandburg to Stevens in a dream. Even better is the euphoric wall of sound Stevens constructs in the magnificent 'Chicago'. In reality, the quality control is remarkably consistent over the course of the album, it's just that some of these stylings become over-familiar towards the album's conclusion. Stevens' melodies can be a little formulaic, and so seem repetetive over too great a period of time. This is a bit frustrating as one of the album's real highlights, the soulful, slinky 'They Are Night Zombies!! They Are Neighbours!! They Have Come Back From The Dead!! Ahhhh!' (you see what I mean about the titles) is buried three quarters of the way through the album.

Few artists have the talent, the passion or the necessary self-belief to invest so much energy and time to the development of a project from initial concept to finished product. Few also imbue that product with this level of human empathy and wisdom. Unusually for a concept album, 'Illinois' may be best listened to on shuffle or in small doses, but it's a richly rewarding encapsulation of the human spirit nonetheless.

Adopting a rather more unusual approach to concept and theme, 'Black Sheep Boy' by Okkervil River is a sublime manipulation of traditional Americana into a sort of crimson, cinematic melodrama. Songwriter Will Sheff has taken the Tim Hardin song that provides the album's title and expanded its central character across ten fresh songs of his own. Lyrically, the album is fascinating, imbuing familiar themes (jealousy, betrayal, rejection, frustration) with fresh appeal through the invigorating deconstruction of rhythm and meter. The structure of the album provides a distinctive narrative continuity, and Sheff's peculiar prose-poetry comes with violent dynamics and restless energies which are reflected in the frequently tempestuous music. Sheff's ragged voice has some of the angst and anger of Bright Eyes, but comes blessed with a much more instinctive feel for raging desire and the darker recesses of the human heart.

Opening with a faithfully minimal and subdued version of the Hardin song, the album bursts into life with the visceral, highly charged 'For Real'. This is where Sheff first demonstrates his vision of Okkervil River as a band, rather than merely a vehicle for his songs - the track boasts a confident mastery of unpredictable dynamic contrast. Never content to opt entirely for guitar strumming, 'For Real', like many of the other outstanding songs here, places the evocative sound of the Wurlitzer electric piano firmly in the foreground. The subsequent 'In A Radio Song' makes for an immediate and striking contrast, the musical accompinament skeletal and delicate, leaving plenty of room for the expansive, free-flowing lyrics to breathe. The opening lines clearly demonstrate Sheff's deftness of touch - 'Black sheep boy, blue-eyed charmer, head hanging with horns from your father - oh, in a cold little mirror you were grown, by a black little wind you were blown, blown, blown'.

The rest of the album is just as remarkable - from the pained but propulsive 'Black', with a chorus that threatens to veer into the poptastic side of indie to the thrilling stomp of 'The Latest Toughs', via the detailed slow build of 'A King And A Queen'. Perhaps most poignant is the controlled jealousy of 'A Stone' - 'Hot breath, rough skin, warm laughs and smiling, the loveliest words whispered and meant - you like all these things. But though you like all these things, you love a stone'. There is an extraordinary love of language at the heart of these songs.

It ends with the epic desperation and longing of 'So Come Back, I Am Waiting', Sheff showing considerable resolve in not providing a more comforting conclusion by ending the central torment. It ends with some chilling words - "I am waiting hoof and on hand. I am waiting all hated and damned. I am waiting - I snort and I stamp. I am waiting you know that I am, calmly waiting to make you my lamb". What a powerful conclusion to a magnificent, primal, deeply felt song cycle.

Of the mini albums, I have already waxed lyrical about the remarkable collaboration between Calexico and Iron and Wine, one of the albums of the year. There's a strange sense of urgency to the return of Grandaddy, which they have dismissed by releasing a low-key mini album in preparation for the next full-length which is due in early 2006. It would be unfair to suggest that Grandaddy lost form exactly, but 'Sumday' did suffer somewhat as a result of a monotony of pace and tone. The wonderfully titled 'Excerpts From The Diary Of Todd Zilla' has remedied this problem immediately. It doesn't perhaps rank with their very best work (it lacks the thematic coherence of 'The Sophtware Slump' or the wide-eyed fascination of 'Under The Western Freeway'), but it provides a welcome return to their trademark blend of bubblegum melody and analogue burblings.

There is more variation in tone and texture between the first two tracks than 'Sumday' managed across an entire album. Opener 'Pull The Curtains' is a delightful excursion into what seems almost like a Californian punk-pop sound. Of course, Grandaddy manage this genre exercise with real elan (they even opt to return to the sound later in the album with 'Florida', which adds entirely unexpected Pixies style screeching into the equation). Second track 'At My Post' veers between contrasting sections, one a melancholy, funereal reflection, the other a familiar Grandaddy trudge, with synths foregrounded above the guitars. It sounds like a sense of ambition and a desire to overcome their musical limitations have returned.

The subsequent three tracks, 'A Valley Son', 'Cinderland' and 'F*ck The Valley Fudge' are characerised by a mournful delicacy and a sense of loss, the latter very skeletal in its vocal and piano stylings. These are deceptively pretty, highly unusual songs and make for worthy additions to the Grandaddy canon.

'...Todd Zilla' could perhaps be criticised for gathering together a range of elements from Grandaddy's back catalogue rather than offering anything really original - but the the bleepy synthesisers remain more distinctive than the production sheen that stifled the last album, and the mini-album format offers little room for filler. It's a pleasing hint at what may come, but we'll have to wait until 2006 before we really know whether or not they have developed.

The progtastic Pure Reason Revolution have made their debut with mini-LP (or long EP) 'Cautionary Tales For The Brave'. Somewhat appropriately, a cautionary word is needed right from the outset as the 12 minute single 'Bright Ambassadors Of Morning' makes up the bulk of the material here. If you already have that, it may well not be worth £6.99 of your hard earned cash to buy this. If this represents first contact with the band, however, it makes for a useful introduction. PRR are defiantly unfashionable, combining the layered harmonies of Crosby, Stills and Nash with the lengthy explorations of Pink Floyd and the edgy riffing of Metallica. It's a distinctive combination, although the results sometimes sound slightly laboured. At their best, however, as on the uncharacteristically concise chug of opener 'In Aurelia' and on the aforementioned centrepiece, there is an admirable fearlessness and audacity at work. Is it really viable in the narrow mainstream marketplace though? Will they be able to sustain their potentially lucrative Sony contract?

From Jackson To Jacksonville

New albums from Jackson and His Computer Band, John Cale, Calexico/Iron and Wine, Bill Frisell, The Bad Plus and Ryan Adams hit the In League With Paton CD player.

There’s a whole plethora of material from across the sound spectrum to cover in this massive post, from the stuttering electronica of new Warp signing Jackson, to the second of three albums this year from the increasingly prolific troubadour Ryan Adams.

‘Smash’, the debut album from Jackson and His Computer Band is assertive, provocative music indeed, but it also comes with the kind of humorous party sensibility that the likes of Daft Punk now appear to have abandoned in favour of charmless repetition. Jackson is clearly someone with a short attention span – his tracks tend to flit rapidly between different sounds and ideas, but they work magic because they are usually anchored with one notable melodic line or texture.

The opening ‘Utopia’ is an excellent case in point. Jackson deploys a dazzling technique in cut-and-paste vocal sampling, but burbling beneath the surface is an insistent ostinato synth figure, veering between two notes in a fashion not entirely unlike the Jaws theme tune. Whilst that memorable piece of music created escalating tension and fear, Jackson’s motif affords the piece an oasis of calm.

The same cut-and-paste techniques recur on the disorientating ‘Rock On’, where we are very much in Daft Punk territory. Here, Jackson allows a possibly unironic love for seventies rock posturing to seep through. It’s a thrilling, highly entertaining track. By way of contrast, the child narrative on ‘Oh Boy’ is slightly sinister and reminiscent of the peculiarly malevolent atmosphere conjured by Boards of Canada on ‘Geogaddi’. This creepy atmosphere is heightened by the interjection of tantalisingly brief backing vocal samples (taken from Roy Orbison’s ‘Blue Bayou’ if my sample-detecting ears do not deceive me), the punctuations left lurking in the background of the mix.

The album sustains its defiantly scattershot approach surprisingly well, and benefits from a typically inspired guest appearance from Mike Ladd on the bemusing ‘TV Dogs (Cathodica’s Letter)’. The mysterious swells, pulses and ghostly choral samples of ‘Hard Tits’ provide further balance, the track sounding more contemplative in spite of its crude title.

