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A Farewell To Arms

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Polarising opinion like no other Pink Floyd release, The Final Cut arrived in 1983 as the relationship between Roger Waters and Dave Gilmour broke down irreparably amid a welter of accusations and recriminations. This was Waters' last Floyd album. It's also, conspicuously, a Waters solo LP, dutifully performed by the band and a clutch of session musicians And so aside from some typically vivid guitar solos from Gilmour on "Your Possible Pasts", "The Fletcher Memorial Home" and "The Final Cut", plus a vast array of sound effects from ticking clocks to the seagulls at Southampton dock, there is little connection to the old Floyd, the sweeping melodies and colourful soundscapes that entranced fans throughout the '70s. Returning to his preoccupation with the military and spreading it across the album, Waters is uncompromisingly, grimly realistic as he rages at the causes and effects of war. It's not easy listening, particularly with the addition of "When The Tigers Broke Free": choral, funereal, harrowingly child-like, it relates the true story of his father's death in WWII. The music is equally stark, often harsh. Waters is so close to your ear, you can hear him cross his "t" s. And despite the dramatic contrasts of "Your Possible Pasts" and "The Gunner's Dream", the orchestral arrangements, the odd Eastern flavour, the gospel singers and the thumping singalongability of "Not Now John", the soundtrack is generally as cheery as its subject matter. By the time the world ends in a nuclear flash with "Two Suns In The Sunset", one listener has decided Pink Floyd have turned into a bunch of miserable bastards while another has realised that Waters is offering a piece of himself; something very personal that is also universal and still, surprisingly, valid if for Thatcher and Reagan you read Blair and Bush.

Polarising opinion like no other Pink Floyd release, The Final Cut arrived in 1983 as the relationship between Roger Waters and Dave Gilmour broke down irreparably amid a welter of accusations and recriminations.

This was Waters’ last Floyd album. It’s also, conspicuously, a Waters solo LP, dutifully performed by the band and a clutch of session musicians And so aside from some typically vivid guitar solos from Gilmour on “Your Possible Pasts”, “The Fletcher Memorial Home” and “The Final Cut”, plus a vast array of sound effects from ticking clocks to the seagulls at Southampton dock, there is little connection to the old Floyd, the sweeping melodies and colourful soundscapes that entranced fans throughout the ’70s. Returning to his preoccupation with the military and spreading it across the album, Waters is uncompromisingly, grimly realistic as he rages at the causes and effects of war. It’s not easy listening, particularly with the addition of “When The Tigers Broke Free”: choral, funereal, harrowingly child-like, it relates the true story of his father’s death in WWII. The music is equally stark, often harsh. Waters is so close to your ear, you can hear him cross his “t” s. And despite the dramatic contrasts of “Your Possible Pasts” and “The Gunner’s Dream”, the orchestral arrangements, the odd Eastern flavour, the gospel singers and the thumping singalongability of “Not Now John”, the soundtrack is generally as cheery as its subject matter.

By the time the world ends in a nuclear flash with “Two Suns In The Sunset”, one listener has decided Pink Floyd have turned into a bunch of miserable bastards while another has realised that Waters is offering a piece of himself; something very personal that is also universal and still, surprisingly, valid if for Thatcher and Reagan you read Blair and Bush.

Lonnie Liston Smith

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Lonnie Liston Smith was originally a sideman with the great jazz saxophonist Pharoah Sanders, for whom he wrote the wonderfully limpid "Astral Travelling". As a solo artist or with his band The Cosmic Echoes, he was, as these reissues demonstrate, a boundlessly sanguine purveyor of jazz funk whose e...

Lonnie Liston Smith was originally a sideman with the great jazz saxophonist Pharoah Sanders, for whom he wrote the wonderfully limpid “Astral Travelling”. As a solo artist or with his band The Cosmic Echoes, he was, as these reissues demonstrate, a boundlessly sanguine purveyor of jazz funk whose endless exhortations for peace and unity, delivered over fast-moving electric keyboards, made him an uplifting and accessible antidote to the more darkly angular likes of Miles Davis or Sun Ra, who operated in similar sonic space.

