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Kid Rock

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Prolific to the point of exhaustion, John Darnielle is sometime care worker, gonzo rock critic and fanzine publisher while also leading an outfit who've now released 12 albums in little over eight years. Mountain Goats records?despite featuring such unlikely collaborators as the Bright Mountain Choir?have essentially served as DIY solo vehicles. Despite 2002's boozesoaked Tallahassee shunting production values up a notch, the sentiment (or lack of) remained the same. Darnielle's bedrock is the written word: barbed, spiteful and bristling with thorns or alarmingly blunt, snapping life into focus. We Shall All Be Healed?inspired by Darnielle's one-time social circle?swaps alcoholism for junkiedom. If Tallahassee was The Days Of Wine And Roses, this is Last Exit To Brooklyn. In fact, though humour-streaked it may be, Hubert Selby Jr looks like Enid Blyton by comparison. The tunes, too?full band in tow, including longtime cohort Peter Hughes?are fittingly scabrous. Roky Erickson's influence is obvious on the spitting "Palmcorder Yajna" and "Home Again Garden Grove"'s chickenwire rasp. Unsurprising given Darnielle's penning of sleevenotes for Roky's remarkably similar Never Say Goodbye. But it's not all so cut and dry. Often, the music?as on "Your Belgian Things" or "Mole" (the latter a spine-shivering visit to a friend handcuffed to an intensive care bed)?is sweet, black and subtle: downcast piano, small skips of guitar, plops of violin. Darnielle's ugly-urgent voice is expressive too?a nasally folk bleat (forgive the pun) somewhere 'twixt Erickson and Phil Ochs. "Linda Blair Was Born Innocent" opens like an old Open University theme before, with strings and softly chugging guitar, it blooms like a dark orchid, while "All Up The Seething Coast" is just gorgeous: lightly powdered acoustic, spoken words and bassy rumble. It's the best thing he's written. Despite?or perhaps because of?its viscous air of paranoia, this record is unputdownable.

Prolific to the point of exhaustion, John Darnielle is sometime care worker, gonzo rock critic and fanzine publisher while also leading an outfit who’ve now released 12 albums in little over eight years. Mountain Goats records?despite featuring such unlikely collaborators as the Bright Mountain Choir?have essentially served as DIY solo vehicles. Despite 2002’s boozesoaked Tallahassee shunting production values up a notch, the sentiment (or lack of) remained the same. Darnielle’s bedrock is the written word: barbed, spiteful and bristling with thorns or alarmingly blunt, snapping life into focus.

We Shall All Be Healed?inspired by Darnielle’s one-time social circle?swaps alcoholism for junkiedom. If Tallahassee was The Days Of Wine And Roses, this is Last Exit To Brooklyn. In fact, though humour-streaked it may be, Hubert Selby Jr looks like Enid Blyton by comparison. The tunes, too?full band in tow, including longtime cohort Peter Hughes?are fittingly scabrous. Roky Erickson’s influence is obvious on the spitting “Palmcorder Yajna” and “Home Again Garden Grove”‘s chickenwire rasp. Unsurprising given Darnielle’s penning of sleevenotes for Roky’s remarkably similar Never Say Goodbye.

But it’s not all so cut and dry. Often, the music?as on “Your Belgian Things” or “Mole” (the latter a spine-shivering visit to a friend handcuffed to an intensive care bed)?is sweet, black and subtle: downcast piano, small skips of guitar, plops of violin. Darnielle’s ugly-urgent voice is expressive too?a nasally folk bleat (forgive the pun) somewhere ‘twixt Erickson and Phil Ochs. “Linda Blair Was Born Innocent” opens like an old Open University theme before, with strings and softly chugging guitar, it blooms like a dark orchid, while “All Up The Seething Coast” is just gorgeous: lightly powdered acoustic, spoken words and bassy rumble. It’s the best thing he’s written.

Despite?or perhaps because of?its viscous air of paranoia, this record is unputdownable.

Various Artists – Dr Lektroluv Presents Lektrokuted

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If you liked Kraftwerk and D.A.F., early Yello, Soft Cell and Human League, then you'll love what the International Deejay Gigolos, Disko B and City Rockers labels have been unleashing these past few years in the name of electroclash?essentially, the primitive pulse of early-'80s Swiss, German and UK synth-pop with the steel phallus of late-'80s Belgian New Beat, encased in a shiny 21stcentury carapace. The fourth in the Dr Lektroluv series features artists familiar to fans of the aforementioned imprints' recent output. These range from Bangkok Impact (23-year-old Finnish computer whizz Sami Luski) and the Mysterymen, whose "Electromode" is bassgasmic nitro-deluxe house, to dawn-of-electro types such as original sleazetronicists Neon Judgement and this season's digital disco favourites, Liaisons Dangereuses, and their ubiquitous "Peut Etre... Pas".