Jackson has probably taken influence from the dancefloor disco of Daft Punk or Cassius, but has injected a new lease of life through his own maverick production techniques. He often opts for being deliberately melodramatic and, at its best, ‘Smash’ is a startling and unpredictable beast.

One could be forgiven for expecting ‘Black Acetate’, the new album from John Cale to share a maverick spirit with modern electronic pioneers, but some might be surprised by just how accessible, perhaps even conventional a record this is. Certainly, had the light pop-punk of first single ‘Perfect’ been recorded by McFly, every respectable critic in the land would not even consider devoting column inches to it. It’s rather zippy pacing sounds a little uncomfortable, not because Cale is too old for such amusements, but simply because it doesn’t sit entirely comfortably with the rest of the album.

If anything, ‘Black Acetate’ is further evidence that Cale is no longer pushing boundaries of his own, but rather following where his current influences lead him. His last album, the highly acclaimed ‘Hobosapiens’ saw him discovering Pro-Tools several years too late for it to really be ‘cutting edge’, whilst the foundations of ‘Black Acetate’ have been crafted with two major collaborators – funk producer Herb Graham Jr. and Eels sideman Mickey Petralia.

Luckily, the influences are many and varied. Reviewers have likened startling opener ‘Outta The Bag’ to the Neptunes, but that comparison fails to pin down its appealingly inelegant combination of falsetto vocals, sludgy rock and digitised Memphis style horns. Elsewhere, the playful squelch of ‘Brotherman’ suggests a combination of the classic funk of Curtis Mayfield and the mid-80s explorations of Prince. It depends more on intricate rhythm and atmosphere than melody for its impact. ‘Hush’ even closely resembles the bedroom electronica of Hot Chip – could Cale have been listening and taking note?

Melody plays a more significant role on the lush ‘Satisfied’, which benefits from a particularly strong vocal performance from Cale. The gravel-voiced murmurings and muted atmospherics of ‘In A Flood’ suggest the influence of Bob Dylan’s Daniel Lanois-produced albums. These songs are the album’s engaging and intriguing highlights. It is true that later in the album they do give way to rather more generic, lumbering creations (the aforementioned ‘Perfect’ ‘Wasteland’ and ‘Turn The Lights On’), but in concluding with the remarkable, funereal ‘Mailman (The Lying Song’, the overriding impression of ‘Black Acetate’ is positive.

‘Black Acetate’ may not rival ‘Music For A New Society’ for radical invention, nor ‘Paris 1919’ for songwriting ingenuity, but it nevertheless provides a fascinating document of an influential artist still totally engaged with current musical developments. There can be no obligation on an artist like Cale to revolutionise once more – a grand synthesis such as ‘Black Acetate’ is more than illuminating enough.

Cale’s work is certainly a collaborative effort, as is ‘In The Reins’, a near-faultless new mini album from the dream team of Calexico and Iron and Wine. This is one of those deceptively calm, unassuming accomplishments that will most likely slip through the critical net in the UK. Whilst Iron and Wine have already released one impressive mini album this year (‘Woman King’), there was a growing sense that Sam Beam’s well honed rustic Americana needed a new injection of life. He needed a musical backdrop that matched his richly poetic narratives. By joining forces with the dependably excellent Calexico, he has now achieved this.

It helps that the songs on ‘In The Reins’ are the best of Beam’s career to date – songs that inherit the classic American songwriting tradition of Bob Dylan, Bruce Springsteen, Johnny Cash and Townes van Zandt. Beam has found his own narrative voice here, in much the same way that Springsteen claimed to have found his American storytelling voice with ‘Darkness On The Edge Of Town’. These songs, through their manipulation of language and their vivid construction of character and feeling, say far more about love, family and the underbelly of the American Dream than anything on Neil Young’s latest maudlin effort.

‘Prison On Route 41’ effortlessly captures a conflict between the protagonists’s jailed family, and the righteous path set out for him by his Virginia. It’s brilliantly realised (‘There’s a prison on route 41, a home to my mother, step brother and son/ And I’d tear down that jail by myself, if not for Virginia who made me someone else’), and delivered with Beam’s characteristic soft tones, which successfully underline its pathos. Elsewhere, ‘Sixteen, Maybe Less’ is a wonderfully subtle memory of love, tinged with a lingering sadness. The closing ‘Dead Man’s Will’ is deceptively simple, and unspeakably moving, a dedication of love from beyond the grave full of regret (‘give this bone to my father/He’ll remember hunting in the hills when I was ten years old’).