Sadly, Smith has become tainted by association with the whole Gilles Peterson/Acid Jazz axis, too-easy fodder for annoying turntablists in trendy Shoreditch or those in search of an aesthetically lazy chill-out.

Doubtless Smith has been grateful for the attention this has afforded him, and to some extent his ambrosial fusion has made him too easy prey for clich

Tompaulin – Everything Was Beautiful And Nothing Hurt

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Gathering singles and "bits and pieces" to date (they're recording a new album with ex-Mary Chain chaps), this cracking collection from the fey provocateurs named after the Meldrew-esque poet is riddled with moments of gentle genius. While their funny, wry words list the perils of being a Soft Lad oop north, the music lulls you into a false burr of tenderness before kicking you in the guts. They're everything the hideous Belle & Sebastian purport to be, only with the grace and grit to know how to place telling Velvets chords just so. "Slender" and "It's A Girl's World" are lovely, but it's the savage surprise riffs of "My Life As A Car Crash" and the sublime "Give Me A Riot In The Summertime" which convince you they're muscle as well as brain. All this and "My Perfect Girlfriend", the entire lyrical content of which is "d ebbie, debbie harry". A revelation.

Gathering singles and “bits and pieces” to date (they’re recording a new album with ex-Mary Chain chaps), this cracking collection from the fey provocateurs named after the Meldrew-esque poet is riddled with moments of gentle genius. While their funny, wry words list the perils of being a Soft Lad oop north, the music lulls you into a false burr of tenderness before kicking you in the guts. They’re everything the hideous Belle & Sebastian purport to be, only with the grace and grit to know how to place telling Velvets chords just so. “Slender” and “It’s A Girl’s World” are lovely, but it’s the savage surprise riffs of “My Life As A Car Crash” and the sublime “Give Me A Riot In The Summertime” which convince you they’re muscle as well as brain. All this and “My Perfect Girlfriend”, the entire lyrical content of which is “d ebbie, debbie harry”. A revelation.

Various Artists – Folk Roots: A Classic Anthology Of Song

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Folk Roots mixes the obvious with the obscure and serves as an effective introduction to English, Scottish and Irish folk music at the moment it was reaching out from the incipient clubs to embrace underground and pop audiences. Despite sneaking Donovan's "Universal Soldier" under the counter alongside one or two other folk-derived hits, like Ralph McTell's cloying "Streets Of London", this selection invariably hits the mark. There are five tracks from Transatlantic's best known folk ambassadors, Bert Jansch and John Renbourne, and choice cuts from lesser lights it championed, genuinely groundbreaking acts like Sweeney's Men, The Young Tradition, Dransfield and?a real boon?Mike & Lal Waterson's otherwise deleted "Bright Phoebus".

Folk Roots mixes the obvious with the obscure and serves as an effective introduction to English, Scottish and Irish folk music at the moment it was reaching out from the incipient clubs to embrace underground and pop audiences. Despite sneaking Donovan’s “Universal Soldier” under the counter alongside one or two other folk-derived hits, like Ralph McTell’s cloying “Streets Of London”, this selection invariably hits the mark. There are five tracks from Transatlantic’s best known folk ambassadors, Bert Jansch and John Renbourne, and choice cuts from lesser lights it championed, genuinely groundbreaking acts like Sweeney’s Men, The Young Tradition, Dransfield and?a real boon?Mike & Lal Waterson’s otherwise deleted “Bright Phoebus”.

The Doors – Boot Yer Butt!

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Starting with the earliest known live recordings of The Doors at the Avalon in 1967 and ending with LA Woman songs from their penultimate show at Dallas State Fair in 1970, the casually named Boot Yer Butt! is the last word in Doors archiving. Generally avoiding the obvious, guitarist Robbie Krieger's selections mine the blues hinterland of the band ("I'm A Man", "Little Red Rooster") and includes the MOR "The Soft Parade" plus brass, as well as all the big classics. High-quality sound and packaging aside, these discs offer a fascinating chronicle of a '60s band en route from clubs and high school halls to the Madison Square Garden and beyond. A fine distillation of an epic that only lasted for four years.

