The London Film Festival

I haven't written about cinema for some time, but my appetite for watching films has remained voracious through recent months. I was particularly pleased to attend three films at this year's London Film Festival. It's the first time I've managed to enjoy this event, and it's worth stating that artistic director Sandra Hebron has produced a superb line-up of films. It's gratifying to see new films from the masters of world cinema in the enormous Leicester Square Odeon, a space usually reserved for the most hollow and banal of blockbusting 'entertainment'. Not only that, but this festival seems less concerned with glitz and glamour, and also less concerned with judging awards and prizes. Instead, it is a celebration of the great diversity and quality of modern cinema. Those that attest that cinema is in a state of perpetual decline need look no further for firm rebuttal of their arguments.

Having said that, all three of the films I saw at the festival were in some way flawed. Most disappointing of the three was Wong Kar-Wai's 2046. To my mind, the Hong Kong director is one of the greatest living film directors, and his visionary approach to narrative and structure has produced some beautiful films, particularly when combined with the stylish cinematography of his collaborator Christopher Doyle. His previous film 'In The Mood For Love' was an atmospheric and evocative masterpiece so much is expected of this picture, which has had a ludicrously troubled gestation. The baffling success of Zhang Yimou's Hero (a film that seemed to me to be all style no substance, all surface no feeling) has reawakened interest in Asian cinema, and it's no surprise that Wong's latest production is being greeted with zealous enthusiasm. It has employed something in the region of seven different cinematographers, and following a Cannes screening which confused many, it was deemed to be unfinished and the version showing in London was a re-editied version. Unfortunately, it still seemed fragmentory and frustratingly opaque. Some of its images are striking, particularly the mysterious shot which opens and closes the film. However, its ideas appear to have been pieced together almost at random, and the meaning of the film only starts to become clear in its final third. It's not an overlong picture at just over two hours, but it really seems to drag and, particularly in its middle third, feels dangerously repetetive.

It is supposed to be a sequel of sorts to the previous film, with Tony Leung reprising the same role. He plays a writer who stays in a hotel to work. He is inspired by room 2046, and the number becomes the title of his latest novel. The film intercuts scenes of his relationships with various women, which often seem fraught, intense and complex with some loosely realised scenes from his science fiction novel. The problem is that the sequence of the film is eliptical and elusive. The majority of the science fiction scenes are left to the end of the film, and don't really help elucidate much about the earlier scenes. Most of the encounters between Leung's character and the various women seem to be like circular arguments and don't appear to ever reach a resolution. Added to this is the problem that the leading female performances, from the undeniably beautiful Faye Wong and the ubiquitous Zhang Ziyi, seem to be overstated and bordering on histrionic. There really are only so many shots of teardrops and scenes of perpetual crying that any audience can stand. The film is bizarrely inconclusive about the nature of love and relationships, and plods along as an ill-conceived mess.

Dialogue is minimal, and music frequently employed. In fact, the film feels like a series of experiments in form, with a wide variety of stylistic devices and sounds being employed to vary the mood. Some are more successful than others, and there were times when I did feel strangely moved by the combination of music and image. Unfortunately, this is a film comprised of a series of tableaux that don't add up to a coherent whole. Wong has used complex editing and shifting cinematic styles before, to much greater effect, particularly in the outstaning 'Happy Together'. Here, there really is no narrative thread to grasp at. Towards the end of the film, Maggie Cheung returns as a character called Shieu-Lien, who shares a name with the character she played in 'In The Mood For Love', yet it is left ambiguous as to whether or not the two characters are meant to be the same. What does, at last, become clear, is that Tony Leung's character has been veering between a number of different women, searching for the more crystalline and higher love that he shared with the original Shieu-Lien. Why on earth did it take so long for Wong to make this point? Does it really justify the two hours of confusion we have just endured? No doubt many critics will be awed by the power of this film's mood and imagery into composing rave reviews - but images without coherent ideas or emotions behind them don't make for great cinema.

Given that I am not a big fan of Gregg Araki, I'm not entirely sure why I went to see his latest effort Mysterious Skin. I think it was mainly so I could judge for myself how well he tackled a weighty topic. His previous films 'Nowhere' and 'The Doom Generation' have been tacky, nihilistic films emphasising hedonism and violence. 'Mysterious Skin' addresses the subject of child abuse, and does so with decidely mixed results. It is nevertheless by some considerable distance Araki's finest work to date, and a sure sign that he is moving in the right direction.

Perhaps inevitably, Mysterious Skin reminded me of Lukas Moodysson's similar, but more coherent 'Lilya 4 Ever', particularly in that it contains some grim and unflinching scenes. Much of the film makes for disturbing viewing, and it is these harsh and compromising elements that are most successful. Araki's expose of the lack of options facing both young and old in smalltown America is hardly original, but is presented in a spare and entirely convincing manner here. This is all helped along by superb performances from the film's two leads, both taking considerable risks with their previously safe reputations by agreeing to take the roles in this film. Joseph Gordon-Levitt, better known as the long-haired kid in Third Rock From The Sun gives a brooding and mature performance here. Brady Corbitt (I believe one of the stars of the supposedly dire Thunderbirds movie) has to deal with a slightly more sterotyped and restrictive character, but manages to be sympathetic and moving nonetheless. The juxtaposition of the two characters' contrasting reaction to the abuses they suffered at the hands of their paedophile baseball coach are effective, and I found the final confrontation with their past to be particularly devastating.