Although the songs are certainly marked with Beam’s distinctive stamp of authority, Calexico’s role here is pivotal. The mariachi horns that bolster the fantastic ‘History Of Lovers’ are a Calexico staple, and they elevate the song to thrillingly higher plane. On ‘Red Dust’, and ‘Burn That Broken Bed’, the band hit tremendous backbeat grooves, hinting at the close links between country music and soul. The strong influence of border music pervades throughout, from the strange but powerful interjection of Spanish operetta in the opening ‘He Lays In The Reins’ to the ragged percussion of ‘Burn That Broken Bed’.

This is a quietly remarkable record, rich in wisdom and experience heightened by a manifest love of language, both poetic and musical. It presents a prime example of how brilliant songs can be enhanced through the honing of instrumentation and arrangement. It would be wonderful if the two acts got together to perform this work live – it’s so good that I have to hope it’s not merely a one-off.

Whilst the Americana brigade at Uncut magazine might pick up on Calexico and Iron and Wine’s little gem, it’s unlikely they will make much noise about ‘East/West’, the latest double live album from guitarist Bill Frisell. This is a great pity that emphasises exactly how unhelpful the tendency in the UK media towards specialisation and compartmentalisation can be. Whilst he is known chiefly as a jazz musician, I wonder if there is anyone at work today who can rival Frisell’s instinctive understanding of the American folk tradition. On ‘East/West’, Frisell reinterprets some cornerstones of the American songbook in his own uniquely fluid style – ‘I Heard It Through The Grapevine’, ‘Shenandoah’, ‘My Man’s Gone Now’ (from Porgy and Bess), Leadbelly’s blues standard ‘Goodnight Irene’ and Bob Dylan’s ‘A Hard Rain’s-A-Gonna Fall’ are just a handful of the many highlights.

The concept is simple but effective – ‘East/West’ is a two-disc set containing selections from two concerts, one from the East Coast and one from the West Coast of America. The ‘West’ disc, a trio set recorded at Yoshi’s in Oakland, California with Viktor Krauss on bass and Kenny Wollesen on drums is by far the more immediately appealing. Frisell’s playing is at its most lyrical on the sublimely atmospheric interpretation of ‘Shenandoah’ and Dylan’s ‘Hard Rain’, to which Frisell adds a sublime introduction of his own. These selections might well have seemed corny in the hands of a less adept communicator, but Frisell always brings his own touch of class to the material, deploying his trademark effects and guitar loops to craft a meticulously controlled atmosphere.

The group dynamic on this disc is terrific too. Krauss’ bass is relentlessly driving on Frisell’s own ‘Blues For Los Angeles’, combining in dual attack with some thunderous drumming from Wollesen. Another of Frisell’s compositions, ‘Boubacar’, a tasteful exploration into African modes in its original setting on ‘The Intercontinentals’ album, now becomes a much more aggressive creation and one that sits remarkably well with the American material.

The second disc, with Tony Scherr replacing Viktor Krauss on bass, is considerably more reflective and abstract. It requires some work, but is not without ample reward. The version of ‘My Man’s Gone Now’ demonstrates how crucial space and silence are to interpretations from the standard repertoire – what Frisell does not play here is every bit as important was what he does. Frisell’s own ‘Ron Carter’, presumably named in honour of the great bass player, is lengthy, and perhaps a little hesitant, but more concise readings of ‘Crazy’ and ‘Tennesee Flat Top Box’ round things off in style.

‘East/West’ provides an effective snapshot of Frisell’s live work over the past few years, but works best as a distilled summary of his major concerns thus far – a wonderful refashioning of the jazz tradition to incorporate soul, country, gospel and rock. Frisell will play live in the UK in November as part of the London Jazz Festival.