Starting with the earliest known live recordings of The Doors at the Avalon in 1967 and ending with LA Woman songs from their penultimate show at Dallas State Fair in 1970, the casually named Boot Yer Butt! is the last word in Doors archiving. Generally avoiding the obvious, guitarist Robbie Krieger’s selections mine the blues hinterland of the band (“I’m A Man”, “Little Red Rooster”) and includes the MOR “The Soft Parade” plus brass, as well as all the big classics. High-quality sound and packaging aside, these discs offer a fascinating chronicle of a ’60s band en route from clubs and high school halls to the Madison Square Garden and beyond. A fine distillation of an epic that only lasted for four years.

Justin Hayward & John Lodge

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In a world where postmodern apologies can be made for almost any corner of human creativity, posterity continues to resist Hayward and the Moodies. Aspiring to pensive mystical splendour, their polite prog?featuring Hayward's sensitive-whimper vocals sitting on overcooked orch-rock arrangements bolstering conspicuously underprepared songs?always contained the occasional decent tune and diverting conceit. However, though broadly similar in tone, they lacked the redeeming, dazzling musical flash of Yes, the wit of Genesis or the compositional chops of either, and have never enjoyed those groups' affectionate reappraisal. Main songwriter Hayward's '70s solo work is cut from the same wearying cloth but, amid the bluster, there are nuggets of inspiration for those who care to look. "Blue Guitar" on Blue Jays remains curiously haunting and "Country Girl" and "One Lonely Room" on Songwriter (by far the best of the three reissues) have a seductive, ELO-esque pop momentum. Sonically gorgeous, the superb remastering brings what were state-of-the-art productions in their day to vivid life, though the music remains an uncomfortable mix of the vast and vapid.

In a world where postmodern apologies can be made for almost any corner of human creativity, posterity continues to resist Hayward and the Moodies. Aspiring to pensive mystical splendour, their polite prog?featuring Hayward’s sensitive-whimper vocals sitting on overcooked orch-rock arrangements bolstering conspicuously underprepared songs?always contained the occasional decent tune and diverting conceit. However, though broadly similar in tone, they lacked the redeeming, dazzling musical flash of Yes, the wit of Genesis or the compositional chops of either, and have never enjoyed those groups’ affectionate reappraisal. Main songwriter Hayward’s ’70s solo work is cut from the same wearying cloth but, amid the bluster, there are nuggets of inspiration for those who care to look. “Blue Guitar” on Blue Jays remains curiously haunting and “Country Girl” and “One Lonely Room” on Songwriter (by far the best of the three reissues) have a seductive, ELO-esque pop momentum. Sonically gorgeous, the superb remastering brings what were state-of-the-art productions in their day to vivid life, though the music remains an uncomfortable mix of the vast and vapid.

Saving Grace

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It's easy to forget that, before the current alt.country boom opened doors for a new generation of female singer-songwriters, the position of women in country music was largely confined to decorative interpretation of the cliched hokum cranked out by Nashville's songwriting production line. Songwriting, it seemed, was man's work, so while the likes of Lyle Lovett and Randy Travis got to record their own material, few women were afforded similar latitude. Carpenter was the performer who broke that particular mould. For several years, she was virtually the only female country singer who wrote her own songs?the result, perhaps, of her origins in the soft-left folk music scene of the American north-east rather than the conservative southern attitudes that dominated mainstream country music. Her literate, liberal-minded songs were greedily snapped up by women such as Joan Baez, who were otherwise starved of material with such an emotionally articulate female viewpoint. But the best interpreter of her songs has always been Carpenter herself, signalling with subtle nuances of inflection their varieties of depth and humour. The largest part of this compilation comes from 1992's Come On, Come On, the album that broke her to a mainstream audience through Grammy-winning country hits like (Lucinda Williams') "Passionate Kisses", the wry "I Feel Lucky" and especially the anthemic instant classic "He Thinks He'll Keep Her", about an ignored wife pining for affection. Her signature piece, however, is probably the title track of 1994's Stones In The Road, one of several songs here dealing perceptively with the passage from youth to maturity. It's a theme she returned to in "The Long Way Home" from her most recent album, 2001's Time*Sex*Love, a more jaundiced look back at the careerist era "when everybody had to go, had to be, had to get somewhere" but in the process forgot where they came from, and why they were going anywhere in the first place. Not so Carpenter herself, whose work profits from a more considered, ruminative process. As she observes here, in a line that could serve as her own motto, it's "accidents and inspiration [that] lead you to your destination".