Levitt plays Neil, a frustrated youth whose childhood endurances we are introduced to in pretty unpleasant detail. He is a difficult character, who clearly has problems forming meaningful relationships and he seems to drift into the seedy world of a gay hustler simply because he has nothing to do, and no longer really cares what happens to him. His apathy, and compulsion to keep repeating meetings with increasingly violent men, is troubling and believable, as is the blissful ignorance or inability to help of those who surround him. It all culminates with a deeply horrible rape sequence that left me feeling physically and mentally shaken. By contrast, Corbitt plays Brian Lackey, a young man frustrated by his loss of memory, believing that he had been abducted by aliens in his youth. The truth of his childhood ordeal has been cruelly withheld from him, and he gradually attempts to piece together his past, finding the major missing piece of the jigsaw when he finally tracks down Neil, with whom he had been on the same baseball team.
This side of the story presents more problems - the alien abduction storyline seems a little hoary and cliched, and adds an uncomfortable layer of surreal comedy to the proceedings. No doubt this came from the source material (Scott Heim's novel of the same name), but it may have been elaborated and heightened to complement the dreamlike atmosphere which infuses this otherwise harrowingly realistic picture. Indeed, there are a couple of surreal scenes (one involving that most depressing of cinematic cliches, suddenly falling snow) that seem like they belong in a different film entirely.

Ultimately, these issues are so devastatingly real and severe that they probably required a surer narrative presence than Araki's unsteady guidance. He seems unconcerned with lingering, and frequently cuts too quickly from one scene to another. This is surely a remnant of his low-budget exploitation style from films like 'Nowhere'. From the evidence presented here, Araki would be on much surer ground if he concentrates on a non-judgemental realism. This may well be where he might find his true cinematic voice.

A big event for me was the UK premier of the new film from Greek director Theo Angelopoulos. Angelopoulos is one of the true masters of cinema - with a distinctive personal vision comprised of stately pacing and elaborate long tracking shots and set pieces. Some critics felt that his last film 'Eternity and A Day' represented a compromise of his vision. I disagree wholeheartedly. It was without doubt a more accessible film than his earlier works - but it justly won the Palme D'or for its extraordinary resonance and humanist concern. I found it to be one of the most beautiful films I've ever seen and it repays repeated viewing. To my mind, 'The Weeping Meadow', the first part of a projected trilogy (at his rate of producing films, Angelopoulos may well be dead before he manages to complete the set), seems to be a retrogressive step back towards a more austere style of film making. Its palette of colours is more muted, and the mood is relentlessly tragic. It also repeats a number of Angelopoulos' regular concerns, most significantly the plight of stateless refugees. I'm confident, however, that repetition has not diluted these concerns, nor the deep humanism that characterises his films. It is still, of course, defiantly elaborate, and I simply have no idea how some of the characteristic set piece scenes in this film were constructed. Its images have a resounding power lacking in most western films, particularly the extraordinary middle section, which incorporates a flood and a funeral, and ranks with the best of Angelopoulos' work.

At the Q and A afterwards, many of the audience felt that the film contained little hope. In Eleni, Angelopoulos seems to have created a character that acts chiefly as a cipher for the suffering of Greek history more generally, and there is no doubt that her despair in this film is palpable. Yet, her plight to me seemed to be profoundly affecting, and it sustained this film throughout its lengthy three hours. There may not be hope as such, but as in all his films, Angelopoulos seems concerned chiefly with elucidating the harsh reality of life in times of war and confusion, and there is no doubt that his vision is sympathetic and passionate. This film is a powerful and compelling illustration of the devastation of war. In its focus on one small village, it is structured in microcosmic terms, yet has an epic sweep that is distinctive in its lack of bombast. It is certainly another powerful statement to add to one of the great canons of modern film-making.

It's been a while, so I've been saving a great outpouring of rage for this post. First of all, let's get the obvious subject out of the way first - the U.S. Presidential election. It may just be that I'm naturally pessimistic, but the result came as no surprise to me. It had been clear for some time that John Kerry had placed far too much emphasis on his personal war record, and far too little on developing a coherent vision, both in terms of foreign policy and domestic issues. Not only that, but the Bush team mobilised the evangelical vote with considerable relish and vigour, and Bush has now been re-elected on the deeply hypocritical platform of promising greater 'freedom and democracy' abroad, whilst offering the most intolerant and restrictive set of policies at home. I don't want to spend too much time here analysing what this might mean for the next four years - but it's enough to say that I don't expect Bush will modify his stance on the environment, the economy, or healthcare provision. I also don't expect too great a change in the U.S. approach to what Bush has liked to call 'rogue states'. This is, after all, a President whose perspective on the world lacks any kind of nuance or finesse, and he is only capable of viewing the world in contrasting extremes. It's doubly depressing that the death of John Peel and the re-election of a moron to the greatest seat of world power had to come within the same week.

Whilst the election result is not surprising, it remains dismaying, and I only hope that the most vital political voices in America continue to protest and speak out. Bruce Springsteen's first reaction to the result has been to place a newly recorded version of The Star Spangled Banner on his website - a statement characteristically designed to appeal to American pride as much as post-election despair. Springsteen at last took a risk with his commitment to the Vote for Change tour - although his politics can easily be gleaned from many of his songs, he has always been careful not to ally himself with either political party. R.E.M. have already spoken in interviews of their dismay and fear. Perhaps the most vital political voice in American music right now, Steve Earle, appeared in the UK this week. The concerts were sure to be energised and brimming with conviction - the songs remain as relevant as ever with Bush still in power.

I was particularly depressed by several comments on the REM and Springsteen messageboards bemoaning the 'arrogance of the liberals' and, using far more expletives than I'd like to use here, instructing their favourite musicians to keep out of political debate. Leaving aside the question of how these people can identify with Springsteen songs and yet still support Bush's tax cuts (a policy designed to benefit only the very rich, with little or no broader economic justification), it's depressing that so many seem to think that musicians have no right to a democratic voice. Nobody has to follow the advice of Springsteen and REM et al - the American population have proved more than capable of ignoring them altogether. Yet I value these performers precisely because they are prepared to go beyond simply entertaining a crowd, and are prepared to use their celebrity to status towards what they feel are good ends. I'm no fan of U2 - but at least Bono is prepared to rise above banality and put his celebrity to some positive use, even if he could substantially reduce third world debt quite easily by donating some of his vast personal fortune!

