Those Dancing Days - Daydreams and Nightmares (Album)

The subject of pop for pop’s sake has inspired some reasonably heated debate on these pages in recent weeks, igniting a slightly indier incarnation of the decades old beef between pop lovers and ‘serious’ music fans. Well, if you’ll indulge me my soap box for just a moment, I’ve always believed pretty fucking strongly that there is no purer musical thrill than a song which inspires in one the uncontrollable urge to dance and sing. And at a time when insipid, lifeless pop bands are tiresomely numerous, genuinely good ones deserve to be cherished just as much as the most creative of avant-garde pioneers

Slink forward Those Dancing Days, then. Having captured the twee zeitgeist in 2008 with their debut record In Our Space Hero Suits, its follow-up Daydreams and Nightmares sees them in an altogether more insistent frame of mind. It’s a bit of a stretch to say they have found a harder edge, but they’ve certainly developed an unmistakable fresh sense of urgency. As well as having attained a new level of vitality, the band also appear to have well and truly nailed the art of the chorus too, as evidenced by the almost instantly memorable mid-sections of ‘Dream About Me’ and ‘Reaching Forwards’

The strongest overall examples of the admirable pop nous of Daydreams and Nightmares can be found in its central one-two of ‘Can’t Find Entrance’ and ‘Fuckarias’, which are without doubt two of 2011’s catchiest singles so far. The breakneck pace of both songs and the snotty attitude of the latter are characteristic of the evolution of the band’s sound. Mind, you, I’m not sure the subject of ‘Fuckarias’ will feel too threatened by the barbs which are being levelled at them: “You’re an uninvited clown... You’re in my space, get out of my face”. Those Dancing Days might be able to convincingly beef up their sound, but, endearingly, their cuddlier core is still pretty plain for all to see.

Throughout Daydreams and Nightmares, in fact, there are numerous reminders that the band haven’t entirely ditched discarded the unfettered tweeness that characterised their first record, and there’s still plenty here for sensitive souls to fall for here. ‘I’ll Be Yours’ and ‘Help Me Close My Eyes’, for instance, are appropriately big-hearted, as is the closing track ‘One Day Forever’ (once you get over the bizarre resemblance between its opening few seconds and those of Grizzly Bear’s ‘Two Weeks’, that is). There’s plenty more evidence of the saccharine in the lyrical content too, or even from a cursory glance at the song titles, illustrating that Daydreams and Nightmares is still, at heart, a collection of sweet pop songs. You’ll just have to circumnavigate the extra layers of polish and synths to find it. Presumably the influence of Patrik Berger, latterly Robyn’s producer, has had a big part to play in all this. Hell, it’s not too much of a stretch to imagine one or two of these songs being recorded by Robyn, most notably ‘Help Me Close My Eyes’.

All in all, the progression Those Dancing Days have shown here is pretty damn impressive by anybody’s standards. Whether this will be acknowledged by either our little world, or the wider public, I wouldn’t like to say. What I can say with some safety, though, is that Daydreams and Nightmares is a better record than In Our Space Hero Suits. A fellow DiS scribe at that time may have decried the band’s lack of anything memorable, but that is no longer an accusation which may be levelled at them with any kind of fairness.

7/10

Radiohead - The King of Limbs

The King of Limbs definitely represents new ground for Radiohead in its cohesiveness and its unnerving, stifling mood. For these reasons alone, it is a good album. Problem is, though, all has gone before means that something merely ‘good’ represents failure for Radiohead. I’m six listens in and it’s yet to fully reveal the intangible wonders of a Radiohead record, but fingers crossed it’s just a matter of time.

7/10

Conquering Animal Sound - Kammerspiel (Album)

I have long been of the opinion (and I suspect that I’m far from alone on these pages in thinking this) that the best record labels are those which are able to bring together bands with some kind of aesthetic similarity. Certainly the records released by my favourite labels over the years have, on the whole, tended to have a common thread which distinguishes them instantly as a product of their particular imprint. In recent years, one such label to have emerged to fit in with this particular penchant has been Leeds’ Gizeh Records, home to the likes of Glissando, Sleepingdog and Fieldhead. When a Gizeh release lands on your doormat you know that you’re reasonably likely to encounter something chilly and unearthly, but also something which more often than not will be a beautiful and enriching piece of work.

And so it is with Glasgow-based duo Anneke Kampman and James Scott who comprise Conquering Animal Sound. Their debut album Kammerspiel is a ghostly collection of minimalistic beats, loops and fragile ambience, overlaid with Kampman’s beatifully frail vocal. Its delicateness and woozy air mean that it is a record which is best absorbed late at night, preferably at the point last thing when your brain is at its sleepiest. In this context it becomes almost lullaby-esque, with Kampman’s soft burr tailor-made for soothing away the mental aches of the daily cut and thrust

Too often records made up of minimal components are misinterpreted as being gloomy, but this is unlikely to be a fate which befalls Kammerspiel, given the sunlit glow which bathes its sounds. Take opening song ‘Maschines’ for example, as it begins with a twinkling melody and builds gently like the breaking of the day, culminating in Kampman softly cooing “You are home”. As the album progresses, you come to realise that the template of ‘Maschines’ is in fact the blueprint for much of Conquering Animal Sound’s work. Frequently their songs begin in timorous fashion, gradually layering more and more sounds on top as they build. Let’s be clear though, this isn’t to say that Kammerspiel is in any way guilty of being formulaic, because the band display a boundless creativity with the finer details throughout, a little snippet of tape hiss here, a dissonant hint of cello or a snatch of thickly-distorted vocal sample there, meaning you’re never really fully aware of where they’re taking you at any point.

In spite of its predilection for abstract noise, Kammerspiel is still at heart an album of songs and melodies which frequently follows the verse/chorus structure. Clearly, Conquering Animal Sound are more than just aimless experimentalists, because throughout there is a strong feeling that while you might not know what they are going to do next, they most certainly do. Probably the most naked song on the album is final track ‘Ira’, which dispenses with much of the effects, leaving the beauty and the melody of the song unabashed. It’s an interesting taster of what Conquering Animal Sound might be like were they a little more conventional, and while ‘Ira’ might be sufficiently pretty to stand on its own two feet, the contrast between it and much of the rest of the album illustrates the importance of the flourishes of the noises and samples.

With Kammerspiel, Conquering Animal Sound have simultaneously managed to capture on record the full depth of their creativity and imagination, as well as the inherent beauty of their sound. It is a wonderful piece of work which deseves to be cherished, and gives us far more than we might reasonably expect from anyone’s debut album.

9/10

Hannah Peel - The Broken Wave (Album)

The route Hannah Peel has taken on the way to her day job as a solo recording artist has been quite a circuitous one, taking in various projects both musical and otherwise, but the arrival of her debut record finds her cast into an unenviably competitive scene replete with artists both male and female making similarly quirky folk music. In such a saturated market, particularly one encompassing so much ethereality, it can be difficult for an artist to separate themselves from their contemporaries or break free from the cliches of what folk music represents.

Unquestionably, Peel’s work comes more from Newsom’s end of the scale than Marling’s, carrying with it more than a hint of the otherworldly which stems in part from the ghostly, frail quality of her voice, which at times can be spellbinding here. It’s clearly one of her strongest assets, but it’s nice just how sparingly she exercises it, keeping it for the most part reined in rather than letting it overshadow the songcraft, an economy which is truly crucial in the album’s success. Because there is little doubt here, The Broken Wave is a hugely impressive piece of work, which showcases Peel’s adroitness with a melody quite beautifully, with the simple, elegant swells of ‘You Call This Your Home’ and ‘Song For the Sea’ being wonderful cases in point.

Peel’s previous musical meanderings with the likes of The Unthanks and Tunng have proved to be beneficial in the construction of The Broken Wave, because it has meant that she has been able to call on an impressive cast of collaborators, including the latter’s Mike Lindsay who is responsible for a strong production which is equal parts clean and off kilter. Also present is Nitin Sawhney who lends a hand composing the beautiful strings on ‘Don’t Kiss the Broken One’ and ‘Solitude’, resulting in two of the album’s most bewitching moments.

Amid the prettiness of the music, there is a profusion of melancholy in Peel’s stories of love, loss and longing, but in spite of the tone, you can’t help but feel ultimately comforted by the songs because there is such warmth present in the delivery and the music which accompanies it, particularly on those occasions such as ‘Unwound’ or tradition Irish folk song ‘Cailin Deas Cruite Na Mbo’ when she revisits an old music box which was used in much of her earlier work. It’s genuinely surprising to learn that the album was recorded in a mere three weeks, because The Broken Wave is certainly not an album which sounds like it was hurriedly assembled. Indeed, one of its greatest triumphs is how full, and beautifully put together the whole thing sounds.

The release of The Broken Wave heralds the arrival of a genuine creative force in British folk music, and one of the scariest things about it is that you get the impression that Peel hasn’t really even got going fully yet. The record inspires a feeling that as she grows in confidence and experience she will get even better, which is quite a prospect.

8/10

Ou Est le Swimming Pool - The Golden Year (Album)

When their singer Charlie Haddon died on August 20^th this year, it meant that the release of the debut album by Ou Est Le Swimming Pool would pale almost entirely into insignificance. The story of the end of Charlie’s life is an awful one, and there is nothing I can add to it that you haven’t read already. While it would be completely crass for me to talk about The Golden Year without acknowledging the tragedy which preceded it, it would be equally wrong to discuss the album exclusively in the context of Charlie’s death. Chances are that if you’re reading this, then you know the background, and you’re probably here to get an idea of what the album sounds like.

For the most part, The Golden Year sees Ou Est Le Swimming Pool building on the reputation which their previous singles built for them as doyens of punchy synth pop. The album houses a good five or six instances where the band completely and utterly hit their mark from a pop point of view, snaring you with a catchy chorus or insistent synth line and refusing to let go. ‘Dance the Way I Feel’ and ‘Jackson’s Last Stand’, in particular, provide the sort of devastatingly effective thrill out of seemingly simplistic ingredients which so many bands strive for, but which few achieve as completely as this.

When you’ve hit on a successful formula for pop perfection, there’s always a danger of overdoing it, and laying it on too thick with the hooks which has the inevitable impact of diluting their effectiveness. This is a pitfall which Ou Est Le Swimming Pool sidestep here, because The Golden Year isn’t played out entirely at full speed, with the pop stompers broken up with the odd slowie. While the more downbeat moments like ‘Our Lives’ don’t necessarily show the band playing their strongest hand, they are useful in saving The Golden Year from overwhelming you with boisterousness (aka The Passion Pit effect).

In spite of anyone’s best efforts to separate The Golden Year apart from its background, it was always likely that there would be one or two moments where its context would result in moments more poignant than the band probably intended them to be. ‘Better’s occasional dark sentiments, although masked by an upbeat melody, make for pretty difficult listening: “The quiet walls are more help than a friend could be”. A similar effect is created by the waves of delicate hope which open up the album on ‘You Started’, particularly its “You have started the beginning of my life” refrain.

Whether or not The Golden Year will prove to be the only album Ou Est Le Swimming Pool ever release is, at the time of writing, unclear, and is something which is a private decision for the band’s remaining members to make in their own good time. Clearly, if they do continue it will be with an entirely different dynamic to that which produced this record, a dynamic which at once shows the finely honed instincts the band possessed even at this early stage, as well as highlighting the potential they had for the future. Hopefully the strength of the album means that this is what Charlie Haddon will be remembered for, rather than the manner of his death.

7/10

Magic Kids - Memphis (Album)

It’s probably inevitable, but a bit gloomy nonetheless, that as I’ve edged further into my twenties, and as I begin to lurch ever more rapidly towards their conclusion, my tolerance for anything even remotely youthful has waned significantly. This presents something of a quandary when it comes to attempting to critically appraise Memphis the debut album by Magic Kids because youthfulness is something which positively oozes out of every pore of the record. I must soldier on, though, because it really isn’t their fault that I’m seethingly envious that they retain the lustre which deserted me long ago, and who knows, maybe a little vicarious burst of vitality will do me some good.

One thing which will become abundantly clear from even the most cursory of listens to Memphis is that this is a record which nakedly displays its influences. The spectre of 60s pop hangs heavy in the air, with the Beach Boys being the most blatant of reference points. This is immediately evident on opening song ‘Phone’ which gleefully raids Brian Wilson’s box of tricks, pulling out some of his best harmonies along with his well-thumbed juxtaposition of the headrush and yearnings of young love. The Beach Boys influence goes on to pop its head above the parapet sporadically throughout the rest of the record, and is supplemented by occasional bursts of Spector’s girl bands (‘Hey Boy’), and glimpses of a perkier version of baroque pop (‘Superball’).

While Magic Kids’ magpie-like tendencies are pretty barefaced, more often than not they get away with it because they pilfer more than just a sound from their idols; they also display the faultless attention to detail of classic pop music, meaning that the hero-worship never really grates. It might all feel a little lightweight, but there’s no question that the songs are gorgeously well-crafted, making the intricate appear simple, something which is underlined by a straightforward, unfussy production which makes the album feel quite timeless, regardless of the fact that its roots are planted firmly in the 1960s.

Clearly Memphis is a summer record. This could, of course, present a bit of a potential problem for those of us dwelling in parts of the world where summer is but a myth. Fortunately, though, it is an album which doesn’t need a supportive environment, because it is bold enough and evocative enough to create a sunny climate entirely on its own. It is rich in things which make it easy to like, but undoubtedly, the most agreeable thing about it is the seemingly endless surge of happiness on which it is carried, which is so infectious and authentic that even a prematurely aged curmudgeon like me can do little to avoid being swept along with the tide. You probably wouldn’t expect Magic Kids to realistically be able to make more than two or three records with this blueprint, but frankly that isn’t something for us to think about right now. All that really matters for now is that their debut album is an unqualified success, a concise and perfectly-presented collection of first-class pop music.