It’s easy to forget that, before the current alt.country boom opened doors for a new generation of female singer-songwriters, the position of women in country music was largely confined to decorative interpretation of the cliched hokum cranked out by Nashville’s songwriting production line. Songwriting, it seemed, was man’s work, so while the likes of Lyle Lovett and Randy Travis got to record their own material, few women were afforded similar latitude.

Carpenter was the performer who broke that particular mould. For several years, she was virtually the only female country singer who wrote her own songs?the result, perhaps, of her origins in the soft-left folk music scene of the American north-east rather than the conservative southern attitudes that dominated mainstream country music. Her literate, liberal-minded songs were greedily snapped up by women such as Joan Baez, who were otherwise starved of material with such an emotionally articulate female viewpoint. But the best interpreter of her songs has always been Carpenter herself, signalling with subtle nuances of inflection their varieties of depth and humour.

The largest part of this compilation comes from 1992’s Come On, Come On, the album that broke her to a mainstream audience through Grammy-winning country hits like (Lucinda Williams’) “Passionate Kisses”, the wry “I Feel Lucky” and especially the anthemic instant classic “He Thinks He’ll Keep Her”, about an ignored wife pining for affection. Her signature piece, however, is probably the title track of 1994’s Stones In The Road, one of several songs here dealing perceptively with the passage from youth to maturity. It’s a theme she returned to in “The Long Way Home” from her most recent album, 2001’s Time*Sex*Love, a more jaundiced look back at the careerist era “when everybody had to go, had to be, had to get somewhere” but in the process forgot where they came from, and why they were going anywhere in the first place. Not so Carpenter herself, whose work profits from a more considered, ruminative process. As she observes here, in a line that could serve as her own motto, it’s “accidents and inspiration [that] lead you to your destination”.

Ian Matthews – Valley Hi

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Matthews signed to Elektra as part of Plainsong. When their second album was rejected, he was offered a solo deal and placed with Monkee-turned-country-mogul Mike Nesmith to produce songs by Richard Thompson, Jackson Browne and other notables. A pleasant country-rock collection resulted, but Matthews' voice seems underwhelmed by and unsuited to the sound. Things improve on the self-produced follow-up, with good self-penned songs amid gems by Danny Whitten, Gene Clark, Steely Dan and Honeybus where those precise, refrigerated harmonies get a chance to display some beauty?gentle, low-temperature beauty with a '70s sheen, but beauty nonetheless.

Matthews signed to Elektra as part of Plainsong. When their second album was rejected, he was offered a solo deal and placed with Monkee-turned-country-mogul Mike Nesmith to produce songs by Richard Thompson, Jackson Browne and other notables. A pleasant country-rock collection resulted, but Matthews’ voice seems underwhelmed by and unsuited to the sound. Things improve on the self-produced follow-up, with good self-penned songs amid gems by Danny Whitten, Gene Clark, Steely Dan and Honeybus where those precise, refrigerated harmonies get a chance to display some beauty?gentle, low-temperature beauty with a ’70s sheen, but beauty nonetheless.

Elvis Presley – Ultimate Gospel

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Atheist Presley-casualties know that "(There's) No Room To Rhumba In A Sports Car" (from Fun In Acapulco!) speaks infinitely more universal truth than any of his wretched Jesus tunes. Christianity's recent 'softly softly' approach finds it tottering on its last legs; whereas modern fundamentalist 'orders' are all too aware that the route to religious success lies through fear and slaughter. Similarly, the only real success on this po-faced collection is "Run On", where Elvis sternly warns of a "Lord" threatening to "cut you down". When, in 1973, the King pleaded with the "Almighty" to "...help me", he was flatly refused. Bear this in mind now the clappy tedium of Ultimate Gospel presents itself as a purchase option.

Atheist Presley-casualties know that “(There’s) No Room To Rhumba In A Sports Car” (from Fun In Acapulco!) speaks infinitely more universal truth than any of his wretched Jesus tunes. Christianity’s recent ‘softly softly’ approach finds it tottering on its last legs; whereas modern fundamentalist ‘orders’ are all too aware that the route to religious success lies through fear and slaughter. Similarly, the only real success on this po-faced collection is “Run On”, where Elvis sternly warns of a “Lord” threatening to “cut you down”. When, in 1973, the King pleaded with the “Almighty” to “…help me”, he was flatly refused. Bear this in mind now the clappy tedium of Ultimate Gospel presents itself as a purchase option.

Konk – The Story Of Konk

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Formed in 1980, Konk were a key part of New York house, garage and techno's prehistory, their gigs a melting pot of hip hop, pre-sampling technology and DJ mixing. This sense of eclecticism and excitement doesn't quite come through on this collection, however, which consists mostly of instrumental, ...

Formed in 1980, Konk were a key part of New York house, garage and techno’s prehistory, their gigs a melting pot of hip hop, pre-sampling technology and DJ mixing. This sense of eclecticism and excitement doesn’t quite come through on this collection, however, which consists mostly of instrumental, brass-fronted funk workouts,

A Mighty Wind – Columbia

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Many are now admitting that the title may have been the funniest thing about Christopher Guest's latest piss-take of the earnest. Problem being that its chosen genre of cheesy '60s folk is barely remembered in the UK: Dylan and co presumably blew away the artists Guest is targeting. Also, he clearly nurtures an affection for these nerds. So while there are chuckles to be found in the fluffiness of Mitch & Mickey, The New Main Street Singers and The Folksmen (specifically in the lyrics of "Blood On The Coal"), there's nothing here to match the Tap, even with T-Bone Burnett exec-producing.

Many are now admitting that the title may have been the funniest thing about Christopher Guest’s latest piss-take of the earnest. Problem being that its chosen genre of cheesy ’60s folk is barely remembered in the UK: Dylan and co presumably blew away the artists Guest is targeting. Also, he clearly nurtures an affection for these nerds. So while there are chuckles to be found in the fluffiness of Mitch & Mickey, The New Main Street Singers and The Folksmen (specifically in the lyrics of “Blood On The Coal”), there’s nothing here to match the Tap, even with T-Bone Burnett exec-producing.

The Liars – They Were Wrong, So We Drowned

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This was recorded deep in the woods of New Jersey, its running theme that of the mythology surrounding witchcraft. However, The Liars' aim is to challenge the listener with their gruelling strangeness. Take "There's Always Room On The Broom", which fixates autistically on a single beat, or "Read The Book That Wrote Itself", in which the band intone slightly off key, as if on medication. Only with the closing tracks do they exhibit potentially addictive qualities but, by then, The Liars may well have been consigned to the ducking stool of oblivion by most listeners.

This was recorded deep in the woods of New Jersey, its running theme that of the mythology surrounding witchcraft. However, The Liars’ aim is to challenge the listener with their gruelling strangeness. Take “There’s Always Room On The Broom”, which fixates autistically on a single beat, or “Read The Book That Wrote Itself”, in which the band intone slightly off key, as if on medication. Only with the closing tracks do they exhibit potentially addictive qualities but, by then, The Liars may well have been consigned to the ducking stool of oblivion by most listeners.

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Dutch independent distribution company Konkurrent oversees the ongoing Fishtank series, in which invited artists are let loose in the studio for two days. Previous sessions have featured Tortoise, Low and Willard Grant Conspiracy, but for the 11th in the series San Diego post-rockers The Black Heart Procession have chosen to work with Dutch prog-rock outfit Solbakken. The result is a magisterial monument to the power of the sustained minor chord, and owes as much to the full-bodied drama of The Bad Seeds as to Mogwai, although closer "Your Cave" approaches the sepulchral splendour of The Triffids.

Dutch independent distribution company Konkurrent oversees the ongoing Fishtank series, in which invited artists are let loose in the studio for two days. Previous sessions have featured Tortoise, Low and Willard Grant Conspiracy, but for the 11th in the series San Diego post-rockers The Black Heart Procession have chosen to work with Dutch prog-rock outfit Solbakken. The result is a magisterial monument to the power of the sustained minor chord, and owes as much to the full-bodied drama of The Bad Seeds as to Mogwai, although closer “Your Cave” approaches the sepulchral splendour of The Triffids.

The Vines – Winning Days

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The expensive stodge of The Vines' much-hyped debut didn't bode well for a follow-up. Bits of Winning Days almost captivate: the elastic riffage of "Ride", the star-struck interludes of "TV Pro" (which rupture into pedestrian guitar stomp and non-verbal wailing), most of the diaphanous "Autumn Shade". You will search in vain for a simple, affecting song, however, and Craig Nicholls has an unappealing non-voice. It's hard to fight the feeling this is average songwriting buffed into something near-palatable by the amount of money spent on it. At least Nicholls isn't ripping off Nirvana quite as blatantly as he was first time around.

The expensive stodge of The Vines’ much-hyped debut didn’t bode well for a follow-up. Bits of Winning Days almost captivate: the elastic riffage of “Ride”, the star-struck interludes of “TV Pro” (which rupture into pedestrian guitar stomp and non-verbal wailing), most of the diaphanous “Autumn Shade”. You will search in vain for a simple, affecting song, however, and Craig Nicholls has an unappealing non-voice. It’s hard to fight the feeling this is average songwriting buffed into something near-palatable by the amount of money spent on it. At least Nicholls isn’t ripping off Nirvana quite as blatantly as he was first time around.

The Aluminum Group – More Happyness

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If the Pet Shops Boys had spent the last 15 years polishing the melancholy essence of Behaviour to a fine sheen, they might have ended up with a record as elegantly touching as this. The second instalment in the Happyness trilogy, it's the kind of music iPods would make if they could pleasure themselves: brushed metal, modernist curves, a touch sensitive. Stephin Merritt is famously interested in avant garde and bubblegum, and nothing in between. The Aluminum Group, with a similar sensibility, have great fun with precisely this 'in between': pale ghosts of early-'70s AM radio MOR returning to haunt the laptop. "Love is a switch you turn on and off," they sing. "When I broke the door in, you called the cops." But the pursuit of happiness continues, through the rainy days and Mondays, and The Aluminum Group aren't about to give up the chase. Roll on next year's concluding set, Little Happyness.

If the Pet Shops Boys had spent the last 15 years polishing the melancholy essence of Behaviour to a fine sheen, they might have ended up with a record as elegantly touching as this. The second instalment in the Happyness trilogy, it’s the kind of music iPods would make if they could pleasure themselves: brushed metal, modernist curves, a touch sensitive.

Stephin Merritt is famously interested in avant garde and bubblegum, and nothing in between. The Aluminum Group, with a similar sensibility, have great fun with precisely this ‘in between’: pale ghosts of early-’70s AM radio MOR returning to haunt the laptop. “Love is a switch you turn on and off,” they sing. “When I broke the door in, you called the cops.” But the pursuit of happiness continues, through the rainy days and Mondays, and The Aluminum Group aren’t about to give up the chase. Roll on next year’s concluding set, Little Happyness.

Squarepusher – Ultravisitor

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Thom Yorke and OutKast recently rhapsodised about 28-year-old Tom Jenkinson's capricious musical genius. Compared to the ideas-overloaded Ultravisitor, Squarepusher's ninth album, their current efforts sound as simple as the Cheeky Girls. Jenkinson has here let his imagination roam free, fashioning an 80-minute symphonic odyssey that's as wilfully indulgent as it is breathtakingly advanced. Yet Jenkinson has taken great care to sculpt the kaleidoscopic range of sounds on display?everything from frenzied live bass assaults and crowd applause to daring drum programming, celestial passages and fragrant melodies?so that this heaving banquet is digestible in one sitting. A mighty statement of intent, Ultravisitor has to be heard to be believed. It is not for the faint-hearted?but when were they ever any fun?

Thom Yorke and OutKast recently rhapsodised about 28-year-old Tom Jenkinson’s capricious musical genius. Compared to the ideas-overloaded Ultravisitor, Squarepusher’s ninth album, their current efforts sound as simple as the Cheeky Girls. Jenkinson has here let his imagination roam free, fashioning an 80-minute symphonic odyssey that’s as wilfully indulgent as it is breathtakingly advanced. Yet Jenkinson has taken great care to sculpt the kaleidoscopic range of sounds on display?everything from frenzied live bass assaults and crowd applause to daring drum programming, celestial passages and fragrant melodies?so that this heaving banquet is digestible in one sitting. A mighty statement of intent, Ultravisitor has to be heard to be believed. It is not for the faint-hearted?but when were they ever any fun?