Frankly, we need voices as harsh and plain as Steve Earle more than ever now. The election campaign finally directed me towards his album 'The Revolution Starts Now', which I had been meaning to pick up for some time. I can't really place it in context, because the only other Steve Earle album I'm really familiar with is his excellent bluegrass set 'The Mountain', recorded with The Del McCoury Band. Unsurprisingly, 'The Revolution...' packs a much weightier punch. Written and recorded within a matter of weeks, it actually benefits from its slightly hurried process. The need to get the record out before the election has given it an energy and urgency that might otherwise have been compromised. I very much doubt that this is Earle's most subtle collection - but the thumping and insistent drum sound, and crisp, crunchy guitars seem appropriate for the cause. The album is bookended by two broadly similar versions of the title track, which makes for a rousing rallying cry, set to an infectious melody and driving straight-ahead rock n'roll groove.

Earle is particularly adept at using localised, personal stories to illustrate a broader political picture, most notably on the anti-war songs 'Home to Houston' and 'Rich Man's War'. The former is a rollcking country shuffle, while the latter is quite brilliant - a plaintive and quite moving exposition of both how the Iraq war has wasted American lives and merely perpetuate a cycle of violence and fear. Earle's voice is snarling and forceful against the acousticm guitar picking. These songs share Springsteen's ability to craft refined character studies, but are more politically charged and less compromising.

'The Revolution...' is importantly not without humour either. At the centre of the album are two hilarious and riotous tracks. 'Condi, Condi' is a, presumably ironic, love song to Condoleeza Rice, set to an angular, almost reggae-flavoured backbeat. 'Oh she loves me, oops she loves me not/People say you're cold but I think you're hot!' Earle sings with considerable relish. 'F The CC' requires little exposition, and certainly makes its defence of democratic freedoms abundantly clear. It's context is undoubtedly the criticism that has been dealt out to those who have spoken out against the Bush administration, along with the restrictions on civil liberties introduced with the Patriot Act. It makes for a highly entertaining rant.

Elsewhere, a duet with Emmylou Harris on 'Comin' Around' is plaintive and affecting, proving that Earle is just as capable of handling traditional country material as he is at producing ranting rock-outs. It's not all perfect - 'The Warrior' sees Earle attempt a more poetic lyric, with mixed results. Much of the imagery and the alliterative devices seem a little forced. The closing tracks are enchanting - but more personal, perhaps even sentimental. Whilst it is by no means the most subtle or nuanced album ever recorded, it does present an eloquent, forceful and determined opposition to the Bush administration, as well as some powerful songwriting. It's just a shame that protest statements such as this haven't managed to secure a result.

An arguably more surprising voice of protest is that of Eminem. It's deeply disappointing that his record company have not had the courage to release 'Mosh' as the first single from his new 'Encore' album, now brought forward to be released today following another internet leak (surely Interscope must realise it will still be on the net after its release?!?!). Instead, they've opted for the comfortingly familiar puerile cartoon rap of 'Just Lose It'. 'Mosh' really is a different beast altogether. So far, Eminem's capacity for righteous anger has only really been channeled on somewhat tiresome 'leave me alone I'm so famous it's terrible' rants. Here, for arguably the first time, he channels this anger towards something more productive and valuable.

Whatever you think of its sentiments, 'Mosh' is an incredible piece of work, a passionate and furious anti-Bush invective, underpinned by rhythmic insistence and considerable intelligence. It is a vitriolic outpouring of frustration and indignation, with a video that illustrates the lyric in even starker terms. Its images and statements are devastating alone 'no more blood for oil, we've got battles to fight out on home soil', strap an AK47 to the President and make him fight his own war, 'this weapon of mass destruction we call our President' - but their cumulative impact is strangely moving. It's partially Eminem attempting to mobilise his fanbase to vote, but it's also an impassioned broadside - with Eminem proclaiming his own leadership, guiding a whole audience to 'mosh' against the President. Intelligent and articulate are words that have often been used about Eminem by gushing critics. In this case, they may well apply.


The second issue to have angered me this week is considerably more trivial, but one that I still feel compelled to write about. I've read a great deal recently about 'changing listener habits' and 'changing attitudes towards music', and other such bland mediaspeak in the past few weeks. Apparently, only the over 40s are buying albums now (how then does that explain 300,000 sales and counting for McFly, and triple that for Busted?). The rest of us apparently prefer to listen to single tracks, most likely downloaded from the internet, than purchase expensive albums which consist of fifty per cent filler. I'm certainly not going to argue with the conjecture that albums are too expensive, especially when CDs now cost so little to mass produce. However, it does undoubtedly depend on what you buy and where you buy it. If you are a regular internet user, then Amazon, Play and other such sites sell CDs at increasingly reasonable prices. Some independent shops - such as Fopp, Selectadisc and Rough Trade are also mostly affordable, albeit only accessible if you live in London or another major city. I increasingly find that, if I shop around, I have little reason to spend more than £12 on a CD, unless it's jazz, which remains sadly marginalised and overpriced.

As for the quality issue - I can't help feeling that comment is more than slightly demeaning to the great wealth of excellent albums that have been released this year. In the first half of this year, I felt I might the year looked like being a little disappointing - I've now completely revised that opinion. Sure - if you waste your money on industry manufactured pap, you're best sticking with singles. The genres of hip hop and R&B are particularly guilty - there are numerous singles in these genres that are innovative and hugely exciting, but the albums are invariably overlong and tiresome - so it becomes harder to sort the wheat from the chaff. If you're open minded, and are prepared to look further to the margins, read more and listen to more, there is plenty out there that is worth the investment of hard cash. Believe me, I wouldn't be writing this blog if there wasn't.