8/10

My Vitriol and Me

My small contribution to the forthcoming DiS is 10 celebrations, a piece about an overlooked record from DiS' lifetime which has been of particular significance to me:

I’m pretty sure that the DiS’ tenth birthday celebrations will feature accounts of user/website relationships which are far more interesting than mine. It’s been a pretty commonplace journey for me, you see, one where boy meets website, boy falls in love with lots of bands, boy writes a few words for website in the hope of discovering more bands and (just maybe) helping others to do the same. While I’ve been plodding away mundanely on the boards, posting barely 4000 times in six years, there are those who have made friends, found and lost love, got married, had babies (probably) and, in one or two select cases, found national tabloid infamy. How could I compete with that? So, instead of even trying to, I wanted my little contribution to the festivities to be about a record which has been massively important to the development of my tastes, one which was released before I was even aware of the existence of drownedinsound.com, but which is probably just as much to blame as DiS for my unslakeable thirst for new music.

Around the start of the century’s maiden decade, I wouldn’t have said music was particularly important to me, something reflected by the fact that at the age of 17 the entirety of my ‘collection’ will have consisted of about 12 fairly standard samples of radio-friendly indie (of which probably only the Manics have endured to this day). As time progressed though, I gradually grew bored of the stodgy dad-rock, started borrowing a mate’s copies of the death-throe issues of Melody Maker (well, thieved really, sorry about that Richard), and began to spend time in the company of MTV2. As a direct result of the latter, My Vitriol appeared on my radar around the time they released the Pieces and Always: Your Way singles. They were the perfect band for me to discover at that particular time, accessible enough not to repulse my unsophisticated palate (and indeed to actually discover in the first place), but alternative enough for me to satisfy my urge to rebel against my own tastes.

On the surface (which is about as deep as the younger me would tend to delve), Finelines was a pretty uncomplicated proposition, a nice heavy rock record, bristling with venom, and sprinkled with the occasional catchy chorus. But if its appeal were merely superficial, it would have been chucked to one side with my Feeder, JJ72 and Kinesis records long ago. Instead, while I have experienced dozens of infatuations with songs, albums and genres, both brief and longer term, and discarded far more bands than I have loved, Finelines has grown with me, and become one of the few constants in my musical landscape, to the point where my Digipak copy is now just about ready to fall to bits once and for all.

A huge part of its appeal lies in its dextrous melding of pop rock and shoegaze. The likes of Cemented Shoes, Grounded and Losing Touch are instantly exhilarating (and, unsurprisingly, all singles), and their immediacy acts as a necessary breather from the endless surging waves of effects-heavy guitars, a handhold to cling to in the storm of noise. Even now, it’s hugely satisfying, and quite refreshing, to hear how unrestrained the album is. I mean, just look at Tongue Tied. On the face of it, a mainstream rock record could probably do without a meandering, overblown five and half minute instrumental peppered with false endings slap bang in the middle of it, but thanks largely to its joyous bloody-mindedness, it turns out to be a perfect distillation of the entire My Vitriol philosophy, and one of the highlights of the whole album. And then there are the other instrumental snippets, the shorter pieces like Alpha Waves and Taprobane, which in clumsier hands could jar or slow things down unnecessarily, but instead prove to be vital threads in the tapestry of the album as a whole.

So if you never discovered Finelines (and I wouldn’t were it not for opportune timing), if you dismissed My Vitriol out of hand, or even if you own the album and simply haven’t listened to it for ages, then it is without question a worthwhile way to spend forty-eight minutes. It’s a shame that its lack of a successor has overshadowed the record’s sheer strength, but it also means that it gives My Vitriol that rarefied air of mystique which shrouds bands whose only record is a stone-cold classic. For me though, while Finelines is a special record for its own qualities, what is arguably more important is the gateway it provided me to the likes of Seafood, The Cooper Temple Clause and Idlewild, who in turn each gave me a few more outlets, which then led me to a few more other threads to follow, and so on and so on and so on to a point where my hard drive and bookshelves creak under the strain of music they carry.

Ash - A-Z Volume 1 (Album)

When a band has been together as long as Ash have, keeping it fresh must presumably become increasingly difficult. After eighteen years, five long-players, a mini-album, a live recording, and a singles collection, they have decided that now is the time for them to shake things up. Having already returned to their original three-man line-up, and apparently sickened by the lack of support their last record Twilight of the Innocents received, the band have decided to dispense entirely with the traditional cycle of albums. In a move which would probably be very pleasing to the geeky teenagers who first formed the band in Downpatrick, they have resolved to release only singles from now on.

That would seem a bold enough step in itself, but they haven’t quite stopped there. Last year they commenced with the A-Z Singles project which would see them releasing a single every fortnight for twelve months. We now find ourselves at the halfway stage of the venture, and singles A-M have been compiled on A-Z Volume 1. Whether or not this counts as reneging on their ‘no more albums’ pact is beside the point, and for more pedantic souls than me to debate. What is far more important is that these singles have inspired in Ash the best form since the career rescuing effort that was Free All Angels. For the first time in a good few years, the band seem to be having fun, an element which has always been fundamental to their best work. While Twilight of the Innocents was not without its highlights, even the staunchest of Ash lovers would struggle to argue that it didn’t sound just a little tired.

While they haven’t quite reinvented the wheel with these songs, they have certainly pumped up its tyres and given it some shiny new hubcaps. The freedom presented by the project would appear to have given Ash licence to be a little more experimental than they might attempt on a conventional album. This point is illustrated immediately with the playful electro pulse of Single A ‘True Love 1980’, a song which also contains the first of many classic Tim Wheeler pop choruses present on the disc (See also ‘Joy Kicks Darkness’, ‘Arcadia’ and ‘Neon’.)

Save for the occasional musical flourish here and there, these songs are still unmistakably and undeniably Ash. The same ingredients which made 1977 so thrilling to a whole generation of indie kids all those years ago can be found in the best songs on this collection; the gigantic melodies, the unbridled sense of youthfulness, Tim Wheeler’s boyishly just-about-in-tune vocals and the headrush of the power chord-led choruses. For those who have followed Ash’s journey from the start, the effect this produces is more than just nostalgia; it is a sense of rejuvenation.

While Ash have always been doyens of power-pop, none of their recordings have been complete without the odd flip into lovelorn teen mode. This has historically acted as a sobering antidote to the dizzying effect of the band at full pelt. A-Z Volume 1, true to form, is home to a couple of particularly lovely moments in the shape of the wide-eyed and expansive ‘Tracers’, and ‘Pripyat’, a longing paean to the titular nuclear city. Tim’s voice has always been suited to songs of yearning, and this is something which has not dimmed as the years have gone by.