Key Changes

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Mehldau is a brilliant, controversial figure in the world of jazz piano. Over the last decade, his lofty output (sample titles: Progression: The Art Of The Trio Vol 5) has paraded its glittering intellectualism to the delight of some, the aggressive indifference of others. It consists of convoluted reworkings of unassuming standards into semi-abstract 7/8 burn-outs, notably halting examinations of ballads and originals which vividly reveal his classical roots. The CDs themselves have often been accompanied by densely argued essays concerning aesthetics, philosophy, the limitation of language and tortuous elucidation on the mechanics of interplay between himself and his group, Larry Grenadier (bass) and Jorge Rosse (drums). If the instinctive reaction to such self-consciousness is suspicion?of course we expect our musical leaders to be bright, but maybe not make such a deal of it?his music usually wins through. Unquestionably a majestic player, while his own impressive albums have often suffered from a distracting ego-unleashed quality, his piano work on other people's records?like Close Enough For Love by singer (and Mehldau's wife) Fleurine and Charles Lloyd's The Water Is Wide?is sensitively reactive and impeccably musical. And his last album, Largo, surrendered a little more to the visceral as it flirted with electronic processing and?in the climax of his ongoing musical interest in the band?delivered a cover of Radiohead's "Paranoid Android". Anything Goes is his first studio album with the trio since 1998's Songs, and while his musical trademarks remain, it feels less feverishly dazzling than before. The tricksiness sounds more organic and relaxed (the 5/4 title track swings beautifully), the quiet moments (a minimalist pick-through of Henry Mancini's "Dreamsville", an enquiring-child dismantling of Charlie Chaplin's "Smile") feel deeper and more real. Those keen to hear his latest Radiohead thoughts will be thrilled by a rolling, retching "Everything In Its Right Place". There's a sense on Anything Goes of an older, calmer Mehldau wielding the slide rule with a little more discretion, the result being his music is becoming as easy to love as it is to gulpingly admire.

Mehldau is a brilliant, controversial figure in the world of jazz piano. Over the last decade, his lofty output (sample titles: Progression: The Art Of The Trio Vol 5) has paraded its glittering intellectualism to the delight of some, the aggressive indifference of others. It consists of convoluted reworkings of unassuming standards into semi-abstract 7/8 burn-outs, notably halting examinations of ballads and originals which vividly reveal his classical roots. The CDs themselves have often been accompanied by densely argued essays concerning aesthetics, philosophy, the limitation of language and tortuous elucidation on the mechanics of interplay between himself and his group, Larry Grenadier (bass) and Jorge Rosse (drums).

If the instinctive reaction to such self-consciousness is suspicion?of course we expect our musical leaders to be bright, but maybe not make such a deal of it?his music usually wins through. Unquestionably a majestic player, while his own impressive albums have often suffered from a distracting ego-unleashed quality, his piano work on other people’s records?like Close Enough For Love by singer (and Mehldau’s wife) Fleurine and Charles Lloyd’s The Water Is Wide?is sensitively reactive and impeccably musical. And his last album, Largo, surrendered a little more to the visceral as it flirted with electronic processing and?in the climax of his ongoing musical interest in the band?delivered a cover of Radiohead’s “Paranoid Android”.

Anything Goes is his first studio album with the trio since 1998’s Songs, and while his musical trademarks remain, it feels less feverishly dazzling than before. The tricksiness sounds more organic and relaxed (the 5/4 title track swings beautifully), the quiet moments (a minimalist pick-through of Henry Mancini’s “Dreamsville”, an enquiring-child dismantling of Charlie Chaplin’s “Smile”) feel deeper and more real. Those keen to hear his latest Radiohead thoughts will be thrilled by a rolling, retching “Everything In Its Right Place”.

There’s a sense on Anything Goes of an older, calmer Mehldau wielding the slide rule with a little more discretion, the result being his music is becoming as easy to love as it is to gulpingly admire.

Haven – All For A Reason

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Haven's debut has now sold over 150,000 copies, so there's clearly a market for this kind of third division not-so-indie rock. So derivative is the Haven sound that the opening of "Have No Fear" manages to sound both like late-period James and Manic Street Preachers' "Motorcycle Emptiness". Which isn't so surprising given that Manics producer Dave Eringa manned the desk, as, rather more disturbingly, did Johnny Marr, who clearly hasn't pulled himself out of his recent creative nosedive. All For A Reason is uniformly epic and stirring, apart from "Wouldn't Change A Thing", which sounds a bit like The La's. Singer Gary Briggs' is a prosaic melancholy, and his tone oddly transatlantic. A rum do.

Haven’s debut has now sold over 150,000 copies, so there’s clearly a market for this kind of third division not-so-indie rock. So derivative is the Haven sound that the opening of “Have No Fear” manages to sound both like late-period James and Manic Street Preachers’ “Motorcycle Emptiness”. Which isn’t so surprising given that Manics producer Dave Eringa manned the desk, as, rather more disturbingly, did Johnny Marr, who clearly hasn’t pulled himself out of his recent creative nosedive. All For A Reason is uniformly epic and stirring, apart from “Wouldn’t Change A Thing”, which sounds a bit like The La’s. Singer Gary Briggs’ is a prosaic melancholy, and his tone oddly transatlantic. A rum do.

Metric – Old World Underground,Where Are You Now?

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"All we do is talk, sit, switch screens/As the homeland plans enemies" sings Emily Haines on "Succexy", with such sweet/sour pith and vinegar she distills all Radiohead's epic bellyaching into wonderfully succinct pop. You could be forgiven for pegging Metric as skinny-tie Europhiles?in the same vein as fellow Canadians The New Pornographers?if it weren't for Haines' majestic scorn. "Combat Baby" ("How I miss your ranting/Do you miss my all-time lows?") wishes love were more of a battlefield, while coolly suggesting a 'bring the troops home' anthem. Haines was once in mellow electro-crooners Stars, and songs like "Calculation Theme" are as poised and poignant as they ever achieved, but it's when the band get worked up, as on would-be drivetime smash "Dead Disco", that they come into their own, raging against "dead funk and dead rock'n'roll". A triumph.

“All we do is talk, sit, switch screens/As the homeland plans enemies” sings Emily Haines on “Succexy”, with such sweet/sour pith and vinegar she distills all Radiohead’s epic bellyaching into wonderfully succinct pop. You could be forgiven for pegging Metric as skinny-tie Europhiles?in the same vein as fellow Canadians The New Pornographers?if it weren’t for Haines’ majestic scorn. “Combat Baby” (“How I miss your ranting/Do you miss my all-time lows?”) wishes love were more of a battlefield, while coolly suggesting a ‘bring the troops home’ anthem. Haines was once in mellow electro-crooners Stars, and songs like “Calculation Theme” are as poised and poignant as they ever achieved, but it’s when the band get worked up, as on would-be drivetime smash “Dead Disco”, that they come into their own, raging against “dead funk and dead rock’n’roll”. A triumph.

The Fence Collective – Fence Reunited

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The most original Scottish label since Postcard, Fence began in 1995 as a repository for a welter of leftfield musicians with have-a-go spirit. Having already released beautifully scuffed LPs, James Yorkston, Tom (U.N.P.O.C.) Bauchop and early Beta Band man Lone Pigeon feature here, as do HMS Ginafore, Pip Dylan, Gummo Bako and King Creosote, who offers up the gorgeous "A Friday Night In New York". Like watching slow bruises spread over soft fruit.

The most original Scottish label since Postcard, Fence began in 1995 as a repository for a welter of leftfield musicians with have-a-go spirit. Having already released beautifully scuffed LPs, James Yorkston, Tom (U.N.P.O.C.) Bauchop and early Beta Band man Lone Pigeon feature here, as do HMS Ginafore, Pip Dylan, Gummo Bako and King Creosote, who offers up the gorgeous “A Friday Night In New York”. Like watching slow bruises spread over soft fruit.

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