Yet still there is a prevailing trend towards downsizing, compartmentalising and just plain old dumbing down. Nowhere has this been made starker than in the new NME yearbook (don't worry I haven't bought it - I just flicked through it at work). Here, the learned staff of the NME give us their 336 best tracks of the year. First of all, 336 is a strangely arbitrary number, and the exercise seems somewhat pointless to begin with (I find it hard enough to organise a top 50 into any kind of order). What makes it worse is that the tracks are grouped into sub-sets with vacuous and presumptious titles like 'ten for the pensioners' and 'ten floor-shakers'. The NME have at least retained John Mulvey, Dele Fadele and a handful of other writers I trust to make reasonably informed judgements on new music. Yet, these writers now seem entirely marginalised in their polls, instead making way for a youth wing keen to abandon all knowledge of musical history and start proclaiming even the most banal bands of the moment as life-changing revolutionaries. Judging by this list, they also seem to be entirely at the whim of prevailing fashions.

Just as vinyl remains sacred for DJs and collectors, so the recorded product will remain cherished by fans and obsessives for some time to come. Whilst I value the internet as a means of seeking out new sounds - I regularly read music sites and blogs and seek out streaming media from bands and artists who have caught my attention - I would never be entirely satisfied with owning music as a file on a hard drive. For one, it's even more likely to get damaged or go missing than if my CD collection is stolen (my worst nightmare aside from going deaf). I still value the time, art and craft put into a package - including lyrics, artwork and sleevenotes, and I get angry when record companies take my cash for poorly conceived products. I also, believe it or not, still value 'the album' and 'the single' as valuable entities. The only compilations I really trust are ones I've made myself, or mix tapes handed to me by friends. There are odd exceptions of course (Charlie Gillett's outstanding Sound of the City series, Dave Godin's deep soul collections, Rough Trade shops' peerless sets etc etc). Still, there's simply no better feeling than going to a record store, purchasing something that I've never heard just because I've had a tip about it, and finding that it's brilliant. Long may those days continue. That's why if you return to this site a little closer to Christmas, you'll find my selections of albums and singles of the year - I can't resist a good list making exercise.

John Peel 1939 - 2004

An immense loss to both broadcasting and music - John Peel was a true legend whose passion for seeking out new music meant that he was able to survive through numerous management changes and radical programming reforms at Radio 1. I haven't listened to his show as much as I should in recent years - yet I still find it hard to believe that I will never hear another festive fifty or Peel session. Quite simply, there has never been another broadcaster of his dedication, enthusiasm and talent. A number of crucial bands may never have achieved critical and commercial success were it not for the early exposure he offered them. He never patronised his audience, fostered diversity (something increasingly rare in today's formatted radio world) and was a consummately relaxed and skilful presenter. RIP...

Leonard Cohen - Dear Heather

Even by Leonard Cohen's singular standards, 'Dear Heather' is a very peculiar album indeed, possibly his strangest since 'Death of a Ladiesman'. His second post-Zen album predictably retains the muted atmospherics, melancholic tone, glacial pace and 80s synth-dominated production values of his last set (2001's 'Ten New Songs'), but it is arguably even more personal, and certainly less mechanised. Less characteristically, many of the songs are mercilessly concise. Cohen's lyrics have often beguiled and entranced through dense layers of mystery and allusion. There are times here when Cohen does not appear to have written enough words to sustain an entire song. The extremely bizarre title track is just five lines long. Instead, much of the beauty here comes through the impact of repetition. His recent work has been characterised by a collaborative process - producer Leanne Ungar and vocalists Anjani Thomas and Sharon Robinson seem to lend an even greater presence to these deceptively skeletal songs. Cohen has also adapted the work of others for many of the tracks here. He's no stranger to this, of course, having translated Lorca for 'Take This Waltz', one of his very finest songs. 'Dear Heather' contains a Byron poem, a poem by Frank Scott, a live rendition of the country standard 'Tenessee Waltz' and a song based on a Quebecois folk song. In many ways, 'Dear Heather' sees Cohen adapting and expanding his reach, whilst coming to terms with the twilight years, and inevitable mortality.

Given its weighty themes and considerable economy, 'Dear Heather' contains some of the most beautiful songs in Cohen's illustrious catalogue. His new setting of Byron's 'Go No More A-Roving' makes for an outstanding opener, a deeply moving exposition of the encroachment of old age. With its wistful arpeggios and cooing backing vocals, it is a real delight. Also, its line 'And the heart must pause to breathe, And love itself have rest', makes for a sly and effective reference to an earlier song ('Love Itself' from 'Ten New Songs'). 'Nightingale' and 'The Faith' sound comfortingly familiar, despite their ethereal atmosphere, and come tinged with finality. Though the lyrics remain poetic, they are disarmingly direct ('Fare thee well my nightingale/'I lived but to be near you?Tho' you are singing somewhere still/I can no longer hear you'). These are the stark and profoundly moving highlights.

There is a similar grace and dignity to 'On That Day', Cohen's gospel-tinged response to September 11th. It's an affecting piece of music, but I'm not sure that its deliberate ambiguities really elucidate that much ('Some people say it's what we deserve for sins against g-d, for crimes in the world/I wouldn't know, I'm just holding the fort/Since that day they wounded New York'). Like many of the songs on Springsteen's 'The Rising', it seems less concerned with making a grand political statement and more with capturing a sense and feeling of loss.

The collaborations with Sharon Robinson could have slotted easily into 'Ten New Songs'. They are subtle, delicate and graceful. 'The Letters' is the more melodic of the two, albeit now characterised my Cohen's hushed whisper and murmur. The melody is more clearly exposed when Robinson takes over the lead vocal herself. 'There For You' is based around the album's lengthiest lyric, although its rhtyhmic and structural simplicity is still its most striking characteristic. Melody here is more elusive, the vocals are thin and watery. Its one of those twisting, elaborate songs that may well require several listens before its mystery can be intimated.

Whilst this review so far has emphasised characteristics familiar to even the most casual Cohen listener, I have yet to pass judgement on some of the more baffling moments on 'Dear Heather'. This is possibly because I've yet to reach my own conclusion. The title track consists of the same lines repeated incessantly ('Dear Heather/Please walk by me again/With a drink in your hand/And your legs all white from the winter') in a chorus of robotic voices. As the 'song' progresses, some of the words are spelled out. I'm not yet sure whether its serious or deeply hilarious. 'Because Of' can be placed more comfortably in the latter category - and its refreshing to see that some of the mordant humour that characterised 'I'm Your Man' making a welcome return. 'Because of a few songs wherein I spoke of their mystery, women have been exceptionally kind to my old age', Cohen muses. 'They make a secret place in their busy lives and they take me there. They become naked in their different ways, and they say, "Look at me Leonard Look at me one last time". Then they bend me over the bed/And cover me up/Like a baby that is shivering.' That's the whole song, but in its brevity it cuts right to the heart of Cohen's power as a poet. Quite simply, nobody in popular music has written so passionately, incisively and beautifully about erotic longing as Cohen. Refer back to the classics - 'Suzanne', 'Hallelujah', 'Ain't No Cure For Love'. Taken together, 'Dear Heather' and 'Because Of' might represent a wry commentary on his past writing, on his role as a ladiesman, and on how women continue to inspire his writing even now.

Cohen's voice is faltering and hushed now - sometimes so quiet that it is barely audible. Many of his parts on 'Dear Heather' are recited rather than sung. This may have served to return Cohen to his formative influences. He was always a reluctant musician, having begun artistic life as a published poet and novelist, and being considerably older than his obvious peers on releasing his debut album. Many find the more recent dated computer and synth backdrops for his poems impede their impact. Cohen has stated that he likes the arrangements and that the quality of the song should always transcend the methods deployed in its production. Fair enough - and frequently his songs have succeeded in doing exactly that. I haven't found the arrangements of his recent albums too much of a problem, although 'Ten New Songs' suffered from being somewhat homogenous. Frequently the stark electronic drums and delicate synths offer the starkest and most intimate setting possible for his best lyrical work. Also, his sense of melody has always been strong enough to predominate anyway. Given his vocal deterioration, melody is often abandoned entirely on 'Dear Heather' in favour of recitations and cantations. 'Undertow', 'Morning Glory', 'To A Teacher' and, most notably, 'Villanelle For Our Time' are the songs that make 'Dear Heather' distictive in Cohen's catalogue, and lend it considerable mystery. The atmosphere evoked here seems to be an open mic night in a smoky jazz bar, perhaps in New York, with Cohen the ageing poet philosophising in spoken verse over muted rufflings. These are unfamiliar and uncompromising, ruminative and unusual.

The real value of 'Dear Heather' becomes clear during the stirring closing moments of 'The Faith' (ostensibly the album's closing track, save for the 1985 live rendition of 'Tennessee Waltz', somewhat inappropriately tacked on). 'Dear Heather' is a powerful and cohesive whole, with a cumulative impact. For the most part, it makes little sense to take its songs in isolation. It's gratifying to hear an album where it is necessary to listen from start to finish, and in sequence, to reap its full rewards. It is reflective, moving, humbling and strikingly honest. Many have stated that it feels like a final testament. At 70, Cohen must be contemplating a retirement from music, but I wouldn't rule out the possibility of there being more to come from his extraordinary mind.

OK, deep breath, this is going to be a massively long post. Working a night shift has not proved conducive to spending time posting my thoughts to the web, so there is quite a backlog of releases for me to comment on.

Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds - Abattoir Blues/The Lyre Of Orpheus

What exactly is it with the double album these days? Oh, sorry, I mean two single complete albums packaged together. First Lambchop, then, err, Gareth Gates and Nelly - now Nick Cave, who seems to be experiencing a late career prolific blooming, has joined in the fun. Last year's 'Nocturama' album was unfairly maligned. Whilst it wasn't one of the best of his career, it was a more focussed and less impressionistic work than 'No More Shall We Part', and Cave was at least showing signs of tightning up his artistic control. The encouraging signs on 'Nocturama' are carried forward with dazzling results on these new works. Even better than that, whilst the intense rock blitzes on 'Nocturama' sounded more than a little contrived, 'Abattoir Blues' contains some of Cave's most aggressive and visceral work for years. 'The Lyre Of Orpheus', by way of contrast, continues his more recent preference for piano ballads, although it is worth pointing out that it is far from being a tasteful retreat into the mainstream. The dark spiritualism and predatory eroticism that characterise Cave's best works are still here in full force. Neither do the two albums construct a dichotomy between two distinct sides of Cave's personality. Both also contain some crucial steps forward and it is these tracks which ultimately elevate these sets above being 'just another Nick Cave album'.

On 'Abattoir Blues' there is the almost funky 'Cannibal's Hymn', which sees a tremendous groove gradually give way to a typically swelling chorus. There is also the awesome 'Hiding All Away', with its fractured organ stabs and interjectory chants from the London Community Gospel Choir. Anyone concerned about the absence of legendary guitarist Blixa Bargeld should fear no more. New recruit James Johnston, formerly of Gallon Drunk, lets loose on the Hammond Organ, and the results are a tumultuous refashioning of primitive, animal blues; brutal, immediate and brilliant. On 'The Lyre Of Orpheus', there may be a slight country tinge to the title track and the unusually infectious 'Breathless', although they are still tempered by Cave's gruesome vocal presence.