So great are the high points of the collection that it’s a shame that it starts to run out of steam slightly towards the end. From ‘Space Shot’ onwards, things begin to drift along a little aimlessly until Single M ‘War With Me’ revives things at the death with a grand piano motif and yet another mega chorus. The flaws of the collection don’t spoil it in any way though, and they probably won’t even come as a surprise to most because Ash have always lived had a laudable lack of fear of screwing up. Their imperfections have always been a part of what makes them so endearing, and may even be why they have endured when most of their contemporaries gave up the ghost years ago. Either way, while this compilation brazenly embraces their past, it also shows their future could be far more compelling than might reasonably expected from a band nearing the end of their second decade.

7/10

Bear in Heaven - Beast Rest Forth Mouth (Album)

It has taken almost six months from its American release for Bear in Heaven’s second album to appear on our shores, a time period which heralded the arrival of Yeasayer’s Odd Blood, a record which would unintentionally pave the way for this release by placing it neatly into context. Beast Rest Forth Mouth occupies a similar space to Odd Blood, sharing its unbridled sense of groove and shimmering synths. In its own right, though, this is an ambitious and expansive piece of work which carves Bear in Heaven a niche that is entirely theirs.

The journey which the record takes you on is a rambling, rangy one and sometimes it might seem like it will lose you along the way, but the great skill Bear in Heaven exhibit here is to be able to keep everything together. For all its diverse elements and meandering detours, there is some common thread running through it which prevents it from becoming a messy or disjointed affair.

Underpinning it all is a sharp pop sensibility which is largely what has led to the Odd Blood comparisons. This is clear right from the start with the mesmeric tribal rhythms of opening song ‘Beast in Peace’, which bleed straight into the ridiculously danceable fizz of ‘Wholehearted Mess’. The album reaches the apex of its poppiness with ‘Lovesick Teenagers’ which is a carefree and summery little gem. The sense of fun exhibited in these moments is so exhilarating and infectious, and it makes this album a hugely likeable one, as well as being so enriching and interesting.

The funkier leanings of Beast Rest Forth Mouth tend to be more apparent in its first half, fading as the album progresses to be replaced by a more considered, dreamy feel. ‘Ultimate Satisfaction’ for example, feels like something Mew would have produced around the time of ...And the Glass-Handed Kites. In the music and vocal delivery, it shares that same wistful, wide-eyed sense which the Danes have knocked out so effortlessly for years. ‘Dust Cloud’ is a similarly gorgeous case which opens up with an unhurried and enchanting intro before eventually exploding into a crescendo of heavy distorted guitars. This is probably the highpoint of the second half of the album.

With Beast Rest Forth Mouth, Bear in Heaven have shown themselves to be a major creative force. Their invention and imagination, mingled with their astute pop nous have combined to produce an album which is fit to stand toe to toe with most that will be released this year. There is so much to enjoy here, this is a record which reveals itself more with each listen. Whether Yeasayer end up overshadowing it in the end of year lists remains to be seen, but if that does happen, then this would be an unjust reflection of a wonderful album.

9/10

Rufus Wainwright - Want One and Want Two (Album)

Part of a Rufus Wainwright career retrospective to appear on Drowned in Sound:

Spend about ten minutes in the company of Want One, and it will become abundantly clear that this this was the point at which Rufus Wainwright decided to ratchet up the ambition, where for the first time his monumental vocals found themselves consistently paired with arrangements which were sumptuously similar in scale. It was the record he had always been threatening / promising to make, depending on your point of view. The likes of opening track 'Oh, What a World', 'Go or Go Ahead' and '14th Street' in particular were logical extensions of what had gone before, soaring pop songs which precariously piled layer upon layer of instrumentation, while Wainwright's voice and wordplay rose ever more powerfully to the challenge.

However, the impact of Want One would surely have been considerably less, without the contrast provided by the sparser, gentler pieces like 'Harvester of Hearts' and 'Natasha'. Perhaps inevitably, these were shouted down by the more ostentatious songs, but as well as offering a touch of breathing space, they also provided the record with some of its most beautiful moments. 'Dinner at Eight' was the most obvious example of this, laying bare as it did Rufus' oft-discussed Daddy issues in the starkest of fashions: "In fact you were the one / long ago, actually in the drifting white snow / who left me / So put up your fists and I'll put up mine / No running away from the scene of the crime".

Part two of the saga, Want Two, turned out to be a more reflective album, which acted as both counterpart and complementary piece to Want One. As a whole it perhaps didn't hit quite the same heights as its predecessor, although it was a more diverse affair which more than stood up in its own right, probably justifying the decision to split the records rather than release them as a double as originally planned. It wandered further than usual from Wainwright's pop roots, particularly in the mournful 'Agnus Dei' and 'Little Sister' which was steeped in classical influence. This meant that the album was less immediate than most of his other work, but it was still a hugely rewarding listen.

The record's high point was probably 'The Art Teacher' a song built around a gently bubbling piano line, detailing the history of a married woman still pining for a schoolteacher from her childhood. It was sympathetic, affecting and generally gorgeous, and proved to be a fine example of how Wainwright's storytelling abilities should not be overshadowed by his penchant for grandiose musicality. There was more poignancy to be found in the Jeff Buckley tribute 'Memphis Skyline', but it was typically perverse of Rufus that this song was immediately followed by 'Gay Messiah', a mildly graphic and quite probably blasphemous exploration of the reincarnation of its titular deity. This is a contrast which quite neatly sums up the two records which would lay the groundwork for the ever more decadent flights of fancy which followed in Rufus Wainwright's career.

Duke Special - The Stage, A Book and The Silver Screen (Album)

Duke Special has always been a curiously enigmatic prospect. His live performances are usually joyous affairs, often seeing his flouncy vaudevillian antics accompanied by maniacal cheese-grater wielding percussionist Chip Bailey. One strength he constantly displays is to make each show seem like a one-off, as opposed to the identikit sets occasionally yawned out by some other perma-touring artists. However, he has always been faced with the dillemma of how to communicate the eccentric charm of his live shows on record, a feat he has yet to fully accomplish really. His previous album I Never Thought This Day Would Come was a classic case in point. The record was so polished that the set of jaunty piano singalongs came out limper than their quality deserved. Nowadays, finding himself free of the big label constraints which presumably played a big part in this, Duke is going it alone for a laudably ambitious project. The Stage, A Book And The Silver Screen comprises two concept albums, as well as a concept EP.