If you liked Kraftwerk and D.A.F., early Yello, Soft Cell and Human League, then you’ll love what the International Deejay Gigolos, Disko B and City Rockers labels have been unleashing these past few years in the name of electroclash?essentially, the primitive pulse of early-’80s Swiss, German and UK synth-pop with the steel phallus of late-’80s Belgian New Beat, encased in a shiny 21stcentury carapace.

The fourth in the Dr Lektroluv series features artists familiar to fans of the aforementioned imprints’ recent output. These range from Bangkok Impact (23-year-old Finnish computer whizz Sami Luski) and the Mysterymen, whose “Electromode” is bassgasmic nitro-deluxe house, to dawn-of-electro types such as original sleazetronicists Neon Judgement and this season’s digital disco favourites, Liaisons Dangereuses, and their ubiquitous “Peut Etre… Pas”.

The Fugs – The Fugs Final CD (Part 1)

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Their first new material since 1995's The Real Woodstock Festival, New York's original radicals (the current line-up's been together nearly 20 years) re-emerge with bile overflowing. Not surprising. Their original manifesto?personal freedom, no more war or poverty and lots of fun?has taken a pasting under Dubya. "Go Down, Congress" is startling in its uncovering of connections between Capitol Hill and Bin Laden, while the epic "Perpitude" (FBI tapping of Lennon) and "Government Surveillance Yodel" capture the indignant paranoia of life under Bush Jr. A highly original, enlightening, profane and inspired affair.

Their first new material since 1995’s The Real Woodstock Festival, New York’s original radicals (the current line-up’s been together nearly 20 years) re-emerge with bile overflowing. Not surprising. Their original manifesto?personal freedom, no more war or poverty and lots of fun?has taken a pasting under Dubya. “Go Down, Congress” is startling in its uncovering of connections between Capitol Hill and Bin Laden, while the epic “Perpitude” (FBI tapping of Lennon) and “Government Surveillance Yodel” capture the indignant paranoia of life under Bush Jr. A highly original, enlightening, profane and inspired affair.

Raiders Of The Lost ARP – 4 Nature

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Raiders Of The Lost ARP is the charismatic solo project from Rome's Mario Pierro. Best known as the tall one in car-boot electro duo Jolly Music, he excels himself here with a seductive album of rich, driving analogue funk and streamlined melodies. The beauty of 4 lies in Pierro's uncommon ability to extract a wealth of emotion from just a few notes on his synth. At times, as on "City Lights" and "Workflow", the glossy production evokes the airbrushed perfection of an Athena poster; it's almost too sentimental. Otherwise, this is immaculate.

Raiders Of The Lost ARP is the charismatic solo project from Rome’s Mario Pierro. Best known as the tall one in car-boot electro duo Jolly Music, he excels himself here with a seductive album of rich, driving analogue funk and streamlined melodies. The beauty of 4 lies in Pierro’s uncommon ability to extract a wealth of emotion from just a few notes on his synth. At times, as on “City Lights” and “Workflow”, the glossy production evokes the airbrushed perfection of an Athena poster; it’s almost too sentimental. Otherwise, this is immaculate.

The Church – Forget Yourself

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Kept alive by loyal Internet-rallied fans, guitarist Marty Willson-Piper's work ethic and perhaps even a dab of Donnie Darko magic?its soundtrack featured the band's lone US hit, 1988's shimmering "Under The Milky Way"?The Church are, against the odds, still a dreamily appealing proposition. Led, as ever, by the lusciously intimate vocals of Steve Kilbey, they're still essentially serving up an Antipodean franchise of Echo & The Bunnymen's sweeping neo-psychedelia. And while this album's best moments?confidently dramatic opener "Sealine", the shiveringly anthemic "Telepath", the sweetly elegiac "Maya"?don't equal their past glories, Sydney appears to be edging out Liverpool in the ageing-gracefully stakes.

Kept alive by loyal Internet-rallied fans, guitarist Marty Willson-Piper’s work ethic and perhaps even a dab of Donnie Darko magic?its soundtrack featured the band’s lone US hit, 1988’s shimmering “Under The Milky Way”?The Church are, against the odds, still a dreamily appealing proposition. Led, as ever, by the lusciously intimate vocals of Steve Kilbey, they’re still essentially serving up an Antipodean franchise of Echo & The Bunnymen’s sweeping neo-psychedelia. And while this album’s best moments?confidently dramatic opener “Sealine”, the shiveringly anthemic “Telepath”, the sweetly elegiac “Maya”?don’t equal their past glories, Sydney appears to be edging out Liverpool in the ageing-gracefully stakes.

Various Artists – Money Will Ruin Everything

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Like 4AD in the '80s and early '90s, Oslo's Rune Grammofon is one of those boutique labels defined as much by its graphic design as its music. So Money Will Ruin Everything's two CDs are enclosed in a hardback book, where essays and notes are secondary to Kim Hiorth...

Like 4AD in the ’80s and early ’90s, