The Existential Wanderer

Thom Yorke - The Eraser (XL Recordings)

If anyone was still in any doubt as to which member of Radiohead was in the driving seat for the much-vaunted change in direction for 'Kid A' and 'Amnesiac', here is the ultimate proof. Thom Yorke's first solo album is hardly a retrenchment into the safer territory of guitar rock. It's electronic, and it covers more of the same stark, minimalist terrain Yorke first tentatively approached on tracks like 'Idioteque', 'Everything In Its Right Place' and 'Packt Like Sardines...'. It's predictably insular, full of righteous frustration and, somewhat inevitably, it reveals his talent and considerable weaknesses in equal measure.

Yorke remains at his best when he focusses on the expressive quality of his voice. The opening title track is particularly effective with its layered vocal harmonies, although it revisits the same lyrical ground covered on 'Kid A', notably the celebrity-fixated desire to disappear from public view. It also seems to directly replicate the harmonic motif from 'Everything In Its Right Place', although its less eerie and more stuttering than that most beguiling of 'Kid A' highlights. Equally impressive is 'Atoms For Peace', which, with little more than a handful of notes and a beat as a backdrop, allows the conventional but strikingly haunting melody to roam free. 'The Clock' and 'Harrowdown Hill' deploy a similar effect with skeletal basslines (played with the same extraordinary lack of technique as 'The National Anthem').

Where Yorke has been content to compromise his ideals for big publicity juggernauts for Radiohead albums, he has succeeded in keeping 'The Eraser' low-key, switching record labels and only announcing its existence a matter of mere weeks in advance of its release. It's not surprising therefore that he allows himself to indulge his tendency for whingeing. Few could begrudge Yorke his fears for the state of the modern world - but it remains deeply frustrating that he is frequently so inarticulate in expressing them. The worst offender here is 'Black Swan' (a close relation of 'I Might Be Wrong'), with its chorus simply bemoaning repeatedly that 'it's fucked up'. Thanks for that pithy insight, Thom. Some of the music also feels a little impressionistic and sketchy, and it is in these moments (particularly the somewhat tuneless 'Skip Divided'), where Yorke elects to veer into vocal abstraction.

'Kid A' and 'Amnesiac' were 'difficult' at least in part because they flitted through a wide variety of musical stylings. The rock band arrangment of 'Optimistic' was a million miles away from the opaque digitising of 'Kid A', and the piano balladry of 'Pyramid Song' didn't sit terribly comfortably with the pulsating electronica of 'Packed Like Sardines...'. If anything, 'The Eraser' goes too far in the opposite direction. It's so coherent a record that it feels a little oppressive in its completeness. It's almost as if Yorke has a process through which his songs must go, so they all end up with remarkably simlar arrangements.

It's unlikely that this gives much of a pointer as to the direction of the forthcoming Radiohead material, but it certainly gives an illuminating picture of Thom Yorke as a writer - an insular character who spends vast amounts of time ensuring that his music adheres to a cold, stark blueprint. When this musical technique is married to vocal performances with power and emotional impact - the results are stunning. Yorke has a great ear for sound, and everything here seems carefully planned and executed. It's not always possible to submit comfortably to Yorke's bleak vision though - especially as this appears to be a world with no solutions and no means of escape. There's also a lingering sense that this is simply exactly what we might expect from a Thom Yorke album - plenty of bad poetry, some haunting and strikingly beautiful vocal performances with considered and deft arrangements, but no alarms and no surprises.

So Damn Good We Did It Twice

Scritti Politti, King's Cross Scala, 11/7/06

So, what would happen at Green Gartside's first official live performances for 26 years? What would the sound be like? How would he recreate his meticulous studio pop sheen? In the end, it was all rather straightforward, with a full band playing a sumptuous and well-crafted take on mostly new material, with few frills or distractions. Gartside's crippling stagefright has been long-documented, but the only signs of this tonight were some references to the complexities of some of the songs and a decidedly old fashioned orchestral music stand for lyric prompts (amusingly kept in the correct order throughout the gig by keyboardist Dave). In all other respects, he seemed refreshingly down to earth, personable - perhaps even quietly confident.

Of course, he had every reason to feel revitalised. To these ears at least, 'White Bread Black Beer' is a collection of songs every bit as good as anything in the Scritti back catalogue. It also marks a more successful intergration of hip hop and electro influences than the less subtle rap experiments of 'Anomie and Bonhomie'. Although Gartside clearly still strives for pop perfection (those sunny harmonies are a revelation), there is a delightfully skeletal, homespun quality to many of the productions that sees Gartside again make steps in exciting new directions. Gartside may not be the most animated of performers - but in a live setting it becomes clear exactly how deft an instrument his peculiar voice is - pinched and high pitched, it is a great vehicle for what appears to be a new emphasis on complex phrasing and delivery. Songs like 'Dr. Abernathy' and 'The Road To No Regret' are impressively intricate, and veer between breezy, lush introductions and crisp, verbally dense pop. Opening with single and paen to hip hop 'The Boom Boom Bap', it is immediately clear that Green is concentrating very hard over every syllable of his uniquely personal lyrics. This set sounded consistently considered and well-rehearsed.

Of the new songs 'After Six' is as infectious as pop songs come - but also characteristically clever. 'Cooking' and 'Snow In Sun' demonstrate that Gartside has rediscovered an interest in delicate rhythm guitar strum, and he uses the device effectively. Perhaps best of all was 'E Eleventh Nuts' with its driving, Bo Diddley-esque rhythm and endearing lyric ('First I hit a rock, then I hit a roll/Now I'm hitting on you!'). Perhaps the unifying characteristic of these new songs is that they all manage a neat trick of reshaping somewhat conventional influences - McCartney on 'Dr. Abernathy', the Beach Boys on 'Snow In Sun' and 'Mrs Hughes' in new and fascinating contexts.

These new contexts are illuminated further when Gartside announces that one of the effects on a song was in fact inspired by a track called 'Come Clean' by rapper Jeru The Damaja. The band then proceed to launch into a determinedly groovy and spirited cover of said rap gem. It's not the only game attempt at rapping Green tries throughout the evening - there's also an outing for his collaborating with rapper Skillz. Who else could get away with this?

There are only a handful of old songs in a set that is perhaps slightly on the short side. We get a crisp, controlled and enthusiastic rendition of 'The Sweetest Girl' and Gartside goes right back to his earliest material with 'Skank Bloc Bologna', although this rendition inevitably lacks some of the spontaneity and ragged glory of the original recording. He saves 'Wood Beez' for the encore. Although still a great pop song, it's the one moment of nostalgia in an otherwise forward thinking set, and therefore strikes something of an odd note. I found it somewhat depressing that many left bemoaning the lack of other 'Cupid and Psyche '85'-era tracks. A rapturous ovation brings the band back for a second encore, but they have run out of songs and the crowd have to make do with a repeat run through 'E Eleventh Nuts', remarkably delivered with more gusto than its initial outing.

In a sense, it's arguable that this gig took the same form as Morrissey's problematic shows in support of 'Ringleader Of The Tormentors' (and it's worth noting this as I never got round to writing a report on the Moz tour). Both acts chose to play almost all of their respective new releases, with minimal pickings from illustrious back catalogues. Yet while a 'Ringleader'-heavy Moz set sounded generic and one-dimensional, this new line-up of Scritti-Politti had vitality and variety in abundance. The focus on new material paid off handsomely here, whereas at the Moz gigs, it left me feeling that, whilst still a terrific performer, Morrissey's gigs could be much improved by more judicious song selection (or at least some appreciation of the peaks of his solo work).

Let's hope this tour is not just a one-off and that we'll be seeing more of this Scritti line-up in the future - because there is much of merit in this redeployment of a great pop heritage. After one of the peculiar hip hop interludes, Green remarks 'I don't know what I think I'm doing really'. Well, it's good to see that any sense of shame has been consigned to the past. As a wise man once said, ridicule is nothing to be scared of.

Pure Speculation

So, the announcement of the Mercury Music Prize nominations are nearly upon us again (the swanky party is on July 18th). I can't find a public copy of the longlist so this may all be a complete waste of time, but it's always fun to follow this award which so many love to hate.

This year there are some obvious choices, for better or for worse. Kate Bush's Aerial must be a surefire inclusion. It's also hard to imagine Arctic Monkeys being left off - but I'm not sure that the Lily Allen* or Razorlight albums will be released in time. Is Thom Yorke's 'The Eraser', out tomorrow, just in time? I would expect a nomination for the much feted Mystery Jets too.

Surely though, with the financial backing of EMI - we might expect a nomination for some old friends - Hot Chip, with their excellent second album 'The Warning'. If Arctic Monkeys turn out to be too obvious a choice for winner, I reckon this is a good bet (that is, if it even made the long list in the first place).

Some albums I'd like to see included:

Boxcutter - Oneiric
Burial - Burial

The whole dubstep sound has really exploded this year, with plenty of incisive commentaries in support from webzines and blogs, but a near universal neglect from the mainstream media. It can hardly be expected that the Mercury judges could catch up, but what a justification for the prize's continued existence it would be if even one of these albums were to be shortlisted. The Burial album has been sold out in every London record store where I've looked for it!

Nine Horses - Snow Borne Sorrow

A really powerful, mysterious and haunting record from an underrated talent in David Sylvian.

Scritti Pollitti - White Bread, Black Beer

A lovely collection of homespun pop songs, nimbly juxtaposing Green Gartside's penchant for sheened production with frank lyrics and a more skeletal approach to arrangement. I'm very excited about the upcoming Scritti gig at the Scala this Tuesday, particularly as I have absolutely no idea what to expect from a man who has so rarely performed live.

Andrew McCormack - Telescope

It might not be crushingly original - but this is as crisp and expressive a piano trio album as has been recorded in recent years.

Matthew Herbert - Scale

Not perhaps his most radical album, but impressive nonetheless. I would expect that it wasn't submitted for the long list though.

Camera Obscura - Let's Get Out Of This Country

Sublime indie-pop of the highest order!

Broadcast - Tender Buttons

Stark, minimal and impressive.

Elbow - Leaders Of The Free World

Quality epic rock and recognition of this band's continued success.

Psapp - The Only Thing I Ever Wanted

Not sure if they count as British (one half is from California, the other from London) but this, unpalatably termed 'toytronica', is fun and inventive.

We'll see if any of these make the list. Interestingly, if last year's winner was a Brit resident in New York, can the whole thing work the other way round with Scott Walker - an American long resident in Britain? If he has dual citizenship I see no reason why not.

*While I'm at it, I'll have a rant about Ms. Allen, for she is truly awful. When will people stop buying the myth that these artists have 'made it through the internet'? Obviously her success has absolutely nothing to do with her status as 'daughter of Keith'. She may have just released the most irritating single of the year so far with 'Smile', cementing her reputation as the female Mike Skinner with a similarly woeful concoction of whining and forced rhyme schemes. Plus the polished ska-pop of the backing track is spectacularly cheesy and really nothing novel - surely Scritti perfected this kind of hybrid with 'The Word Girl' back in 1985?

Learning How To Die

Johnny Cash - American V: A Hundred Highways

Make no mistake, this is an astounding album. Whilst it's always tempting to be cynical about posthumous releases (and I wish to make it clear from the outset that I have no desire to see Johnny Cash turned into the Tupac Shakur of country music), the overwheming power of these recordings is simply impossible to ignore. Inevitably, these final recordings made by Johnny Cash and Rick Rubin essentially offer more of the stark, neo-gothic acoustic arrangements of the previous albums in the American series. Some have complained that the song selection isn't so radical here - there's nothing as unexpected as the takes on Nine Inch Nails' 'Hurt' or Soundgarden's 'Rusty Cage'. Others have also highlighted the obvious vocal deterioration, although it's worth noting that this rarely effects pitch or phrasing. Cash's physical weakness only adds to the weight of wisdom in the face of vulnerability that characterises this collection and, for my money, this makes American V the finest album in the series so far. Here is a man still coming to terms with the death of his wife, also forced to stare his own square in the face. This being Johnny Cash of course, he doesn't even attempt to evade the issue.

Almost every track here seems weighted with thoughts of the end. On the opening 'Help Me' (written by Larry Gatlin), Cash makes an emotional plea for the strength to walk just one more mile. The arrangement has real gravitas, and the vocals (apparently recorded simply to a guide track before the musicians added their parts) are stately and dignified. On 'God's Gonna Cut You Down', Cash intones the God-fearing mantra (part of which was used by Moby for 'Run On') against a chain gang percussion track of stomps and handclaps, the performance imbued not just with righteous indignation, but also with wisdom gained through experience.

Elsewhere, the tone is more playful. Perhaps the most impressive transformation is the re-fashioning of Springsteen's 'Further On Up The Road'. On 'The Rising' it sounded dense, heavy and apocalyptic, a song paradoxically juxtaposing fear and hope for the post 9/11 world. Here, it is presented as a jaunty shuffle, Cash facing death with his 'lucky graveyard boots and smiling skull ring' as if it was something to be laughed off with a resigned shrug. It's an enticingly playful interpretation and it's difficult to imagine any other singer so completely changing the style and impact of a song. The album may well be best remembered for 'Like The 309', a similarly blackly comic song and Johnny Cash's final recorded composition. It's not a major work as 'The Man Comes Around' was, but it's warmth and humour leave a lingering impression.

Even the songs that could potentially have been mawkish end up devastatingly moving. Rod McKuen's 'Love's Been Good To Me', famously performed by Frank Sinatra, here sounds like a frankly positive interpretation of a life well lived. Don Gibson's 'Legend In My Time' could have come across as hubris in the hands of a lesser artist - but only the most churlish would deny Cash the right to enjoy his status in his final months.

Best of all are two deceptively simple takes on well-worn standards. Hank Williams' 'On The Evening Train', its story telling of a widower watching his wife's body being carried away obviously resonated strongly with Cash following June Carter's death. It makes for an uncomfortably upfront listen. Gordon Lightfoot's 'If You Could Read My Mind' is transformed from relatively lightweight middle of the road country into something weighty and significant, with Cash struggling to control his faltering vocal.

It's hard to escape the sense that American V is the sound of a man literally learning how to die, and using the standard American musical catalogue to heal his remaining wounds - dealing with those long-standing debts to God, and coping with the loneliness and sadness of life's final days. There is a staggering depth of wisdom and experience here. Even though Cash didn't write most of these words - he has left his lasting imprint on every single line. A Hundred Highways and he'd walked every last one of them. If only we could all live so well.

Uh! I'm Back!

...as James Brown might have put it.

Sorry to all readers for the extended hiatus - I've now changed jobs and moved flats, and some semblance of normality is starting to return.

I should really write about the Camera Obscura gig at Cargo last week, but I dare say John Kell will make a better job of it (http://www.kingofquiet.co.uk) and I want to talk about the album anyway. One particular live highlight of the past few weeks was Cambridge's free festival Strawberry Fair which, as always, was a delight, with The Broken Family Band turning in a raucous and typically sardonic headline set. Dependably brilliant though BFB were, there were two other considerable highlights. Flip Ron were a pleasing discovery, with tinges of early Pink Floyd nudging shoulders with Supergrass-esque Britpop. The onstage flowers were perhaps a little twee, but we can probably forgive them that. A solo appearance from Jim Bob, formerly one half of the unfairly maligned Carter The Unstoppable Sex Machine deftly combined game nostalgia with some wryly observed new songs about the politics of school days. It was a remarkably good humoured set that thoroughly deserved its rapturpous reception. Hearing 'Bloodsport For All', 'Sheriff Fatman', 'Glam Rock Cops', 'The Only Living Boy In New Cross' et al in solo arrangements, with the synth brass excess removed (although I can't find my copy of Straw Donkey at the moment, I suspect Carter sound somewhat dated now - they probably even did at the time) was a reminder of their zestful wit and intelligence. The new School album features Chris T-T on piano, and is extremely indie-schmindie, albeit in the best possible way. Glockenspiels and even recorders can't even spoil its insightful charm.

All this talk of tweeness leads me naturally to 'Let's Get Out Of This Country', the brand new album from Glaswegian indie charmers Camera Obscura. Championed by Francis MacDonald of Teenage Fanclub and Shoeshine Records fame, they are often occused of tweeness and nearly every review of this album has begun with some kind of comparison with Belle and Sebastian. In the latter, there may be some truth, as CO's rich, ornately arranged sound, with its hints of Northern Soul stomp, is rather akin to what B&S did best before they descended into Radio 2-lite ghastliness. Still, I rather suspect Camera Obscura are better than these comparisons suggest. These songs provide a much needed blast of summery, wide-eyed romanticism and, beneath the deceptive feyness of TraceyAnne Campbell's vulnerable vocals lies an excellent ear for melody. The title track and first single 'Lloyd, I'm Ready To Be Heartbroken' are thrilling slices of pure pop brilliance which, like the Pipettes, draw intelligently upon early 60s and perhaps even pre-60s influences. In my parallel world 'Lloyd' would have beaten the horrendous Sandi Thom to number one. There's a mournful longing at the heart of 'Tears For Affairs' and the touching 'Country Mile' that provides balance, but the sound throughout is consistently warm and enthralling. A quietly marvellous record.

Green Gartside, a man frequently associated with the pursuit of pure pop perfection, likes to take his own sweet time. 'White Bread Black Beer' is the first Scritti Politti album since 1999's 'Anomie and Bonhomie'. Recorded solo and entirely self-produced at home, it is further evidence that the Scritti name has long ceased to be applicable to any kind of band (although there is little hint as to how it will work live in July, Gartside finally overcoming his long-crippling stagefright). 'The Boom Boom Bap', album opener and sincere paen to the delights of hip hop may be the best song Gartside has yet written, a highly polished yet strangely moving song, tightly structured and basked in a warm fuzzy glow. It certainly does far more to elucidate Gartside's enthusiasm for the genre than any of the rather forced collaborations with rappers that peppered 'Anomie and Bonhomie'. Its closing seconds see a multi-tracked Green going through the tracklist of a Run DMC album before ending with the words 'I love you still, I always well' - a disarmingly direct statement from the frequently ironic Gartside. Elsewhere, the album takes in familiar influences, from McCartney-esque shuffle on 'Dr Abernathy' to Brian Wilson-esque rising melodies on 'Snow In Sun', but these familiar sounds are fractured by Green's all encompassing production sheen. His voice remains a peculiar instrument - sweet and soft but characterised by Americanised vowels. It's an insular, London-sounding album, but with a subtle appeal that registers more on subsequent listens.

Matthew Herbert made three of my favourite albums of the decade so far with 'Bodily Functions', the big band project 'Goodbye Swingtine' and the staunchly uncompromising 'Plat Du Jour'. 'Scale' is the first album to be released under his straightforward Herbert moniker since 'Bodily Functions', and many have noted correctlythat it's his most accessible work for some time. I had expected some highly sophisticated dance pop of a similar nature to Herbert's production work for Roisin Murphy, but mercifully this is not the whole story. At its very best, Scale neatly ties up all the loose strands of Herbert's career so far. Hence, 'Moving Like A Train' incorporates weird clicking and clanging percussion, a huge, jazzy brass and string arrangements and the silkily seductive vocals of Herbert's wife Dani Sicilliano (shortly to release her second solo album). It sounds fantastic, detailed and considered without losing its toe-tapping urgency. Equally brilliant are 'The Movers and The Shakers' and the opening 'Something Isn't Right' which see Herbert conjuring subtle amalgams of his musical concerns - matching thinly veiled references to the Iraq war with solid dancefloor foundations. The album become more elusive in its middle third, and the wispy, impressionistic atmospherics make for a catatonic listening experience at times. These tracks may simply require repeated listens, and I suspect that the album has been sequenced somewhat unhelpfully with the four most upbeat and immediate songs clustered at the beginning. Still, it recovers with the thrillingly weird 'Movie Star', with multi tracked Sicilliano vocal lines demonstrating her relaxed, breathy technique. Supposedly about the distance between people, 'Scale' is arguably Herbert's least coherent album conceptually, subjugating much of the protest and righteous anger to vague pronouncements about relationships. At its best, 'Scale' is further proof of Herbert's questing ambition, which remains unrivalled.

I think I mentioned some time ago that Domino's success with Franz Ferdinand (and subseuqently Arctic Monkeys) had led them into what could almost be deemed a public service direction in recovering and repackaging lost material. We've seen this with excellent reissue packages from The Fire Engines and Orange Juice, as well as the massively belated full UK release for Neutral Milk Hotel's cult classic 'In The Aeroplane Over The Sea'. Most welcome of all these steps so far is the current campaign to reissue the entire back catalogue from sadly overlooked Australians The Triffids. The series begins with what many consider to be the band's masterpiece, 1985's 'Born Sandy Devotional'. Whilst recorded in London, the album is infused an epic, cinematic vision, and some occasionally despairing lyrics which hint neatly at the unconquerable breadth and expansive isolation of their homeland's geography. Songs like 'Estuary Bed' and 'Wide Open Road' are deeply resonant, hauntingly beautiful works which draw emotional responses without pushing any obvious buttons. There's no Richard Ashcroft style grasping for big sentiments, just the terrible flip side to the great dream of escape. Much of the album seems to dissect how huge expanses can trap and restrict as much as they can offer untapped possibilties. It's a dazzling, beautiful vision, only slightly marred by the inevitable big 80s drum sound (again - why did anyone think that big echoey snare drums sounded in any way good?). It's certainly a prime example to use as a repost to anyone who still thinks that the 80s were barren years for music - any decade which produced this and Talk Talk's 'Spirit Of Eden' has something going for it. It's always debatable how much worth to attach to the obligatory clutch of bonus tracks - this package at least avoids the pitfalls of alternate takes and skeletal demos, most of which are only valuable to obsessives and ardent collectors. Domino instead opt to rescue some tracks from the sessions not deemed unworthy of the cut for the original album, including the title track. Many of these sound stark, perhaps even unfinished, and none recapture the visionary spirit of the album proper. Inevitably they rather spoil the conceptual completeness of the original sequence - but they are an intriguing addition to the band's canon. Don't miss the equally brilliant 'Calenture' when it follows later in the year.

I bought 'Gulag Orkestar' by Beirut on a tip from Rough Trade shops and, given that they have pointed me in the direction of Sufjan Stevens and The Arcade Fire in the past, this can usually be expected to be a reliable recommendation. Once again, they seem to be on to a real winner here, as interest in this album has now even spread to the broadsheet press. It's certainly something different - there are no guitars on Zach Condon's creation, instead there are ukelelees, traditional percussion and a whole range of horns. Condon's vocals are extravagantly slurred in something of a cross between Thom Yorke and Rufus Wainwright. The combination of this against the peculiar musical backdrop is intoxicating, although it sadly renders many of the lyrics completely incomprehensible. There's something of the gypsy music made by filmmaker Emir Kusturica here - and the tone is at once bawdy, funereal and celebratory. Perhaps there's also an element of the grandiose gestures of musical theatre here too, although Condon has wisely opted to keep the music focussed rather than adding in everything but the kitchen sink. Harmonically, its mostly very simple, which allows the melodies space to breathe over the ornate arrangements and also enables a striking intimacy to cut through. Condon is just 19 years old (the little git) - this is one of the best albums of the year so far but there's surely better to come.

And there's more to come from me soon....

Stopgap

Just a quick message to say I will be posting here again very soon. Things have just been a bit hectic with recording and gigging commitments, plus trying to sort out arrangements for my new flat and new job. All should be sorted soon and I should have time to comment on all the albums I promised I'd write about in previous posts.

There's always one week in the musical year that turns out to be the big one - it seems that 29th May has been the most significant release date for albums so far in 2006 - I heartily recommend new releases from Elvis Costello and Allen Toussaint, Matthew Herbert, The Handsome Family, Scritti Politti and Burial.

Laying The Ghosts To Rest

Bruce Springsteen and The Seeger Sessions Band, Hammersmith Apollo, 8/5/06

Having already written at length on the 'We Shall Overcome' album, I was simply going to state that this was one of the most enjoyable gigs I've ever seen and leave it at that, but I've since decided further comment is necessary after all.

Back in 1975, Bruce Springsteen's first live show in the UK was heavily promoted with an advertising campaign stating 'finally London is ready for Bruce Sprinsteen'. Although the concert has since been released on both CD and DVD as part of the 30th anniversary reissue of 'Born To Run', it actually seemed that Springsteen wasn't ready for London (he considered the show a poor performance). Tonight, returing to the same venue for the first time since that fateful performance, he is in rejuvenated form.

This Seeger Sessions show worked brilliantly as much because of the audience as Springsteen himself. Mercifully, nobody seemed to have come here expecting a run through of hits, although the five original compositions in the set were rapturously received. This audience completely engaged with the traditional material, indulging in a supremely entertaining mass singalong with 'Pay Me My Money Down' at the end of the main set, and even taking Bruce by surprise when shouting back the 'blown away!' responses during the choruses of 'My Oklahoma Home'. At least partially as a result of this game participation, the show had all the righteous energy of an E Street Band performance.

Seeing Springsteen in a venue of such relative intimacy can only be described as a privelege - he remains the gutsiest performer in the business, and the gritty growl he deploys on many of these songs only adds to this. He's a superlative bandleader too, counting off the songs and directing the soloists. Yet, more remarkable still is the space he gives to the rest of the band. Lead vocals are frequently traded with wife Patti Scialfa (who leads a haunting reading of 'How Can I Keep From Singing?') and his guitarist. Soloists are encouraged to move to the front of the stage where they can bask in the glow of spotlights. There's a spirited, rough 'n' ready feel to much of the set - as Sprinsteen would have it 'the sound of music being made not just being played'.

Highlights include a savage, blistering 'Jesse James', a bluesy reworking of Nebraska's originally stark 'Johnny 99', a medley of 'Cadillac Ranch' with 'Mystery Train' and a brilliantly arranged gospel take on 'Long Black Veil'. The centrepiece of the show, however, is an altered reading of Blind Alfred Reed's 'How Can A Poor Man Stand Such Times and Live?' with new verses that specifically reference Hurricane Katrina and its aftermath. Bruce precedes it with a rant aimed squarely at 'President Bystander'. It's a powerful moment, and one that suggests that traditional protest music, through being recontextualised, can still ring true even in these most cynical times. There's adventure as well as rediscovery going on here.

The huge band taps into gospel, folk, country, blues and New Orleans jazz traditions, drawing them all together into a wildly energetic and captivating mesh. Even the more tentative tracks from the album work well in the theatrical setting. The album recording of 'We Shall Overcome' perhaps sounds a little tentative - but here Bruce truly does manage to turn it into a prayer. Similarly, 'Eyes On The Prize' sounds like the work of a true believer.

The encore includes 'My City Of Ruins', written for his hometown of Asbury Park but then performed for New York City in the aftermath of 9/11, it has now been co-opted by New Orleans as well. In this context, it demonstrates just how neatly Springsteen fits into this songwriting tradition.

They close with a spare, intensely vulnerable reading of 'When The Saints Go Marching In', and Bruce makes this most familiar of melodies entirely his own. It's a moving end to an extraorinary concert - as I said at the start, one of the best I've ever seen.

Big Epic Round-Up Part 1

As I said before, there's just far too much to write about, 2006 proving to be another excellent year. So, without further ado...

It's great to see Hot Chip still going from strength to strength. As promising a debut as 'Coming On Strong' was, it lead to them being unfairly pigeon-holed as lightweight ironists in certain quarters, and it didn't quite manage to elevate them to commercial success. Their excellent second album 'The Warning' should change all that pretty quickly. The single 'Over and Over' has already secured cult status and is a deserved dancefloor smash. With insistent cowbells, a whole plethora of weird and wonderful synthesisers and some deceptively simple lyrics praising the power of repetition, it's as immediate and infectious a song as the band have yet made. The album doesn't attempt to repeat the trick though, instead opting for a variety and depth that 'Coming On Strong' perhaps didn't quite achieve. There is a greater emphasis on Alexis Taylor's lingering and melancholy talent for melody. 'Colours' is simple harmonically, but layers its cascading vocal parts very effectively. New single 'Boy From School' is outstanding, combining a repeating synth line with an exquisitely vulnerable melody and a typically oblique lyric. Best of all is 'Look After Me', which harks back to 'Making Tracks' from the early San Frandisco EP in its sweet appropriation of deep soul. It could easily be a cover of a William Bell or Garnet Mimms classic, so authentic does it sound. Elsewhere, the sonic invention is impressively wild - 'Careful' mixes swirling synth sounds with an assault of off-kilter beats and distorted basslines that could easily have been inspired by grime, whilst 'Tchaparian' and 'Arrest Yourself' are stuttering and delightfully unpredictable. There's still an ironic streak of humour at work (particularly on the title track), but Hot Chip's genuine appreciation for the music they appropriate (with a concurrent disdain for genre conventions) is now coming through in their recordings as much as their deliriously entertaining live shows. Consider yourselves warned.

Proving that having your music commandeered for TV fixtures such as Grey's Anatomy and The OC needn't necessarily spell artistic doom, the second album from Domino signings Psapp makes for a refreshingly playful and engaging listen. For the most part, they sound like a direct cross between Rain Dogs-era Tom Waits and the pure pop sensibilities of St Etienne. What should make for an uncomfortable combination seems to work wonders in their hands, with a whole range of peculiar rhythmic noises (often sounding like sampled pots and pans) providing the unusual background clutter for some infectious pop melodies. With song titles like 'Tricycle' and 'Hill Of Our Home', it's not entirely surprising that it's a slightly whimsical confection, but with the bouncy zest of tracks like 'Hi' and the endearing qualities of the string-laden 'New Rubbers', 'The Only Thing I Ever Wanted' is an original and bold collection.

Over the course of their short career, Grandaddy have proved a disappointingly frustrating outfit. 'Under The Western Freeway' had plenty of scuzzy charm and the whole project crystallised wonderfully with the conceptual 'Sophtware Slump' album. Unfortunately, the undoubted artistic success of that album left them nowhere else to go and third album 'Sumday' sounded more than a little tired and one dimensional. Last year's mini album 'Excerpts From The Diary Of Todd Zilla' saw them taking a step back, with satisfying results, but their final album 'Just Like The Fambly Cat' doesn't provide any clues as to how they might have escaped what turned out to be a rather stultifying chugging indie rock template. It might be an elegiac last will and testament, but I can't quite resist the conclusion that it's actually a bit dull. There are certainly great moments, particularly in the form of infectious single 'Elevate Myself' and 'Jeez Louise' but the pace is kept mainly to the mid-tempo chug or the protracted ballad. Several songs are at least a minute too long, and Jason Lytle, to these ears at least, sounds a little tired and jaded throughout. As Grandaddy's albums have effectively been solo works anyway (Lytle plays all the instruments except drums here, Grandaddy's unusual working methods perhaps providing some clues as to the source of internal frustrations), it's difficult to see how anything Lytle does in the future will escape this cul-de-sac.

I'm finding it particularly difficult to judge the acclaimed 'Everything All The Time' from Band Of Horses, mainly because it sounds pretty much exactly like My Morning Jacket circa 'At Dawn'. There's perhaps a little more jangle here, but Benjamin Bridwell is such a vocal dead ringer for Jim James, and the band do such a good job of capturing that dense country rock sound, that any listener would be hard placed to distinguish between the two bands. There's no denying that this is a supremely accomplished record. The epic 'Funeral' is powerful, 'Our Swords' rhythmically propulsive and the closing 'St Augustine' delicate and spare. It covers its ground with a quiet mastery, it's just that the ground has already been covered in pretty much exactly the same way by MMJ.

More to come...

Sometimes You Have To Look Back To Move Forwards

Even a songwriter as questing as Bob Dylan found that, in an extended period of writers' block, it was helpful to revisit the traditional songs that most inspired him in his early days. The resulting two albums 'Good As I Been To You' and 'World Gone Wrong', whilst derided for vocal deterioration and lack of original material on release, have since been (rightly) revisited as the fond recapturing of a timeless American heritage. Bruce Springsteen has now followed in his hero's footsteps, releasing 'We Shall Overcome: The Seeger Sessions' a mere twelve months after his last solo album, the intermittently powerful 'Devils and Dust'. Springsteen has recently admitted a new awareness of his mortality, and that his life as a recording artist might be drawing to a close. Throwing caution to the wind, he now seems to have entered a new prolific period with little concern for charts or maintaining his popularity. Bloggers in the US reacted angrily - they wanted the rumoured new E Street Band album and tour and they certainly didn't want to hear an artist of The Boss' stature 'descend' to the level of 'Froggie Went A Courtin'. Hopefully, on hearing 'We Shall Overcome', they will all eat their hats. It is, plainly and simply, a brilliant record.

The emphasis on Pete Seeger is at least slightly misleading. Springsteen has avoided Seeger originals - there's no 'Turn Turn Turn', 'If I Had A Hammer' or, perhaps wisely, 'Where Have All The Flowers Gone?'. Instead, Springsteen has opted for a series of traditional American folk songs that Seeger recorded or performed and which Springsteen has clearly rediscovered through a new appreciation of Seeger's work. Invited to record the title track for a Seeger tribute album in 1997, Springsteen conceded that he knew little of Seeger's work, and this project has been slowly developing since that recording session sparked his interest. Perhaps Seeger, unjustly infamous for pulling the plug on Bob Dylan's electric set at Newport (he has since claimed he didn't object to Dylan 'going electric', simply that the ugly sound mix was obscuring his lyrics), may gain a whole new audience at the age of 87.

Springteen has assembled a huge band for this project and the sound is riotous, unhinged and celebratory. With Springsteen audibly calling out the individual solos (best moment comes with a cry of 'everybody solo!'), it is the joyous sound of music not just being recorded, but being made. All the recordings are single live takes. With Soozie Tyrell's woozy violin, gospel-tinged backing vocals and a superb dixieland horn section dominating the mix, the sound is as much New Orleans jazz as banjo-laden Appalachian country. Although Springsteen's natural resistence to provocation has perhaps directed him away from overtly political material here, many of the songs here have contemporary resonances. 'My Oklahoma Home' could easily just as much relate to New Orleans post-Katrina and Springsteen has been dedicating the Irish anti-war ballad 'Mrs McGrath' to Cindy Sheehan at recent gigs (an act likely to be more contentious with many Americans than his role in the Vote For Change tour).

Springsteen's voice is at its most commanding and varied here. He adopts a primal howl on a furious rendition of 'John Henry', a tone of sombre reflection on the title track and 'Shenandoah' and even a Waitsian gravel voice on the superb 'Erie Canal'. Behind him, the band frequently rip it up, but the live setting has allowed for plenty of variation in dynamic and texture, and as a consequence the music is far more unpredictable and exciting than the over-produced layers Brendan O'Brien concocted for 'The Rising'. It's fascinating to hear how Springsteen truly comes alive in this setting, recontextualising these songs and drawing out their magic. Even the most lightweight material (nonsense songs such as 'Old Dan Tucker' or 'Froggie...') work brilliantly because they fit in well with the overall sense of fun. Given that Springsteen is, not entirely unfairly, regarded as one of America's most earnest songwriters, the unbridled gallop of these songs, together with the unrestrained joy with which Springsteen delivers them, will be refreshing to many Sprinsteen agnostics. Best of all is a sterling version of the gospel standard 'O Mary Don't You Weep', which not only provides the obligatory inclusion of a Mary, but also clearly demonstrates Springsteen's heritage in blues, gospel and soul. He sounds completely invigorated here.

It's a bonus that the album comes with an excellent 30 minute short film about the making of the album, including some rollicking live performances. My ticket for next Monday's Hammersmith Apollo show arrived this morning. Whilst understandably focussing on standards (including some songs not recorded for this album), the show apparently includes a small clutch of Springsteen originals rearranged for the folk band. It promises to be a fanastic evening. Sprinsteen's great achievement with this project is to prove just how timeless the American folk tradition is - this music still sounds completely and utterly alive, and Springsteen has made it his own.

Christmas Is A State Of Mind

I'm so far behind with this blog that it's getting ridiculous. There's something in the region of 20-25 albums to write about now! Before I get on to them, though, it's worth a quick discussion of some excellent gigs.

Last weekend saw The Flaming Lips bring their show back to the UK, this time to play at the Royal Albert Hall, by some distance the biggest indoor venue they've performed in here. Before the show, I had wondered whether or not they would simply repeat the same old show - projections, fake blood, glove puppets and all of that. Actually, I'd neglected just how long it has been since they last toured here (perhaps the relative youth of the crowd was testament to this - they have grown in popularity markedly since the release of 'Yoshimi...'). The 'wow' factor of the Flaming Lips show has been massively amplified, now incorporating hundreds of giant balloons, streamers, ticker tape, a collection of famous superheroes and, most amusingly, an army of Santa Clauses doing battle with an army of aliens. The latter supposedly represented a conflict between the Christian religion and the Church of Scientology, with 'the Flaming Lips and all of you stuck in the middle'. It doesn't need a genius to infer from all this that the show was tremendous fun.

The Flaming Lips remain unique in being just about the only band with a major label budget to appear on stage during pre-gig soundchecks. So, whilst Steven Drozd, Michael Ivins and a new hoard of roadies and techies set up the intricate details on stage, Wayne Coyne cheered, punched the air, and deployed his wonderful contraptions that ejaculated streamers high into the air. I can't think of another band that manages to exploit the usually tedious wait between support act and main performance with such gusto.

There's always a debate about whether entertainment requires a band to be distant from their audience. Coyne proves magnificently that it's possible to be a showman and be at one with your audience. His first act is to appear on stage inside an inflatable plastic bubble and then to crawl over the audience inside it - a brilliant opening gambit that immediately wins over the crowd before a note has even been played. Once Coyne is safely back on stage, they launch into a warm and energetic 'Race For The Prize' - still a great song despite its familiarity.

There is plenty of idealist chatter throughout about how enthusiasm can save the world and the show places us in the middle of a giant cosmic war, at keeping with the concept behind both 'Yoshimi..' and new album 'At War With The Mystics'. Coyne's inability to resist sentiment reached a zenith when a Flaming Lips fan, who had been due to propose to his girlfriend at a cancelled Lips New Year's Eve show in California, was invited on stage to 'repropose' on stage at the Albert Hall. Mercifully, to save us all embarrassment, she had not changed her mind.

The only problem with all this organised fun was that the band left themselves little time to actually play their songs. In the space of a 90 minute set, they only managed to squeeze in thirteen songs, with only four selections from the new album, and one an amusing but throwaway jam involving a toy keyboard that produced farmyard animal noises. This left some of their best songs unplayed (no 'Fight Test', 'One More Robot', 'Waiting For A Superman', 'What Is The Light', 'When You Smile' or 'Lightning Strikes The Postman'), whilst some of the more ambitious new recordings have yet to be translated to live performance. I'd also like to see them return to some songs from 'Zaireeka' too. What with it being a 4-CD extravaganza and all that, it's not too easy to get to hear those songs, many of them outstanding.

That being said, the songs that were played were consistently excellent. The new songs fared particularly well, with 'The W.A.N.D.' being delivered through an electronic megaphone and new single 'The Yeah Yeah Yeah Song' already provoking a mass singalong. During the more ponderous 'Vein Of Stars', a mirrorball was lowered and the venue was drenched in stars and glittery reflections. They treat us to a consummately controlled rendition of the epic 'Spark That Bled' from 1999's 'The Soft Bulletin' and an obligatory 'She Don't Use Jelly', although the band seem to have lost none of their wide-eyed enthusiasm for this wonderfully quirky pop song. The cheesy piano singalongs which conclude 'Yoshimi...' and '...Jelly' are an absolute delight. The band have one more trick up their sleeves with the encore - a savage blast through Black Sabbath's 'War Pigs' that neatly encapsulates their obvious frustration with George W Bush's America. It sounded triumphant.

As I was getting my bag from the cloakroom at the end of the gig, I overheard a conversation containing some rather lukewarm reactions to the gig. I can perfectly understand the frustration at so few songs being played - but the idea that Wayne Coyne might be 'arrogant' struck me as somewhat strange. Here is a frontman who knows the value of putting on a good show, and making the audience an intrinsic part of that performance. It's the same trick that Bruce Springsteen has consistently pulled off over many years, simply utilising more gimmicky methods. To me, Coyne comes across as warm, humane, genial, perhaps even modest - he's acutely aware of his limitations, but still keen to achieve everything he can. We certainly need more bands like this to crossover to mainstream success.

The following day, I attended Calexico and Iron and Wine's only London show at the Forum in Kentish Town. What a wonderful evening this was - strongly reminiscent of one of those revue shows of the 1960s, where a number of artists would be involved, occasionally performing together, with the bare minimum of interruption. The stage was arranged thoughtfully, with a vast range of instruments including keyboards, marimba and other percussion, lap steel guitar and bandoneon. The backdrop was a range of projections, including the distinctive artwork that has come with both Calexico and Iron and Wine's recent releases, set against a white mesh. This made for a strangely intoxicating effect and I have to confess there were a few occasions when I was drawn more to the images at the expense of the music.

Iron and Wine kicked off proceedings with a deceptively calm performance full of subtlety and grace. I wondered if Sam Beam's quasi-whispered vocal tones would translate well to this kind of venue, but it worked pretty well, despite the painfully audible hustle and bustle at the two bars. He remains one of American music's most distinctive lyricists, frequently creating his own syntax to encapsulate his peculiar rustic world. For me, with a little more exposure, he could be part of a grand American literary tradition incorporating Walt Whitman, William Faulkner, Cormac McCarthy, Woody Guthrie and Bob Dylan. Sadly, too few people are aware of his extraordinary gifts. Like Dylan, his songs tend to extemporise lyrical ideas through melodic repetition, and a couple of the songs perhaps drifted on a little too long. He kept things interesting through through subtle shifts in dynamics and phrasing - nuances that very few modern singer-songwriters manage to capture. Best of all were the opening 'Sodom, South Georgia' and an unnamed new song, which once past a rare moment of forgetfulness, sounded rich and full.

He then brought out a backing band, including some members of Calexico, to tackle the bluesier side of his output, including some songs from last year's 'Woman King' EP. There was a good feel for the music displayed here, although it was perhaps a little relentless, lacking the careful sensitivity of the more stripped down arrangements. It also seemed a little under-rehearsed, with a couple of gaffes, notably when the guitarist using an E-bow appeared to start one of the songs in completely the wrong key. Oops.

The first half of the show concluded with Iron and Wine and Calexico joining forces for a short set of three tracks from last year's outstanding mini album 'In The Reins'. There was a splendidly groovy 'Red Dust', a lengthy and mysterious 'Burn That Broken Bed' and a rendition of 'Prison on Route 41' every bit as powerful and compelling as the recorded version. The band sounded loose but engaged and the dusty desert sound was captured brilliantly. It certainly left me wanting a lot more.

After a short break, we were treated to a short set from Mexican singer/guitarist Salvador Doran, something both unexpecetd and immensely fulfilling. Doran has a massive, quasi-operatic voice, but uses it to perform something akin to flamenco music, with rapidly strummed guitar patterns and strange vocal popping and clicking noises. It was remarkably spirited and enervating.

Then Calexico performed a mostly captivating headlining set, drawing mainly on new album 'Garden Ruin' (which I still have to review at some point) and 'Feast Of Wire'. John Convertino's delicate and considered drumming provides not just rhythm, but texture and colour as well and whilst much has been made of the straight-ahead rock elements of the new album, the songs that stood out for me were the elegant and sensitive 'Cruel', Yours and Mine' and 'Panic Open String'. Of the older material , 'Not Even Stevie Nicks' remains one of their best songs, and it sounded particularly cinematic in live performance. A faithful rendition of Love's 'Alone Again Or' and a positively rollicking 'Crystal Frontier' bring things to an appropriately rousing conclusion.

The band make full use of their varied instrumentation, with multi-instrumentalists swapping between brass, guitar and percussion. Paul Niehaus' lap steel guitar was played to perfection throughout. Niehaus is a real talent, perhaps his only limitation being a slight (but sufficiently scary) resemblance to Edward from Royston Vasey's Local Shop. John Kell felt that some of the tunes had got buried somewhere in the middle of the set. In that Joey Burns seemed perhaps overly keen to reshape and contort the melodies in some songs, he may have a point, although my attention was held mostly by the commanding performance of a uniquely inventive band that effortlessly crosses genre divisions.

Pleasingly, Iron and Wine returned for the encore, joined once again by Salvador Doran for 'He Lays In the Reins' before delivering a sublime and haunting version of 'All Tomorrow's Parties'. All very well, and by this stage it was getting pretty late for a Sunday evening - but the only two songs left unplayed from 'In The Reins' were 'A History Of Lovers' and 'Dead Man's Will', my two clear favourites. Oh well - with such a rich display of musicianship and poetic craft on display, minor quibbles are hardly important.

Old Masters Return

Donald Fagen albums, it must be admitted, are not like buses. You wait 12 years and then you only get one, usually with a meagre 8 new songs. Still, he's certainly been busy in the years since 1993's 'Kamakiriad', reviving the Steely Dan moniker, completing several lengthy tours and recording two new highly acclaimed (and highly polished) Steely Dan albums. 'Morph The Cat' now completes a loose conceptual trilogy begun with 'The Nightfly'. It sees Fagen musing with wry glee on post 9/11 (in)security and fear and his own encroaching mortality. The juxtaposition of the personal and political is neatly engineered, and Fagen's sardonic and pointed wit remains uniquely barbarous.

Over the course of these 8 songs, Fagen addresses current preoccupations and concerns. He creates a marvellous surrealist metaphor in the title track, the cat being a peculiar feline apparition floating over New York city. It appears to provide only misleading comfort - a false sense of security. It's difficult to imagine a less responsible approach to airport security than the hilarious 'Security Joan', where Fagen relishes the prospect of being a suspected terrorist interrogated by a female security guard. On 'Brite Nitegown', Fagen describes meeting the Grim Reaper in a dream with tacit acceptance of his ultimate fate. Best of all is his sincere tribute to the late Ray Charles on 'What I Do', a song that goes some distance towards explaining Fagen's own musical heritage.

'Morph..' is unlikely to reach the unconverted, however. For those immune to the lithe, metronomically regulated funk grooves of late-period Steely Dan, this is likely to simply be more of the same. I would concede that this music could be more consistently engaging were Fagen to allow his undoubtedly excellent musicians more breathing space. Much like on Steely Dan's 'Two Against Nature' and 'Everything Must Go', there is hardly even a drum fill to break the perfectionist pulse of each track. Can this really be the same Fagen who approved the extraordinary Steve Gadd drum solo on 'Aja'? Sometimes the approach is compelling, such as on the crisp groove of 'Brite Nitegown', which casts an appropriately hypnotic spell. Other tracks ('The Great Pagoda Of Funn', 'The Night Belongs To Mona', 'Mary Shut The Garden Door'), despite some typically incisive lyrical ruminations, seem a little overlong and elusive.

Still, at its best, 'Morph The Cat' demonstrates the steely interplay between highly literate, irony-laden songs and expressive, jazz-inflected musical extrapolation that has always characterised Fagen's best work. Whilst it occasionally steps beyond the urbane territory Fagen has defined so well into refined smoothness, there's plenty of detached charm and smoky elegance to these songs. Whilst one suspects that Fagen is not in any way a spiritual man, it's hard to think of a more pithy encapsulation of the gospel-blues heritage that he playfully plunders than this epithet on Ray Charles from 'What I Do': "Well you bring some Church/but you leave no doubt/As to what kind of love you like to shout about". It's good to see Fagen maintaining his spirits in a world gone mad.

Another legend who knows much about walking the tightrope between the sacred and profane is Prince. His latest effort, '3121', comes after yet another label switch, and has been hailed as a major return to form (didn't that come with 2004's patchy-but-promising 'Musicology'). Talk of 'form' here is rather pointless - Prince can churn out disarmingly good tunes in his sleep, it's simply that he's elected to indulge his every whim in recent years, from extended improvisations on the much maligned 'NEWS' to simply recording and releasing his every breath (the 3CD 'Emancipation').

I enjoyed a rather amusing discussion with two American strangers at Oxford Circus underground station regarding the origins of this album's somewhat enigmatic title. They had the somewhat unsubtle theory that the numbers 3, 1, 2 and 1 relate to Prince's obsession with sex - a threesome, some solo action, a conventional coupling, before finally concluding that it's actually better on your own (surely a somewhat tragic and unexpected resolution to years of sexual adventure?!). Actually, it's much less interesting - it apparently relates simply to US release dates.

I'm not convinced that this is the evidence of Prince's musical resurrection. Admittedly, 'Black Sweat' is his best single for aeons, taking in some of the sounds and innovations of modern R&B (particularly the Atlanta crunk sound) and processing it all through his own distinctive vision. It is playful, uncompromising and unashamedly sexy. There are some other impressive moments here - from the moralising party vibe of 'Lolita' to the poptastically infectious 'Love', but nothing comes close to matching the questing spirit of 'Black Sweat'.

With new female protege Tamar in tow (not another Mayte, surely?), Prince indulges his penchant for very cheesy ballads (the Latin tinged 'Te Amo Corazon' and the nauseatingly titled 'Beautiful, Loved and Blessed'). There's no denying that Prince has mastered the love ballad and 'Arms Of Orion' and 'Purple Rain' stand as two exquisite examples of his peculiar genius. The ballads here may just be a step too far into saccharine territory though. They are certainly disconcertingly glossy.

The title track should provide an enticing overture for the whole project, with its lavish description of an absurd Paisley Park house party, but it actually comes across as more of the lumbering funk most clearly associated with 'Exodus'-period NPG (remember that masked White Room performance, anyone?). By the end of the album, he's also drifted towards shakier lyrical ground, forsaking the hedonistic impulses of the album's first half in favour of some rather sanctimonious philosophising. At the height of his artistic success, Prince could chart both the conflict and the overlap between the sexual and spiritual drives with consummate ease. The impression here is more that the album's massively more entertaining moments are compromises to ensure some degree of commercial success.

It seems grossly unfair to describe a Prince album as generic, given that he has arguably done more than any other modern artist to break down genre conventions. It's just that all this is ground that he has mapped out many times before. Where once it was remarkably fertile, it now appears to be in danger of running dry. The highpoints here would make for an effective mini-album that would stand as a timely reminder of Prince's talents. As a whole album though, it feels slightly queasy and uncomfortable. I can't help but feel that the now unfairly discarded 'Musicology' made for a more consistent, less ponderous and more entertaining listen.

Pick of the bunch is the secular return of soul legend Candi Staton. Still scandalously most famous here for the disco hit 'Young Hearts Run Free' and for providing the vocal sample on The Source's endlessly rehashed dance anthem 'You Got The Love', last year's compilation of her southern soul gems on the Honest Jon's label (part owned by Damon Albarn) provided a welcome opportunity to reassess her impact and achievement. The success of that release has tempted her away from the Gospel train (following in the recent footsteps of Bettye Lavette and Solomon Burke) back into the mainstream fold with 'His Hands'.

The obvious choice of producer for this project would have been the in-demand Joe Henry, whose faithful invocation of the classic soul sound would have worked well here. Instead, Staton has joined forces with Lambchop producer Mark Nevers who, whilst pulling off a similar trick, has added some of his own subtle studio trickery, most noticeably on the eerily atmospheric title track. This is one of those records that operates in its own territory, refreshingly free from the influence of any prevailing trends. The playing is stately, but also appropriately sensual. Staton's voice is arguably a little wearier now, occasionally cracking slightly - but her choice of material has made the additional vulnerability a welcome ingredient.

As well as being an accomplished writer herself, Staton is a genuinely skilled interpretative singer and she tackles material from Solomon Burke and Merle Haggard amongst others with sizzling relish. This album would be worth the entry fee alone for the astonishing title track, penned specifically for her by Will Oldham, providing yet more evidence of his status as one of the greatest living American songwriters. The hands of the title are used to invoke erotic love, domestic abuse (which Staton herself endured for many years) and the compelling spiritual love of God. Staton's performance on this track is tightly controlled, but fearsomely convincing and she adds great power to Oldham's words with her spine-tingling phrasing. It's unlikely that there will be a more overwhelming vocal performance captured this year.

It sets a high watermark that the rest of the album inevitably can't quite match, but 'His Hands' is nevertheless a consistently engrossing and rewarding listen, overflowing with gritty emotion and rousing passion.

Eureka!

Finally, See Tickets come through for me - 1 Stalls Standing ticket for Bruce Springsteen and the Seeger Sessions Band at the Apollo in Hammersmith on the 8th May!
It will be interesting to hear Springsteen tackle some roots, folk and gospel material in a relatively intimate venue. Why couldn't it have been this easy for the Devils and Dust tour, which I didn't manage to get to!

Urrgh

What in the name of Morrissey have they done to Uncut magazine? I know that relaunches and redesigns are considered essential to maintain interest (and sales) in the ever-shifting media landscape (or something like that) but what is this? A horribly cheesy 'Passion of Morrissey' cover with Steven Patrick himself radiating a heavenly glow; a logo clearly striving to look classy but actually looking cheap and nasty; a facsimile of the free CD behind the actual mounted CD which takes up a third of the available cover space; redesigned sections with more pictures and less text; lumbering new releases and reissues together in an 'expanded' review section (which also rips off the horrible 'top 10' idea from the Observer Music Monthly) and to top it off a supposedly improved film section which contains not even half the number of reviews as usual. It doesn't exactly leap from the shelves anymore!

A Quick Update

...So many albums to write about, so little time. So at some point in the next few weeks expect some thoughts on new albums by Grandaddy, Calexico, Semifinalists, Toumani Diabate's Symemtric Orchestra, Band Of Horses, Arthur Russell, Neko Case, Ariel Pink, Mogwai, Prince, Jenny Lewis and The Watson Twins, Secret Machines, Clogs, Donald Fagen, Centro-matic, Candi Staton and Team lg.

It's been a good year so far - although it's yet to throw up a masterpiece. Some are citing the latest album from Destroyer - when the heck is it going to get a UK release?

Touring The Angel

Depeche Mode, Wembley Arena, 3/4/06

It seems like Depeche Mode are one of those juggernaut bands who are always touring (the Rolling Stones of 80s bands) but in reality Mode tours roll around relatively infrequently. This latest mammonth world jaunt in support of last year's well received 'Playing The Angel' album brought them back to the UK for the first time in five years.

As ever, last night's show at Wembley Arena (still an unpleasantly gargantuan venue, but the rebuild has at least made some attempt to improve the stolid atmosphere) was a spectacle. The stage set featured giant silver pods, behind which the keyboards, synths and computers were cleverly concealed, presumably to hide the fact that Andy Fletcher still appears to do absolutely nothing for the majority of their performances. Hanging from the stage was a strange silver spacecraft message displaying key lyrics and predictable Mode words (pain, suffering, love, angel, sex, death). One has to get passed the occasional clunkiness of Martin Gore's lyrical preoccupations to enjoy a Mode show - and no doubt this element of the stage design pleased the residual goth element of the fanbase. The visuals were sparer than last time round, mainly focussing on cleverly treated images of the band's performance, with occasional interjections (peculiar images of naked women and shots from the band's justly revered video output).

Dave Gahan remains the band's strident visual focus, completely uninhibited in his camp, slightly sleazy onstage antics. He's clearly been practising his Freddie Mercury moves too - prancing about the stage with mic stand swinging. The stage set includes a catwalk into the crowd (have they been watching AC/DC shows?) which Gahan struts down with rampant showmanship, and no sense of irony whatsoever. He knows how to entertain the crowd, letting them do most of the work on the choruses of the best known hits ('Enjoy The Silence' and 'Personal Jesus' particularly). When he does bother singing, he demonstrates his growing vocal stature too - his voice sounding stronger and his range more commanding with each new Mode project. Significantly, he has finally been allowed to make a songwriting contribution by the notoriously controlling Gore - and his two efforts performed tonight ('I Want It All' and 'Suffer Well') are standouts among the newer material, bolstered by some relentlessly pounding live drums. Gahan is such a potent presence on stage that the set inevitably sags a little when Gore takes over lead vocal duties - although the piano and vocal encore of 'Shake The Disease' provided some welcome respite from the electro-industrial sturm und drang. Gore's selections mostly play to his strengths - and 'Home' is reworked with an inventive synth string-laden arrangement. New track 'Macro' is no less of a howler in a live setting though - its lyrics lurching uncomfortably towards self parody.

Predictably the set list concentrated on the new material (mercifully the far superior first half of the album) and the 1989 classic 'Violator', from which all four singles are played with a gusto that suggests the band have not lost interest in them yet. The crowd already seem to have embraced the new songs, with 'John The Revelator' and 'Suffer Well' particualarly well received. This tour has surprised with its shift away from the darker recent material in favour of some well-worn eighties classics. 'Ultra' and 'Songs Of Faith And Devotion' are given only cursory glances with jsut one and two songs selected respectively (still no 'Barrel Of A Gun'! No 'It's No Good'?!?!) but instead we get a deliriously enjoyable encore including 'Just Can't Get Enough' and one of the defining songs of the 80s 'Everything Counts'. Earlier, we were treated to a tremendously attacking version of 'A Question Of Time' and a potent 'Behind The Wheel'.

At these shows, it's hard to believe that the Mode are a band constantly at dispute between records, so strong is the camaraderie on stage, not least the playful campness of the relationship between Gore and Gahan (taken to an hilariously cheesy extreme on the closing ballad 'Goodnight Lovers'). The tagline for this tour has been 'Pain and Suffering in Various Countries'. Gore and Gahan can try and be as dark and foreboding as they like - but they can't hide the fact that this show was all about good, clean fun.

Collaborate Or Die?

2006 already appears to be the year of the collaboration - only a few months in and we've already seen plenty of co-operative efforts in a variety of genres. Occasionally you get collaborative projects which bring out the very best in both acts involved (last year's Iron and Wine and Calexico pairing rejuventated the work of both acts), whereas sometimes they simply feel like enforced artistic compromises. Certainly, one of the most tedious interview questions that Saturday morning TV presenters always use to keep vacuous pop stars talking is 'so who would you like to collaborate with?'. When a tediously predictable answer is given, the presenter often tries to generate excitement with a 'oooh - you heard it here first, perhaps we can get them together' or another similar remark. How dull.



Yet sometimes collaborations have real merits, and the pairings between celebrated independent artists rarely seem to gain a comparable level of attention from indie communities and the media. How else to explain the absurd absence of the Calexico/Iron and Wine project from all the major UK end of year lists? How else to explain the perversely indifferent reviews greeting 'The Brave and The Bold', a meeting of the glorious musical minds of Tortoise and Bonnie 'Prince' Billy? It's a comfortingly natural combination - although the dense analogue synths and jazz leanings of Tortoise do provide a refreshingly unfamiliar context for Will Oldham's well-worn and perpetually cracking vocals. 'The Brave and The Bold' is a pretty audacious title for an album, particularly when it's that most unfashionable and unpopular beast - a covers album. Yet this is no straightforward record - there are some peculiar song selections, ranging from the devoutly uncool (Elton John's 'Daniel', not necessarily a surprise when Oldham has previously covered R Kelly) to the predictably arty (Devo's 'That's Pep!'). It's undoubted highlight is an absolutely superb reworking of Bruce Springsteen's 'Thunder Road'. Most commentators have bemoaned the fact that the heady rush, Spector-esque excess and sheer bravado of Springsteen's original have been jettisoned here in favour of something more elusive. Well, good. There's no point in covering a song note for note - and Oldham here finds an inherent melancholic desolation beneath all the posturing. He bends the melody and produces a desparation and sadness that the Springsteen of Nebraska, Tom Joad and Devils and Dust would no doubt approve of. Behind him, Tortoise slow the song down to a Crazy Horse thud and pad out the sound with a range of analogue synth flourishes. Clarence Clemons' familiar cascading saxophone melody is retained at the song's climax, but is reworked as a minor key lament. If all cover versions could be this clever, then the art of song interpretation would still be alive and well.

Elsewhere, The Minutemen's 'It's Expected I'm Gone' is transformed from spiky attack to restrained avant-drone, the take on 'That's Pep!' best demonstrates Tortoise's rhythmic sophistication and Oldham's delivery of Richard Thompson's 'Cavalry Cross' is deeply felt and sympathetic, his occasional ironic smokescreen thoroughly cleared. This album works so well because it makes an eclectic song selection sound bizarrely logical and because, unlike Oldham's covers of his own material on the 'Greatest Palace Music' collection, there's no wilful perversity here, just sheer intelligence and genuine enthusiasm for the material.




The Scottish Arts Council have generously funded a joint project from former Belle and Sebastian member Isobel Campbell and former Screaming Trees frontman Mark Lanegan. 'Ballad Of The Broken Seas' plays true to its title, with a meticulously crafted atmosphere and tension, recreating the sound of sea shanties and murder ballads so that it sounds traditional in the most evocative of ways. The arrangements are frequently superb, with the tremulous strings of 'The False Husband' and the propulsive percussion of 'Saturday's Gone' being particular highlights.

Still, there's no denying that something is missing here. The obvious comparisons with the work of Lee Hazlewood and Nancy Sinatra have already been made - but they do Lee and Nancy something of a disservice. Whilst Campbell's delicate, slightly sinister vocals (she rarely rises above a whisper here) ought to work well with Lanegan's threatening drawl, there is rarely any kind of chemistry between the two. This may well be a product of Lanegan recording vocals in LA, with Campbell mostly recording her parts in Scotland. This kind of process occasionally yields inspired results, the best example probably being the Postal Service project, where Death Cab For Cutie's Ben Gibbard and Jimmy Tamborello from Dntel worked separately to produce a collaborative work with greater impact than anything recorded by their respective bands. It hasn't yielded such impressive results here though. Some of the songs seem tentative, or perhaps even strangely unfinished. 'It's Hard To Kill A Bad Thing' for example is elegant and beautiful, and its wistful theme could have been developed into an excellent song. As an instrumental interlude however, it feels like mere filler. The waltzes ('Dusty Wreath' and '(Do You Wanna) Come Walk With Me?') don't quite achieve the tension to which they clearly aspire, the former being somewhat soporiphic and the latter suffering badly from mismatched vocal parts.

Whilst this album reveals more with every listen, and it's satisfying to here Lanegan move away from his drug preoccupied lyrics, this lacks the stylistic diversity of his best solo work. The uniformity of pace and mood becomes a little stifling over the space of an entire album and, on the whole, the songs are not memorable enough to render it anything more than a pleasant curio. Clearly, there are pitfalls as well as virtues in transferring these projects from theory to reality.





Apparently, Mark Knopfler and Emmylou Harris have been working on the duets that comprise 'All The Roadrunning' in their spare time over the last seven years. If it really has been that long, it's an interesting possibility that it may have been Knopfler who encouraged Harris to pursue her songwriting muse so late in her career with the sublime 'Red Dirt Girl' and 'Stumble Into Grace' albums. There feels to me like there's still another great album left in Harris to round out a masterful trilogy and perhaps the most frustrating thing about 'All The Roadrunning' is that it delays that project probably by at least another couple of years. Still, this is still a meeting between two heavyweight singer-songwriters and, pleasingly, it has a good deal of merit, despite a tendency to drift into bland, over-polished productions.

The voices of Knopfler and Harris would not seem like the most comfortable of matches on paper. Knopfler has always had a laid back, half spoken delivery, whilst Harris' voice is one of the most distinctive and idiosyncratic in the country idiom (you can hear her influence now in the work of Iris DeMent). Yet, in recent years Harris has tempered her tendency to flick unpreditably between different vocal registers, and she sounds remarkably at ease here. Knopfler has also altered his style slightly but perceptibly - he sounds smoother and more considered here, and inhabits the country idiom with sympathetic understanding and genuine enthusiasm for the music. Initial reviews have complained that Harris is too frequently 'relegated' to providing harmony vocals, but this neglects the fact that she is the greatest living female harmony singer in this genre. To me, she seems to sing a fair amount of lead here anyway.

The songs here deal with long term romance, family life, domestic contentment and disappointment. A certain twee sentimentality pervades (of the kind that Iris DeMent captured more convincingly and with more variety on 'My Life') but doesn't smother the carefully contrived feel of the songs. None are quite as remarkable as any of the songs Harris penned for her last two albums (10 of the 12 are Knopfler compositions), but they are rarely anything less than pleasant. For the most part, Knopfler resists the urge to add lengthy virtuosic guitar solos into the mix, instead opting for intervening phrasing that neatly complements the vocal lines. There is an applealing range of pace - the title track has an endearing lilt, whilst 'This Is Us' is bristling rockabilly. Best of all is 'Rollin' On', with its slight hint of reggae rhythms, and the clear influence of Harris' 'Stumble Into Grace' album arriving at just the right time. On 'Red Staggerwing', Knopfler and Harris trade lines with genuine chemistry. Some may find all this a little too mawkish for comfort - but familiarity with the idiom suggests that the sincerity is not misplaced.

Some moments are nice enough - but the arrangements fail to take them anywhere particularly exciting. 'I Dug Up A Diamond' has a sweet melody, but Knopfler's delivery is so dry as to sound faintly disinterested. Throughout, the album suffers from errors of judgement in the production. The drum sound has been processed in that thoroughly distasteful eighties way, so that every snare beat sounds slightly artificial and is engineered to precisely the same volume. What drummer actually plays like this and what drum kit ever sound this way? Muso drummer objections aside, this is a satisfying and enjoyable album that doesn't quite achieve the kind of alchemy of which a combination of this kind of talent should be capable. It sounds genuine and carefully contrived - even if in its attempt to run 'all the road' it too often settles for staying in the middle.




Slipping quietly out with almost no fanfare is 'Born Again In The USA', the wittily titled second album from US indie supergroup Loose Fur, comprised of Jeff Tweedy and Glen Kotche from Wilco and the ubiquitous Jim O' Rourke. The first Loose Fur album remains one of the most criminally under-appreciated album of the decade so far - an ingeniously funny and explorative take on the traditional rock idiom. 'Born Again...' doesn't quite repeat the same trick, although it has plenty of zest and intelligence. O' Rourke's characteristically perverse humour provides what, for many, will be a most welcome counterpoint to Tweedy's tendency for 'woe-is-me' seriousness (in fact, even Tweedy lightens up a bit here) and Kotche's drumming contributions are ceaselessly unorthodox and inventive. The title hints at evangelism, and some of the songs here strike at the manipulating tendencies of fudamentalist religious perspectives with wry and pithy skill. Best of these is the supremely mordant 'The Ruling Class', which imagines a reborn Jesus in modern day America.

Musically, it's less oblique than Wilco's 'A Ghost Is Born' and arguably less considered too. It probably owes less to the recent Wilco albums than to O' Rourke's solo material, particularly the mix of wistful acoustic balladry and crunching riffage found on 'Insignificance'. There's plenty of that 70s harmonised lead guitar sound that adds a muso quality to the mix and which also renders the album marvellously unfashionable. The playing is undulating and unpredictable and the whole album has a sense of unbridled fun - any sense of pressure completely alleviated.




A rather different collaboration appears in the form of 'My Flame Burns Blue', a recording of a live concert performed by Elvis Costello with the Metropole Orkest. This excellent live album serves as a useful summary of Costello's work outside the guitar-dominated sound for which he is most well known, particularly his occasional dabbling in formal composition. More importantly, it also provides an essential rebuke to those critics who dismiss him for exploring different genres and approaches. This performance comes across neither as stuffy nor pretentious - at its best, it has a spontaneity not usually associated with arranged band music and benefits from some considered and effective reworkings of familiar material.

The material for this set has been thoughtfully selected, ranging as it does from rarely performed selections from the Attractions/Imposters repertoire to commissioned compositions for orchestras and music festivals. It opens with the relentless, roaring 'Hora Decubitas', Costello's own attempt to provide lyric and melody for a work by Charles Mingus. It also sees Costello attempting to get to grips with the horror and confusion of 9/11, which he does with considerably more subtlely than many others have managed. The title track also refashions the work of a legendary jazz composer - Billy Strayhorn - with appropriately powerful results.

The concert also captured a near-perfect balance between humour and emotional clarity. The latter is most clearly on display during a carefully controlled and powerful rendition of 'Favourite Hour', a song from the underrated 'Brutal Truth' album describing the build up to an execution. Similarly 'Speak Darkly, My Angel' and 'Almost Ideal Eyes' are characterised by depth and conviction. Elsewhere, both singer and band sound like they are having tremendous fun. The Metropole Orkest may be the only jazz big band with a string section, but this doesn't mean they lend themselves to the lachrymose. They have an Ellingtonian swing of the the highest order. All this comes to the fore on the intricate, highly entertaining arrangement of 'Clubland', which ignores convention in buckling unpredictably between sections covering entirely different rhythmic approaches. Also, the goofy take on 'Watching The Detectives' (delivered in the style of a seventies cop show theme) brings new light to one of Costello's most well known songs.

It's arguable that the arrangements sometimes become busy and over-complicated. In this light, it's striking that one of the most successful performances is 'Episode Of Blonde', where the Orkest cherry pick elements of the original arrangement that were played on guitar and reproduce them as piercingly accurate staccato brass interventions. The experiment mostly works comfortably, however, and Costello is in fine voice throughout. He sounds entirely comfortable fronting this substantial band and rarely ever sounds strained or hesitant. He really inhabits this alternative approach to his material. Costello recently said of Bettye Lavette that she was someone not content to stay within her comfort zone but was always pushing herself into new territory. That he has applied the same criteria to himself should be cause for celebration rather than cynical sniping. It's hard to believe that there will be a more comprehensively enjoyable live album this year.




Gnarls Barkley is neither a person, nor a character in a children's TV series. It is in fact a collaboration between producer du jour Dangermouse and singer/rapper Cee-Lo Green. Both have produced remarkable material on their own - Dangermouse with his infamous mash-up of The Beatles and Jay-Z, Green with his outstanding 2004 album 'Cee Lo Green Is The Soul Machine'. Their 'St Elsewhere' album is a stunning meeting of minds - and one of the most audacious and fascinating albums to break through into the pop mainstream in a long time.

Whereas most hip hop and R&B albums clock in at 70+ minutes and tend to suffer from indulgent interruptions in the form of skits and pointless instrumental jams, 'St. Elsewhere' is crisp and admirably brief. Predictably, production trickery abounds, from the playful manipulation of pitch and speed on the beserk 'Transformer', to the sleek hip hop atmospherics of 'Feng Shui'.

'St. Elsewhere' covers a bizarre and unusual range of genres, but Green's powerful vocals prove adept in a variety of contexts, from the soulful howling of the title track to the existential confusion of 'Just A Thought'. On the single 'Crazy', his nuanced vocals help create a timeless atmosphere, in spite of the obvious studio intervention. It's sublime. 'St. Elsewhere' is radically unpredictable, even taking in an entirely unexpected refashioning of The Violent Femmes' 'Gone Daddy Gone' which, if anything, amplifies the stark energy of the original. It even works when Dangermouse elects to put far too much into the mix. The opening 'Go Go Gadget Gospel' is a confounding mess of parping brass and layered vocals. It shouldn't work, but somehow it ends up making perfect sense.

Both artists seem to have brought their expertise to the project, and the credible artistry of both has arguably been enhanced rather than merely sustained by this challenging and highly enjoyable work.

At War With Their Instincts?

Ever since they truly surpassed themselves with a pair of humane masterpieces in 4-disc freakfest 'Zaireeka' and the more accessibile 1999 triumph 'The Soft Bulletin', The Flaming Lips have had the unenviable task of keeping up with themselves. Though their last album 'Yoshimi Battles The Pink Robots' was richly enjoyable, its bleepy production values caused it to sound rather of its time, while its two immediate predecessors remain incontrovertibly timeless. For the long-awaited 'At War With The Mystics', the band promised a return to a more organic sound. This is something they have largely delivered, but without diminishing the emphasis on production trickery and unusual arrangements. At its best, 'At War...' is fascinating and hypnotic, but it's also the least accessible and most schizophrenic Flaming Lips album for some time.

'At War...' cannot quite decide if it wants to be a purposeful regression back to the days when The Lips were quirky pop outsiders, or whether it wants to retain the meticulously crafted ambition of 'Yoshimi...'s' more melancholy moments. There are certainly familiar (and frequently unfashionably proggy) themes here - mortality, the overwhelming mystery of life, magic, wizards - but an over-arching concept is perhaps harder to discern. Uncut magazine, yet to print a full review, are already hailing it as the perfect encapsulation of Gram Parson's theory of 'cosmic American music'. After several listens, the album's peculiar splendour starts to reveal itself - but the sublime and emotive highlights are much more elusive than, say, 'Waitin' For A Superman' or 'Fight Test'.

There are some fine pop moments, which may be close relatives of Beck-doing-Prince on 'Midnight Vultures'. 'The WAND' is probably the best of these - ushered in by admirably fuzzy bass and a uniquely rousing chorus chant. 'Free Radicals' is rhythmically inventive, and offers the shock of Wayne Coyne attempting a seventies soul falsetto. 'It Overtakes Me' is great, uncharacteristically minimal and with another deceptively simple fuzz bass groove. Despite these, the opening 'The Yeah Yeah Yeah Song', with its wry analysis of the trappings of power, may well be the only obvious choice of single. Even this delivers a much starker sound.

This being a Flaming Lips album, it also contains its fair share of widescreen epics. The best of these is the double whammy of 'The Sound Of Failure/It's Dark...Is It Always This Dark', six or so minutes of music which luxuriate in a rich variety of sound textures. It's brilliantly arranged, with entrancing synths and endearing twangy guitars. Its bound to be a firm fan favourite as well, with its sly pop culture references to Britney and Gwen. 'Vein Of Stars' captures that familiar Lips melancholic uncertainty, but with greater emphasis on acoustic guitar strumming than in the past. The album's centrepiece, and least immediate track is 'My Cosmic Autumn Rebellion', a grandiose and emotive track that feels perhaps a little calculated in its intentions.

On 'Mr. Ambulance Driver' and closing track 'Goin' On', the album's sonic ideas are crystallised into compact epics. Wayne Coyne's voice is strangely muted on both, and the melodies are subtle, but both tracks are quietly touching. The latter provides a sophisticated closing note for the album and both tracks provide a satisfying escape from the more self-conscious expansiveness found elsewhere.

It's undeniably pleasing to hear the band moving away from the now over-familiar dynamics that characterise their work with producer Dave Fridmann - for the most part, the thunderous drums seem to have been consigned to the past. Most of 'At War...' is typically ambitious, robust and impressive - and it represents an admirable challenge to the rest of the rock mainstream. There are few other bands who follow their muse quite as doggedly as The Flaming Lips whilst simultaneously managing to sustain a still expanding audience. That it doesn't quite cohere into an innately brilliant whole as 'The Soft Bulletin' did is more a product of the band having too many ideas than too few.

Whilst many have already remarked that Morrissey sounds almost content on 'Ringleaders Of The Tormentors', this album places him in a remarkably similar position to that of The Lips, and sees him dealing with similar concerns (particularly a preoccupation with mortality). 'You Are The Quarry' not only re-established his pre-eminence but also elevated him to performer in Britain's enormodomes (why does Morrissey in Earl's Court still seem like an uncomfortable idea - despite the artist's undoubted cultural importance?) and as a consequence Morrissey now once again has to deal with the weight of expectation. He has certainly faced the challenge directly this time, relocating to Rome and drafting in Tony Visconti as producer, as well as an extra guitarist and songwriter in the shape of Jesse Tobias, perhaps hoping to produce something yet more ambitious and striking.

For those of us who feel the treatment handed out to Moz around the time of 'Southpaw Grammar' and 'Maladjusted' was somewhat unjustified (both albums had their merits), the pre-release hype hailing 'Ringleader...' as his very best work may well appear slightly nauseating. Even with its child choirs, portentous timpani and Ennio Morricone collaborations, it's not quite the fully-fledged Morrissey masterpiece some commentators have predicted. Like most of his other albums, the material is a mite variable. There is certainly one absolute positive, however - and that is that Morrissey is without a doubt in his best voice here and has clearly been striving hard to overcome his limited vocal range, without sacrificing a shred of his persona or character in the process. As a result, even the more generic tracks here have real bite.

The thematic focus on contentment and a newfound sexual forthrightness are probably founded mostly on 'At Last I Am Born', the album's dramatic closer. It's a brilliant song, enhanced by spaghetti western twang and military drum beats. It describes a liberation from the shackles of 'guilt because of the flesh', but not without some characteristically deadpan irony ('I used to think that time accentuates despair...but now I don't actually care!'). It's certainly a more inclusive and affecting finale than 'You Know I Couldn't Last', the extended whinge that concluded '...Quarry'.

Nevertheless, those that dismiss Morrissey as a tedious whinger (and therefore miss his humour!) will probably not be converted by most of 'Ringleader...'. 'The Youngest Was The Most Loved' is yet another song about a cherished child turning into a violent killer. It's crisp, and bolstered by a triumphant chorus, complete with slightly grating Italian child choir ('There is no such thing in life as normal!') but doesn't really deliver anything we haven't heard before. The album's other superb highlight, 'Dear God Please Help Me' discusses a range of sexual frustrations with determined frankness ('there are explosive kegs between my legs!'...ouch!), including being propositioned by someone of the same sex ('then he motions to me with his hand on my knee/Dear God did this kind of thing happen to you?') before concluding with 'spreading your legs with mine in between'. That the gender of the spreadee is not entirely clear will no doubt attract some familiar murmurings regarding Morrissey's sexuality, but this is all beside the point. 'Dear God...' is one of his most dramatic and intensely rendered performances and musically, it shows admirable restraint by holding back on the volume and producing an arrangement which swells rather than soars.

Elsewhere, there is a thunderous opener, 'I Will See You In Far Off Places', which makes rather more comfortable deployment of modern production values than the tepid synth strings and Dido-bongos of '..Quarry''s more frustrating moments. It's not particularly elaborate lyrically, but it has a nice line in contrasting bombast and foreboding with the promise of the 'far off places'. It's one of those list songs, essentially. First single 'You Have Killed Me' is Morrissey at his most infectious, and it already sounds like a pithy classic - with all the literate qualities we have come to expect from Moz. It namechecks Pier Paolo Pasolini ('Pasolini is me/Accatone, you'll be') before going on to reference Visconti (presumably Luchino, although it's amusing to note the more immediate presence of producer Tony) and Anna Magnani in the second verse. The lyrical theme is skeletal and characteristically stretched to complete the song, but it works well in this case. The chorus is innately hummable, and introduces vocal harmonies, something not usually heard on a Morrissey song and further evidence of his recent vocal development.

'On The Streets I Ran', 'I Just Want To See The Boy Happy', 'The Father Who Must Be Killed' and 'In The Future When All's Well' are crunchy rockers, with rather less musical depth than pre-release hype has suggested. Morrissey's vocals are full of conviction and brio, though, and the songs certainly rattle along. The latter particularly carries a weighty punch, although I can't help but suspect it's songs like this which lead people to dismiss Morrissey's band as workmanlike, usually unfairly.

The lingering impression of the album though is harboured in its slower-paced, more blatantly grandiose statements. 'Life Is A Pigsty' starts superbly, with a droning synth pad, off-kilter piano and loosely funky drum beat, initially sounding completely unlike anything Morrissey has attempted before. The melody meanders somewhat though, and the song then gives way completely to a more predictably epic sound. It's impressive, but perhaps all a little unmoving. 'I'll Never Be Anyone's Hero Now' is a frank lament, with a brilliant vocal performance that more than compensates for the slightly clunky arrangement.

'Ringleader...' comes complete with all the necessary constituents of a great Morrissey album, right down to song titles which border on self parody. Its highlights are commanding, and some of the best songs of the solo Morrissey canon. It doesn't quite sustain its qualities for its entire duration though. Whilst it largely dispenses with the more trivial production flourishes of '..Quarry' (and also with that album's propensity for pot shots at rather obvious targets), it doesn't quite attain the rather grand heights to which it so clearly aspires. The preoccupations with sex and death certainly add different (if not entirely new) dimensions to Morrissey's poetic oeuvre, but there is also a nagging sense that since his period of exile, some of his distinctively British social satire has been lost. This may well be explained by those accusations of racism following Finsbury Park and 'The National Front Disco', but if there's a next time, it would be great if he could couple his now indisputably iconic persona with some more witty observations again.