The first disc, The Silent World of Hector Mann is a collection of songs inspired by Paul Auster's The Book of Illusions, which features silent film star Mann. Special sent a copy of each of each of Mann's twelve films to a different Irish artist with a brief to pen a pre-rock and roll style song about each, which he would then record himself. The result, in spite of the slightly disparate elements is surprisingly cohesive and massively enjoyable. By far the strongest piece on the record is Neil Hannon's, 'Wanda, Darling of the Jockey Club', which tells the story of a bumbling waiter's infatuation with a female pilot. Hannon's wit, a playful piano line and the cheery warmth of Special's delivery mingle perfectly to produce one of the best morsels of pop either artist has ever been attached to.

The theme of the oafish suitor pursuing a woman who is way out of his league is a common one on the record, continued more directly but no less charmingly on 'Country Weekend', this time featuring "just a chauffeur who really hopes for the honour of his passenger's hand". This would appear to be a common component of Mann's films, as was the idea of the loveable rogue, a subject covered on the Thomas Truax's ludicrously bouncy 'The Prop Man', an almost slapstick song about a thieving film staffer. The silly fun displayed here is an example of how with this record Special has gone the furthest distance yet towards capturing the merry spontanaeity of his live shows.

Disc two, the Huckleberry Finn EP, is a suite of songs written by Kurt Weill, originally intended for a musical which was left unfinished when Weill died. Where Silent World played up to Special's penchant for quirky piano pop, Huckleberry Finn adds a touch more grandeur. The songs are laced with strings and splashed with brass, but the slightly bigger sound does not make it any less playful. The record might only be a touch over a quarter of an hour, but there's still a lot to savour, from the swaying, swooning, 'Chantry River' to the flamboyantly catchy 'Apple Jack'. It is the EP's closer, 'Catfish Song' which steals the show though, a darling little duet which apes an interchange between Tom 'n' Huck.

While Huckleberry Finn sounds richer than the mischievous sounds on Silent World, it is Mother Courage and Her Children which really encapsulates the depth of ambition of Duke Special's mammoth project. The final disc is a collection of studio recordings of songs from Bertold Brecht's anti-war play of the same name, to which Special contributed music for a recent run at London's Royal National Theatre. The sizeable arrangements are probably to be expected given the context, but what you might not expect is that an artist who a mere disc or two ago was chirruping cheerfully about clumsy waiters can comfortably turn his hand to lines like "We hated the soldiers / Their army took our town / I was sixteen / The foreign occupier grinned as he loosened my nightgown". His voice is powerful and soulful enough not to be lost amid the soaring orchestral backing, something which is exhibited best in 'Mother Courage' and its reprise which closes the album.

The subject matter may be dark, but sometimes you have to listen carefully to realise this is the case. The powerful arrangements lift the tone, adding an occasional air of triumph to the grimness. So too do Special's piano melodies, particularly the driving, forceful 'The Great Capitulation', a common thread which links together all three elements of The Stage, A Book, And The Silver Screen.

With this collection, Duke Special has escaped from the confines of the conventional, and it has clearly done him the world of the good. Each of the three records are hugely enjoyable standalone pieces, but as a trio they serve to illustrate his limitless ambition, versatility and skill with a melody. Lord knows what else is lurking in that eccentric brain of his, but here's hoping his future projects are as gloriously outlandish as this.

The Silent World of Hector Mann - 8
Huckleberry Finn - 7
Mother Courage and Her Children - 8

Blood Red Shoes - Fire Like This (Album)

A little under two years ago, the unlawfully pretty Brighton two-piece Blood Red Shoes released their debut album Box of Secrets. At the time the general consensus (if such a thing could be said to exist) was that it was a good, first effort, if a little overproduced. It’s not unfair to say that the record didn’t quite capture the full effect of their live shows which at their best are deafening and visceral experiences. It might have been that the frustratingly protracted process of getting the album released left them too much time to meddle with the recordings, meaning some of the rawness which made them so enticing in the first place was lost. Either way, while this didn’t exactly spoil the album, it still meant that each listen was accompanied by a very faint feeling of disappointment at what it might have been.

Its follow-up Fire Like This comes with a promise that the superfluous gloss which beset its predecessor has been scraped away, as the record was recorded to analog tape with a bare minimum of overdubs. This seems to be a more logical way for a band like Blood Red Shoes to work, and one which is far more in keeping with their aggressive, elemental sound.

Recording processes aside, the album actually has quite a lot in common with Box of Secrets. The band haven’t reinvented the wheel here, but they’ve taken the blueprint of their debut and built on it. For instance, the effortlessly skilful utilisation of the quiet-loud dynamic is still there, only this time infused with a little bit more subtlety. The vocal duties are once again split fairly evenly between Steven Ansell’s throat-shredding yells and Laura-Mary Carter’s sweetly bolshy singing. The interplay between the two is as effective as ever, which is just as well because their chemistry has always been one of the band’s strongest assets, whether live or on record.

Where Box of Secrets only really had one mode - breakneck speed, this is an album with more layers to it. The most obvious example of this is ‘When We Wake’, on which Laura-Mary’s gently introspective vocals are set to an atypically slow-burning backing which eventually builds to a beautifully colossal outro. The result is one of the major highlights of an album which is hardly short of them. Closing track ‘Colours Fade’ is another departure, clocking in at over seven minutes, taking on a far more epic feel than we’d normally associate with Blood Red Shoes.

The instances of experimentation (with a resolutely small e) have definitely lifted the band up a level or two, but they haven’t forgotten their major strengths either. The album is liberally peppered with their typically punky shoutalongs. Recent single ‘Light it Up’, for example, is Nirvana-esque in its devastatingly simple (and completely exhilarating) make-up.

As noisy as Blood Red Shoes are, they still know their way around a pop hook, and there are plenty here, possibly even more than there are on Box of Secrets. It‘s ironic that a heavier album, shorn of studio trickery should contain more radio-friendly songs, there isn’t much on Fire Like This which would sound out of place as a single. ‘Don’t Ask’ is a breathlessly urgent way to open the album, while ‘One More Empty Chair’ is another exemplary piece of snotty, melodic pop.

To be quite honest, it’s difficult to resist the urge to pick out every song and highlight it as a focal point, because Fire Like This is so strong from start to finish. This isn’t really anything new, because Box of Secrets was similarly consistent. What is different, however, is the focus the band have found. In the past, there’s been an unfortunate tendency to take songs a chorus too far, but that doesn’t appear to be an issue any more. This is one of a few imperfections Blood Red Shoes have managed to overcome with their second album. The only problem they have now is that they haven’t really left themselves much room to improve for album three.

9/10

White Rabbits - It's Frightening (Album)

To many, competence is considered to be a positive attribute. In a lot of walks of life, whether of the everyday variety or in the public eye, the ability to set about your task in a steady and consistent manner is often commended. Even in this minefield we loosely call alternative music, it will always be those wilfully adequate careerist plodders who garner the filthy lucre. However, I’d still like to think that most right-minded music fans would plump for a creative spark over unswerving professionalism every time.

All of which brings me on to the second album from White Rabbits. On It’s Frightening, the New York-based six-piece display an acute proficiency when it comes to the art of song structure. There’s a lot to admire here, from the bouncy pianos, urgent drums and vocals which are delivered in a manner vaguely reminiscent of Hail to the Thief-era Thom Yorke. There are plenty of interesting musical ideas thrown into the mix, too, like the creepily grandiose piano breakdown in the middle of ‘They Done Wrong, We Done Wrong’ or the minute or so of gentle ambience which gives way to the paranoid beat of ‘Lionesse’. The big problem is that for all this professionalism, there just isn’t quite enough of that intangible magic which makes you want to keep coming back to an album time and time again.

Things start off promisingly enough with recent single ‘Percussion Gun’, which in spite of its uneasily self-referencing title is an enjoyable enough song which is carried along by a tribal drumbeat and Stephen Patterson’s vocal hysterics. For a while, the album continues in a fairly similar vein, taking in another of its highpoints ‘Lionesse’, until ‘Company I Keep’ threatens to derail the whole affair halfway through. You can see what exactly what effect they are going for here; the mid-tempo centrepiece which gives lifts things up to the next level and also allows a bit of breathing space after the mildly furious moments which peppered the first half of the record. As it turns out, though, it ends up falling flat and just comes across as a bit drab, undoing a lot of the momentum which has been built up earlier on. The album never really recovers from this frustration, and indeed, it’s not the only moment of mediocrity we see in the second half. This is in spite of the best efforts of the mildly sinister ‘Midnight and I’ on which Patterson coos ‘Get to sleep now’ as creepily as he can.

It’s clear, then that It’s Frightening is by no means a record which is without merit. I suspect that the input of Spoon’s Britt Daniel has infused it with a lot more presence than it might otherwise have had. However, that notwithstanding, the album’s lack of anything substantial to get your teeth into proves fatal. In an age where unfathomable amounts of music are but a click away, I fear White Rabbits might be destined to be one of those bands which fade meekly into the background.

6/10

Postdata - Postdata (Album)

Solo albums from the frontmen/women of indie bands often carry negative connotations. The record is frequently the product of the over-stimulated ego of a singer who has grown so big for their boots that they feel they will fare much better if they are shorn of the tuneless lunks who dare call themselves bandmates. Or perhaps it’s the opposite extreme: The ‘creative force’ has written ten songs so horrifically shoddy that their colleagues can’t countenance the thought having their names attached to them. In the case of Postdata, the first solo flight from Wintersleep’s Paul Murphy, neither of the above examples appear to be the case. The album finds itself separated from the Wintersleep discography largely because it is a world away from the sound of the band.

Instead of the urgent indie-rock he usually delivers, Murphy has produced an album of forlorn, stripped-to-the-bone songs which are mostly constructed of just his voice and plaintive acoustic strumming. Clearly there is currently a hell of a lot of music out there which consists of these same basic elements, and it’s a disheartening fact that for every Bon Iver there are half a dozen Damien Rices, but Postdata’s eponymous effort definitely adds something to a sorely saturated genre.

The key to its success is that it is more than a mere collection of songs. There is a tangible atmosphere here, a slightly oppressive, and entirely poignant feel weaved into the very fabric of the songs, making them far fuller than their rudimentary elements. In a way, it is almost a concept album. The seeds of ideas for the nine songs came, according to Murphy, from dreams of family members. Therefore, it is a record which is almost exclusively rooted in the subjects of love and death which serves as a tribute to his loved ones both living and dead.

As you might expect, the lyrical content is far from breezy. The songs are often bleak. On opener Lazarus, for example, Murphy sighs ‘And the sky’s as alcoholic as it’s ever been / The whole world’s got Alzheimers and we’re just checking in’. Equally crushing is the final line of Tobias Grey: ‘At a very young age, the paramedics took her away’. Such is the extent of the gloom, that by the time a fairly straightforward love song like Drift appears (sample lyric: ‘You’re my lover, my very best friend / I want to hold you forever’), it’s still difficult to shake the dark clouds that might appear to have formed your ears on listening.

Clearly then, Postdata is not an album to lift your spirits on a dank Monday morning. However, that’s not to say that it is an entirely depressing piece of work. It’s a dead-of-night record which, despite (or possibly because of) its forlorn content can soothe your aching limbs. There’s a warmth in Murphy’s delivery which isn’t always present on Wintersleep’s output, presumably because of the heartfelt content of the songs. His voice is responsible for a lot of the emotional impact of the album, rarely rising above the gentle whisper which glides lazily along the acoustic guitar lines.

We’ve seen a different side to Paul Murphy on Postdata, one only very gently hinted at on Wintersleep’s albums. It’s interesting to see how the style of these songs is incorporated in Wintersleep’s future work, if at all. That’s a musing for another day though. For the time being, all that we really need to consider right now is that Postdata is a beautifully-realised piece of work which has set an early high watermark for anyone considering making an album of acoustic laments this year.

9/10

Asobi Seksu - ReWolf (Album)

Earlier this year, New York shoegazers Asobi Seksu released their third studio album Hush. It showed progression from their previous releases, moving away from their usual noise-heavy sound to something a little less ostentatious. As it turned out, the record proved slightly underwhelming, but then it had two very strong predecessors to live up to.

Asobi have always been partial to giving us the odd little sweetener between albums, and they’re at it again with ReWolf, which is a collection of acoustic reworkings of their existing compositions and a Hope Sandoval cover, all laid down in a single day in London last year. It’s actually a repackaged and renamed version of the previously tour / webshop only ‘Acoustic at Olympic Studios’, and is presumably designed to tide us over while they work on Hush’s follow-up. And, if that is ReWolf’s main aim, then you can certainly say mission accomplished. What we get here is an interesting curio, which showcases a starker, more fragile side to Asobi Seksu which we have only really seen fleeting glimpses of on previous releases.

By removing the heavily layered noise normally present on most of these songs, they have definitely emphasized the beauty of Yuki Chikudate’s voice.
However, in doing so they have also inadvertently taken away an important component in what was good about them in the first place. Because part of what makes Asobi Seksu interesting is the contradiction between the tumult of the guitars and the beguiling little girl lost vocals. Without that juxtaposition, this album can occasionally sound a bit one-dimensional, and at worst comes off like those pointless acoustic versions bands sometimes put out as b-sides when they’ve run out of songs.

ReWolf’s best moments are mainly the songs which were already relatively quiet, like Blind Little Rain and Breathe Into Glass. The emotional pull already present in those songs is amplified and thus so is their intrinsic quality. A large chunk of the credit here is due to Yuki’s delivery, the prettiness of which is unquestionably the highlight of the album. Of the songs which get a major reworking, only Thursday really benefits. Perhaps this is because the delicately melodic rehash it receives seems a bit less wishy-washy and a lot more thought out than some of the other songs on here.