I had wondered if the addition of the London Community Gospel Choir might represent a somewhat obvious tactic, given Cave's well documented religious faith, and the fact that many other acts, notably Spiritualized and Doves, have already used gospel choirs to transcendental effect. I think I have been proved wrong, mainly because Cave does not seem to be aiming at transcendence here - he is trying to create something more earthy, violent and stark. Opening track 'Get Ready For Love' is ostensibly a gospel song, but it's a song of praise that is snarling and ragged, filled with the passions and rages of modern living. In essence, they have helped Cave reinvigorate his work and place his usual concerns and techniques within new settings. Another album along the lines of 'Nocturama' would have been affecting, but it may have not been enough. On 'Abattoir Blues' particularly, there is an energy that is both righteous and riotous.

Mercifully, Cave also seems to have rediscovered his sense of humour. Sometimes all the darkness can feel a bit weighty, portentous and foreboding, but many of the songs here are just plain funny. 'The Lyre of Orpheus' itself is a brilliant rewrite of the Orpheus myth, ending with these absurdly silly lines: 'Eurydice appeared bridled in blood/and she said to Orpheus/If you play that fucking thing down here/I'll stick it up your orifice!'
On 'There She Goes, My Beautiful World', Cave has tremendous fun with some famous names: 'John Willmot penned his poetry riddled with the pox/Nabokov wrote on index cards, at a lectern in his socks/St. John of the Cross did his best stuff imprisoned in a box/And Johnny Thunders was half alive when he wrote Chinese Rocks'. This strikes me as some of the finest amd most audacious wordplay of the year.

After the turbulence and energy of 'Abattoir Blues', the moments of simple, affecting beauty on 'The Lyre of Orpheus' are most welcome. The eerie textures of 'Spell' work particularly well but best of all is the quite wonderful 'Babe You Turn Me On', in which Cave makes for a move away from 'pointless savagery' to asserting the lasting powers of love. It may be a cliched theme, but Cave handles it adroitly, particularly in the touching chorus: 'The world is collapsing dear, all moral sense is gone/It's just history repeating itself/And Babe you turn me on'. The song has a natural grace and fascination, and immediately sounds like a modern Cave classic.

Whilst the Bad Seeds have seemed muted on the last three Nick Cave records (to be fair, brilliantly subtle on 'The Boatman's Call' and parts of 'Nocturama'), their full powers are harnessed again here to craft a sound that sounds colossal and entirely unforced. With these albums, Nick Cave seems to have stopped trying too hard and has started to have fun again - albeit fun spiked with faith, malice and more than a little sinfulness too.

Brian Wilson - Brian Wilson Presents Smile

This may well be the hardest review I've ever had to write. It's extremely difficult to comment conclusively on this lavish reconstruction of a work we all know should have been released in 1967. Finally brought to completion, this new 'Smile' certainly presents a major opportunity for some serious debate among the bootleg fetishists. Most of us have only heard 'Smile' in splintered parts, either through the complete songs that managed to see the light of day on other Beach Boys albums ('Cabinessence', 'Surf's Up', 'Heroes and Villains', 'Vega-Tables' etc) or through numerous bootlegs. Despite the reports of Wilson, his collaborator Van Dyke Parks, and musical director Darian Sahanaja trawling through all the original 'Smile' tapes, much of the material has been expunged, and a great deal of it made more palatable - or at least more realisable within the context of a complete work. There can be no denying that the new version of 'Smile' is an impressive achievement. However, I also can't escape the fact that it sounds like a loving recreation of an antique, heritage document, rather than a living, breathing work.

Cases in point are the new versions of 'Heroes and Villains', 'Cabinessence', 'Surf's Up' and 'Good Vibrations'. The latter particularly stands out - it feels tacked on at the end of the final (and most incoherent) movement, and arguably superflous. Given the course of events and the failure to complete the original Smile, 'Good Vibrations' has gained the status of one of the best, if not the very best, pop singles of all time. As the conclusion to 'Smile', it feels more like a compromise. 'Heroes and Villains' is more crucial because it provides a recurring musical theme for the project. It still sounds brilliant, bizarre and unique, but this new version really neither adds or detracts anything from the version that appeared on 'Smiley Smile'.

Paradoxically, this new version of 'Smile' is both fragmentary and cohesive. It is fragmentary because many of the individual pieces are puzzlingly brief, and sometimes still sound like unfinished bursts of creative genius. It is cohesive because of the way Wilson and his painstakingly faithful backing band have merged clusters of music together into three distinct movements, often using surprisingly traditional composition techniques. It's easy to pick out the influence of Bach, both in the vocal harmonies, and in the recurring piano figures, which sound highly unusual within a pop idiom. Equally, Wilson may well have immersed himself in the works of symphonic composers in order to create the three distinct mood pieces he has conjured together here.

The most successful of the three movements is undoubtedly the second, shortest movement. It seems to have a natural fluidity of movement, and a consistent recognisable theme, both lyrically and musically. It is this part of the work where Wilson's original aim of recapturing the inner child is most apparent. This is the part of 'Smile' that most adequately sums up the 'teenage symphony to God'. Its opening segment is 'Wonderful', which contains new Van Dyke Parks lyrics, and is arguably the most affecting moment on 'Smile'. Here, the quirkiness and extravagance is toned down, and we get a real glimpse of Wilson's gifts with melody. The following 'Song for Children' and 'Child is Father of the Man' merge seamlessly, with their cascading rhythms and overflowing harmonies. Whilst the obsession with childhood does seem slightly peturbing, it's worth putting it in the context of Wilson's endearing naivety. There is something refreshing, perhaps even maverick, about his quest to maintain thematic innocence. Compare this with 'Love and Mercy', a much later song which, although trite, can be similarly characterised. The closing 'Surf's Up' is familiar, but still masterful, and Wilson's decaying voice copes admirably with its cadences. It seems to be more his diction and energy than his pitch that is failing. His tendency to snatch at words that was so noticeable in the concerts is less pronounced here, but he still sounds crisper and less mellifluous here than during his mid-sixties prime. Vocal decline if, of course, inevitable, and occasionally it adds new character to the music wisdom gained through long, turbulent life experience.

The first and third movements are more confusing, although the reworking of 'Do You Like Worms?' as the more conventional 'Roll Plymouth Rock' is touching. The first movement, revolving around this track, and 'Heroes and Villains' is dazzling in its play with structure, and in the extravagance of its instrumentation. Wilson clearly remains a masterful arranger, and willing to experiment with a range of styles and sounds. The final movement veers all over the place and includes the comfortingly silly 'Vega-Tables' and 'Mrs. O'Leary's Cow', formerly known as 'Fire!', the instrumental Wilson allegedly once believed could actually start fires. It finishes with 'Good Vibrations' - a joyous pop flourish at the end, although it would have made far more sense to reprise either the opening accapella harmonising of 'Our Prayer' or the cool atmospherics of 'Surf's Up' in order to bring the work full circle. It is this section of the work that seems most bogged down in legend, mythology and history, and it doesn't quite manage to escape from it.

In completing 'Smile' - Wilson, Van Dyke Parks and The Wondermints have shown considerable tenacity and determination. It is a humorous, surrealistic escapade of a musical venture. At times it still, even today, seems slightly absurd. However, whilst it can still dazzle and confound, it doesn't really appear 'new'. This version of 'Smile' feels like a reconstruction of a masterpiece, and not a masterpiece in itself. That doesn't stop being moved, uplifted and touched by it though.

Tom Waits - Real Gone

'Real Gone' is clearly supposed to be another significant milestone in Tom Waits' lengthy and consistently excellent career. It will be accompanied by his first tour since 1999, and the first to feature UK dates for over seventeen years. Much fuss has been made in the press about the departures this album represents - it features vocal mouth percussion and what Waits has somewhat opaquely termed 'cubist funk'. In addition to this, Waits has entirely abandoned the piano. The latter is hardly a major shock, as piano-based ballads have been playing less prominent roles on Waits albums ever since 'Swordfishtrombones'. Admittedly, that the riotous clamour of 'Bone Machine' and 'Mule Variations' were tempered with elegiac and affecting piano ballads did allow for some light and shade and variation in texture. 'Real Gone' has to work much harder for a similar effect. Much less has been made about the similarities between 'Real Gone' and the pinnacles of Waits' back-catalogue, despite the addition of mouth percussion and some intrusive turntabling from his son Casey, there is little here that could not have been realised on 'Rain Dogs' or 'Bone Machine'.

Naturally, 'Real Gone' contains moments of madcap brilliance that only Waits could produce. 'Hoist That Rag' is deliriously ragged, with Waits' extreme guttural howl doing battle with the raw, Latin-inflected twang of Marc Ribot's guitar. Ribot remains an unusual and thrilling guitar player - his performances always in touch with a great feel for the music - a primal sense of the blues. We've heard the prophetic warnings of 'Don't Go Into That Barn' before, but the spiky plucked guitars, clattering percussion and screaming vocals remain a potent formula here. The heavyweight clamour of 'Make It Rain' makes for one of the album's more brutal and immediate moments, albeit one that recalls the terrifying growl of 'Filopino Box Spring Hog' from 'Mule Variations'.

Some of the ballads are intriguing - there's a sense that whilst many of these songs might have been performed on the piano on previous albums, on 'Real Gone', Waits and his band have fashioned a lightly blucked, country-tinged sound. It's a familiar Waitsian mode, but one that was not really at the forefront of the musical theatre projects 'Alice' and 'Blood Money'. 'Trampled Rose' is beautiful, whilst 'Dead and Lovely' manages to be both mournful and sinister. The album's key track is 'Sins of the Father', a lengthy and repetetive blues ballad, slightly reminiscent of Bob Dylan's epic 'Highlands', with densely poetic lyrics that allude somewhat obliquely to the current political situation in America. It's undeniably affecting, but it seems almost as if Waits was so proud of his lyrical constructions that he failed to even consider editing them. At over ten minutes at one flat dynamic level, it somewhat outstays its welcome....

...As indeed does the whole album. At over 70 minutes, 'Real Gone' is simply too long. A few tracks could easily have been excised - particularly 'Circus', yet another spoken word mood piece that neither adds nor detracts from any of Waits' previous excursions into this field. Whilst the likes of 'Shake It', 'Top Of The Hill' and 'Clang Boom Steam' dazzle on first listen, their polyrhythmic twists do not really represent much of a radical departure from the blueprint set by 'Bone Machine'. The songs on 'Bone Machine', whilst extreme, had more melodic interest and were, on the whole, substantially more engaging.

'Real Gone' closes, almost perversely, with an acoustic ballad 'The Day After Tomorrow', whereby Waits sings as a soldier at war, accompanying himself with rhythmially free, occasionally inventive guitar picking. It's a delightful song - stately and underplayed, with probably the best vocal on the album. Its impact is almost diminished because it feels like a moment of conciliatory respite after the visceral and confusing nature of the preceding 65 minutes.

'Real Gone' has all the makings of a great Tom Waits album - and yet somehow that is what dilutes its force. It sounds more or less what you might expect a Tom Waits album to sound like in the 21st century. If you are approaching Waits for the first time - you may well find much of 'Real Gone' to be radical, possibly even maniacal. For those already familiar with the back catalogue, it sounds like another album to add to an already essential list. Perhaps, given that Waits and his wife and collaborator Kathleen Brennan have already confounded expectations so many times, it is enough that Waits is still pursuing this relentlessly individual path. The music on 'Real Gone' has little in common with current trends or media obsessions. Whilst it would be refreshing now to hear Waits adopt a completely different strategy, it would appear that, in the words of a classic deep soul song, he's too far gone to turn around.