Another jazz act who have brought the music to a wider audience whilst making outrageous creative innovations of their own are The Bad Plus. The band are nominally a piano trio, but forget any preconceptions about what a piano trio should or should not sound like. They are almost entirely devoid of the warm resonances of EST or the polite lyricism of Tord Gustavsen’s trio. In fact, with their inspirations drawn from heavy rock and pop as well as the jazz tradition, they are perhaps even more aggressive in challenging purist ideas than Bill Frisell. Famed for their interpretations of successful pop hits, anyone who has yet to hear their versions of The Pixies’ ‘Velouria’ or Nirvana’s ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’ should investigate their earlier albums apace.

Their latest set, ‘Suspicious Activity?’, relies less on these bizarre reconstructions of rock hits, and instead emphasises the equally audacious nature of their own compositions. Amidst the familiar gleeful cacophony, there is also a rigorous attention to detail at work, and this may be their most intricate and impressive collection yet. ‘Prehensile Dream’ is angular and confounding, with some extraordinary polyrhythmic piano flourishes eventually giving way to an energised groove. It demonstrates the band’s uncanny ability to extrapolate a simple melodic idea into highly inventive improvisations. On ‘Anthem For The Earnest’, pianist Ethan Iverson demonstrates that he has one of the strongest and most rigorous left-hand accompaniment style in modern jazz, over which he is able to develop a series of conflicting polyrhythmic figures. ‘The Empire Strikes Backward’ (great title!) is supremely confident and radical. Anyone who has previously accused this band of being a goofy novelty act may well have to reconsider their position- Ethan Iverson’s piano playing is powerful throughout, and the trio are brilliant at manipulating the core material into something much more than the sum of its parts.

They still find room for one re-interpretation, this time the familiar theme tune from ‘Chariots Of Fire’, which retains much of the melody, but completely removes the mechanistic strictures of the Vangelis original. It’s an intriguing selection and one that, as usual, they make entirely their own. It complements the original material effectively and it is illuminating to hear the band apply a similar approach to deconstructing a famous piece of music as they do when working on their own music.

Like Bill Frisell, the band also appear at the upcoming London Jazz Festival. I’m actually quite pleased I picked this record up in Canada, as it doesn’t seem to be getting its UK release until November 7th.

Ryan Adams is probably an insufferable tosser, and certainly someone who can knock out serviceable songs in his sleep. ‘Jacksonville City Nights’ is the second of three proposed full length releases this year and, much like ‘Cold Roses’ before it, it’s pretty good, although it lacks that spark of inspiration that made ‘Heartbreaker’ such a striking solo debut. Adams is something of a musical chameleon, and not a true original. For the dire ‘Rock ‘N’ Roll’, he dressed himself up in a variety of horrific karaoke disguises, ranging from U2 to Aerosmith. On the opening track here, the honky tonk gem ‘A Kiss Before I Go’, he tries out his best Gram Parsons impression. It serves as a timely reminder of how well he mastered the country shuffle on ‘Heartbreaker’.

Adams sometimes has the ability to sink into a mire of cloyingly mannered vocals which undermines his considerable songwriting talents. The worst offender here is ‘Peaceful Valley’, where the vocal is almost unlistenable but the song is not without its qualities. ‘The End’ could have suffered the same fate, but Adams exerts just enough control to pull it back from the brink, and what could have been overblown becomes an affecting Nashville waltz. ‘Hard Way To Fall’ has a similar stripped back acoustic feel to ‘Peaceful Valley’, but is one of his most straightforwardly impressive songs for some time. The production remains faithful to the original country stylings Adams strives to imitate, and the unwelcome intrusions of ‘Rock ‘N’ Roll’ are mercifully absent.

He’s actually at his best here when veering away from his comfort zone. ‘September’ is a lush and wistful ballad brimming with emotion, whilst ‘Dear John’ features the vocals of Norah Jones of all people, but remains touching in spite of this. These songs are tinged with regret and longing, but without what some (arguably mistakenly) took to be the dour and miserable navel gazing of the ‘Love Is Hell’ material.

It’s all pleasant enough, and it’s particularly good to hear a gem plucked from the vaults (‘My Heart Is Broken’ was co-written with Caitlin Cary, presumably dating from the Whiskeytown era), but there’s nothing here as beautifully mournful as ‘I See Monsters’ or as cathartic as ‘To Be Young, Gifted and Sad’. Will Lost Highway release the remarkable ‘Destroyer’ album Adams recorded a few years ago with Gillian Welch and David Rawlings?

Well, that's it until the next post, but there's still plenty to catch up on, so expect more imminently.