Really then, ReWolf is a bit of a mixed bag. It’s a sweet and occasionally gorgeous listen, and like all of their records is a logical step from its predecessor, but it also leaves them at a bit of a crossroads. You wonder now what Album Four will sound like. I don’t think there’s any fear that they’ve fallen out of love with noise. Anyone who saw them on their UK tour earlier this year probably still has a faint ringing in their ears, so I think I can say with confidence that they won‘t be descending into radio-rock hell for the foreseeable future at least. That said, it might still be worth crossing your fingers that Yuki and James are astute enough to realise what makes their band so compelling.

6/10

Left With Pictures - Beyond Our Means (Album)

We’ve always had a special connection to pop music in this country. At the risk of being immodest in a way that is unbecoming to an Englishman, I’d hazard a guess that this is because pop music is something we’ve always been pretty good at. And really, everybody likes pop music in one form or another, be it X-Factor-tainted radio-pop or something more cerebral. A well-constructed and catchy song is one of life’s great immutable pleasures.

This is a fact which is clearly not lost on London band Left With Pictures. Having formed at university and played around with their sound, they now come armed with an array of folk instruments and a mission to restore classicism to pop music. These ingredients, coupled with a dauntingly prodigious ear for melody, have brought about their debut record Beyond Our Means, which is a collection of chamber pop of the most elegant kind. It’s charming, likeable and about as English as it gets.

The record blends breezy pop songs with more hazy, dreamy pieces. Recent singles ‘Every Stitch, Every Line’ and ‘Her Father’s Nose’, hinge on jaunty melodies and playful choruses . Both are wonderful examples of the band’s enviable proficiency with pop‘s holy grail, the ability to create something that is at once memorable, catchy and extremely moreish. The album’s title track is another great success, sounding as it does like a drunken singalong in the politest pub you could ever imagine.

As comfortable as they are with bouncy melodiousness, Left With Pictures are equally adept with a more pensive approach. On ‘Yours, Tom Maclean’ singer Stuart Barter laments that “My song-writing’s over / What could I write here in Leicester?”. The song is structured as a letter to a old friend, and is about as close as this album comes to anything experimental. It is mournful, but at the same time tinged with optimism.

Similar in mood, closing track ‘Ghosts of ‘89’ is a gorgeous elegy for the naive joys of youth, evoking Cider With Rosie type images of summers that seem to unfold without end: “July seemed an acre of time / Stretching out beyond Hadrian‘s Wall”. This is subject matter which is in ideal hands with Left With Pictures, because one of their greatest strengths is the ability to inspire almost child-like feelings of hopefulness with their songs.

You could really pick out any song at random on Beyond Our Means and hold it up as an example of Left With Pictures’ class. The album is a lesson in the art of song craft, and it is presented in such a way that I would find it difficult to imagine anyone not warming to the band on hearing it. Some people might be put off by the shamelessly twee loveliness of the whole thing, or even misconstrue its effortlessness for being lightweight or throwaway. In reality though, this is an album which is deceptively substantial and ambitious. It is paradoxically youthful and world-weary all at one, and is a late contender to be crowned the most heartwarming album of the year.

9/10

Tickley Feather - Hors d'Oeuvres (Album)

Sometimes music can be a seasonal thing, in that certain artists will be most enjoyable at a particular time of year. The National, for example, are tailor-made for those gloomy rain-soaked nights in November. And I find myself far more inclined to reach for an Ash record during those all too fleeting days of summer we get in this country. With that in mind, it seems quite fitting that in the run-up to Halloween we get a record as eerie and unsettling as Hors d’Oeuvres, the follow-up to last year’s eponymous debut by Tickley Feather (aka Annie Sachs).

When you learn that Tickley Feather is signed to Animal Collective’s Paw Tracks imprint, it should come as no surprise that she specialises in hazy, lo-fi bedroom pop. However, she is able to avoid falling into four-track cliché hell by dint of the genuinely idiosyncratic charm her sound carries.

She takes simple components, and builds something that is more than the mere sum of its parts. Most of the songs hang around a bouncy drumbeat, a simple melody and Sachs’s ghost-child vocal delivery, which is usually submerged deep under a sea of distortion. There are moments on the record, in fact, like ‘Sure Relaxing’ where the haze is so heavy that it’s hard to tell whether we are hearing Sachs’ voice or some other alien instrument.

The murky sound established on Hors d’Oeuvures creates a heady and occasionally oppressive atmosphere, which is at odds with the playful delivery of the words and melodies. The juxtaposition between the haunting and the naive is one of the key things that make the record such a likeable and engaging listen.

That said, at times it can be difficult to escape the nagging feeling that the record occasionally relies a bit too heavily on its sense of wooziness. You can’t help but find yourself wishing that Sachs’ strangely enticing voice wasn’t always so deeply obscured, as you suspect it could tug on the heartstrings a lot more than we experience here. Arguably the only instance of any kind of emotional impact is the simplistic and delicate ‘Roses of Romance’.

The most successful moments on Hors d’Oeuvres are the ones where Tickley really lets herself go. The record hinges on it’s slightly sleazy, groove-driven centre-piece ‘Trashy Boys’ and the brilliant bedroom disco of ‘Club Rhythm 96 and Cell Phone’. As well as this, closing track ‘Tickley Plays Guitar’ is a pulsating pysch guitar instrumental which is a world away from the rest of the album, and lends a splash of variation. These highlights are undoubtedly the enduring things you take away from the album, rather than the occasional frustrating lapse into auto-pilot.

Thanks largely to a keenly developed sense of the perverse which is exhibited in naming her second album Hors d’Oeuvres, Tickley Feather has crafted a mostly successful and enriching half hour of creative and experimental pop. She perhaps needs to surrender herself to the urge to get carried away rather than falling back on the tried and tested. However, there’s a lot to like here, and you get the sense that with every release, she will get better and better.

7/10

J. Tillman - Year in the Kingdom (Album)

For about eighteen months or so it has been compulsory when writing about Josh Tillman’s solo work to make reference to the fact that he happens to be the drummer of Fleet Foxes. So let’s slay that particular elephant sitting in the corner of the room straight away, shall we? The fact of the matter is that Year in the Kingdom is his sixth album in five years which strongly suggests that, vastly contrasting commercial fortunes aside, his day job comprises of solo work, and Fleet Foxes is a mere side project.

The sort of down-at-heel folk baladeering which Tillman specialises in is a popular market to say the least, teeming with over-earnest chancers trying desperately to convince us of their authenticity. However, authenticity is something weaved so intricately into the fabric of Tillman’s compositions that he doesn’t even have to try. And perhaps that’s the secret to success.

Year in the Kingdom continues where Vacillando Territory Blues left off earlier this year, adorned with little more than Tillman’s weatherbeaten voice and sparse guitar work. In spite of it’s elemental make-up, the album rarely descends into the realms of the forgettable or samey. For the majority of its duration, it maintains a tight grip of your senses. One of Tillman’s greatest strengths is his ability to use his ingredients sparingly. This includes his use of time, as the record is short enough at thirty-four minutes not to crush you under its weariness.

Curiously, the album starts off with one of its more optimistic feeling moments, in the form of its title track. As it progresses however, the sense of bleakness builds, particularly in the lyrics. On ‘Marked in the Valley’, for example, it seems to be all Tillman can do to force out ‘I lied for my birthright and sold it on the roadside for half what it was worth’. Even when he sings ‘All is well’ on ‘Howling Light’, his tone is so heavily mired in defeat that you don’t believe him for a second.

On the odd occasion, pockets of light are able to pierce the gloom to glorious effect, like the gospel harmonies on ‘Crosswinds’, or the quiet sense of euphoria which builds up on ‘There is No Good in Me’. These tiny beacons of hopefulness showcase an ability to bend his mind away from sorrow which we don’t see too often from Tillman on this record. They give the album an extra dimension, and imbue it with a subtlety and complexity which set the really good acoustic singer-songwriter work apart from the shallow pretenders.

Year in the Kingdom may not be a feast of eclecticism, but it is a lesson in the construction of compelling, stripped-down folk. It is the ultimate accompaniment for those rainy nights where, if you were Conor Oberst, you would sit alone in a dingy room, soaking yourself in whisky and lamenting your many failings. For those of us unable to pull off such idyllic self-deconstruction, I guess we can just soak in its majesty and try to remember that the world is a decent place really.

8/10

Alberta Cross - Broken Side of Time (Album)

For a band to be able to lay authentic claim to a genre which is traditionally attached to a specific part of the world, do they necessarily need to be born and bred there? Is it enough to have spent your life immersed in that particular sound, soaking in your influences to the extent that emulating it is your only natural course? That seems logical to me, but to learn that a band making (in this instance) such flagrantly Americana-tinged rock as Alberta Cross are Anglo-Swedish is still a bit jarring.

Last year they supported Oasis on a tour of the UK’s favourite aircraft hangars, and it’s not too hard to see why they were chosen for the job. Not because they’re a bad band (although given Noel’s heroically terrible taste in support bands, it would be a fair assumption to make before hearing them), but because of the combination of loud guitars and bluesy elements they utilise and in which Oasis seemed to think they excelled in their latter years.

Perhaps Alberta Cross feel the need to prove their authenticity a bit more sharply than they might if they were from Alabama, but their debut album Broken Side of Time is positively dripping in blues and folk influences. There’s little doubt about their sincerity, regardless of humdrum issues of nationality, but execution is another matter entirely.

Over the course of the ten songs which constitute their debut, Alberta Cross flourish, and fall short in pretty equal measure. At their best, they are woozy, weather beaten, and very occasionally heartbreaking. However, on too many occasions you get the impression that they ramp up the volume to mask a shortage of ideas. When this happens, as it does most obviously on the album’s title track, they come across like a less likeable Kissaway Trail, or worse, a whiskey-soaked version of Starsailor.

Singer / guitarist Petter Ericson Stakee’s voice acts as a barometer for the album. What starts off as an arresting and distinctive mumble becomes undeniably irritating as the record unfolds. In the same way that the guitars seem to be cranked up for the sake of it, his vocals are slammed straight into top gear without warning far too often, into a wail which smothers any hope of emotional engagement.

In the end, it’s the album’s lower-key moments which save it, and give Alberta Cross their biggest successes. ‘Old Man Chicago’ for instance is a pretty slice Ryan Adams-esque country rock, while ‘Rise From the Shadows’ builds slowly with menacing bass tones and creepy harmonies into one of the album’s most interesting pieces.

The best thing Broken Side of Time has to offer is it’s closing five minutes, ‘Ghost of City Life’. This tells the tale of a country boy jaded by the pressures and falsities of big city life. Set to a simplistic, folk backing, it aches with genuine emotion, and leaves you wishing that they had played to this strength more often. It does, however, finish the album on an undoubted positive, washing away some of the annoyances that might have built up over the previous forty-odd minutes.

Broken Side of Time is far from a wash-out, but it feels like an opportunity spurned. Some real quality lies within, but it’s difficult to lose yourself entirely when you know you can’t trust it not to wander off down the wrong path. That said, as a debut album it shows great promise. Provided they can focus themselves on what they do best, album number two could be very good indeed.

6/10

Nurses - Apple's Acre (Album)

There’s something quite romantic (clichéd as it may be) in the image of musicians wandering the highways of the USA in search of somewhere to settle to record their masterpiece. Probably aware of this, Nurses’ core constituents Aaron Chapman and John Bowers did their fair share of roaming before picking up drummer James Mitchell, settling in Portland, Oregon, and emptying their toybox on the floor to produce Apple’s Acre.

The record is a patchwork of the most gorgeous type of euphoric but bruised pop. The most instantly recognisable thing about Nurses is Chapman’s voice, which flits back and forth between a strangled Joanna Newsom and Avey Tare at his most rasping. The swelling and soaring of the vocals regularly lift the songs to emotional highs. They also convey a real vulnerability which is at times at odds with the melodies chirruping away under the surface, never more so than on ‘Caterpillar Playground’.

Such distinctive vocals put serious pressure on a band to provide suitably interesting instrumentation. With such a powerful instrument so readily on display, the whole thing might have fallen a bit flat without a strong supporting framework. Happily, Nurses’ are more than up to this challenge, as they pack Apple’s Acre with rickety piano, overbearing organ and electronic flourishes, dousing the whole thing in blissful melody.

One of the most interesting and fulfilling things about Apple’s Acre is its sense of fluidity. It’s a living, breathing thing and just when you think you’ve got it figured out, it wanders off in a different direction like a mischievous child. It hints at this on opening track ‘Technicolor’, which is a journey in itself. It starts off with just Chapman’s voice at its most fearful and affecting, before mutating into a joyously twisted party atmosphere.

From then on, the album follows a similarly unpredictable course, veering between the pained and visceral (‘Mile After Mile’, ‘Winter’), deranged torch songs (‘Bright Ideas’) and sheer unbridled elation (‘Apple’s Acre’). The latter is one of the album’s real highlights, and comes as a wonderful surprise the first time you hear it, imbued as it is with that sense of urgency and gleeful harmonies that you would associate with the best pop songs of the 60s.

As full as their songs are, Nurses also understand the value of being concise. It comes as a surprise the first time you realise that Apple’s Acre clocks in at only thirty five minutes, because it feels like there’s enough content here to fill at least an hour. Brevity is perhaps a virtue here. It’s difficult to imagine such a joyful album ever dragging on, but it’s a clever stroke from Nurses to ensure that it never gets a chance to outstay its welcome.

Apple’s Acre is a tale of ambitions realised. Nurses set out to create a storybook of childish innocence, and they’ve achieved that. The album showcases their massive creativity and playfulness and is a fitting testament to the power of pop music to move your heart and head as well as your feet.

9/10