Panda Bear - Young Prayer

This is a curious and fascinating record. Panda Bear is, together with Avey Tare, one half of the regular line-up of Animal Collective. Not content with already releasing one of the year's most extraordinary and inventive albums with 'Sung Tongs', he has crafted this peculiarly intimate project of his own. Apparently inspired by the death of his father, this is a cyclical construction, alternating between strange mantras and handclap-driven ostinatos. There are no track names, and no deciphrable lyrics. I will concede that this description makes this sound either unlistenable, or merely very pompous. It is actually neither. Whilst I wouldn't go as far as to echo Pitchfork in calling it 'supremely accessible' (I doubt very much that it will get much airplay on Radio 1), it is a refreshingly tender and beguiling listen. At a mere 27 minutes, it has a hypnotic coherence and left me intrigued. It feels like a single composition with a single purpose, rather than a collection of songs. The guitar playing is delicate, and the vocal murmurings are appropriately fragile. At the very least, it demonstrates that wordless murmurings and wails can be as affecting as poetic language. It's very distinctiveness may mean that it's not something I'll come back to all that often, but I'm glad that I've investigated it nonetheless.

Interpol - Antics

I received a free copy of Interpol's dazzling debut 'Turn on The Bright Lights' from Roddy Woomble from Idlewild. He clearly wasn't quite as impressed by it as I was. Sadly, I've had no such luck with this equally compelling follow-up. 'Compelling' is definitely the right word, because there is something definitively alluring about the combination of Paul Banks' deliberately monotonous vocalising and the powerfully intense music that underpins it.

It has to be conceded that 'Antics' makes only the most subtle of progressions from its predecessor. Instead, it seems more concerned with refining an already winning formula. Perhaps due to their insistence on wearing black clothing, and the intellectualising tendency of some of their songs, much has been made of Interpol's similarity with Joy Division and The Cure. To these ears, a much better reference point is The Pixies. The vampiric Carlos D's rhythmic basslines give this music a dynamism and propulsion in much the same way as Kim Deal did for her band. The layers of guitars also create a striking singularity of purpose and distinctive musical vision.

The opening 'Next Exit', whilst a slightly misleading prelude, echoes the shimmering atmosphere of the wonderful 'NYC' from 'Turn On The Bright Lights'. It is an elaborate dirge, and may point the way to the band's future. On single 'Slow Hands', they seem to have incorporated some of the edgy groove of Talking Heads or Devo into their wiry post-punk dynamic. Best of all are the spiky, carefully controlled rages of 'Evil' and 'Narc'. This is a sound more involving and fascinating than the rehashed CBGB boredom of The Strokes or Razorlight.

Paul Banks' tendency towards dense, enigmatic wordplay can occasionally seem like random phrases strung together to create meaningless rants (although I must confess to quite liking a line like 'You're weightless, semi-erotic'). Equally, their compacted intensity may soon start to wear a little thin. They will need to develop more for their next record - but as consolidation, 'Anitcs' is a very fine sophomore effort.

More reviews to come soon - and I'm thinking of introducing an overlooked classics feature.

R.E.M. - Around The Sun

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Elvis Costello - The Delivery Man

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Old Film - New Soundtrack

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Catch-Up

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Village of the Damned

A trip to see M. Night Shyamalan's The Village proved to be an expensive, and deeply unrewarding experience. To be honest, I was not expecting cinematic alchemy as Shyamalan has been on a distinctly downward spiral since 'The Sixth Sense', but I had not prepared myself for anything quite this terrible. If I was Shyamalan, I'd have taken a long hard look at the finished product, and quickly renamed it Alan Smithee's 'The Village'.

The film is set in an unspecified time and place, and features a small community dressed in bizarre nineteenth century garb. Their 'village' is enclosed by woods, and villagers are forbidden enter the woods due to some peculiar creatures in distinctly unscary red costumes referred to only as 'those we do not speak of' (thus ensuring that the most frequently recurring line in the entire movie ends with a preposition). Everyone speaks in ridiculously verbose language that renders even the most basic sentence as portentous nonsense (they cannot say 'what do you mean', only 'what is your meaning?', not 'I like dancing', but 'I do find dancing very agreeable').
The characters are distinctly one dimensional, the atmosphere entirely forced (with blandly dim photography and a predictable score) and the performances uniformly stilted. Joaquin Phoenix spends the first half of the picture with a persistent expression of pained consternation, as if he is trying to hold in a particularly troublesome bowel movement, and spends the second half of the movie in his death-bed. William Hurt and Sigourney Weaver are uncomfortably serious, newcomer Bryce Dallas Howard (daughter of director Ron) is unbearably earnest and small parts for the likes of Michael Pitt are particularly thankless. Worst of all is Adrien Brody's bumbling village idiot - a character almost offensive in its lack of originality and inspiration - and a terrible move for an actor of Brody's quality (although it will no doubt only enhance his bank balance).

I have a taste for the supernatural - indeed, I've even spent quite a lot of my time researching it (or at least the preternatural - but that semantic distinction is better saved for another time and place), but this really is guff. It lacks any real suspense or dramatic purpose, and any interest in its supposedly supernatural elements is surely undermined by a string of increasingly ridiculous plot twists. Shyamalan has made this his trademark (along with his own wryly amusing cameo appearances), but the formula has arguably begun to wear thin even by 'Unbreakable'. The ending to that film was easily intuited, given that it was actually the only possible conclusion to a somewhat plodding film, weighed down by inevitability. The denouement to 'The Village' is completely ridiculous - and only serves to leave more questions posed than answered. Anyone who discovers this supposed 'twist' before seeing the film will no doubt be completely baffled, and wisely elect not to part with their hard earned cash to view the picture.

'The Village' is pretentious, self-indulgent, tedious and artless. Anything this silly should at least be entertaining - but this is so completely boring. It is the worst film I've seen so far this year.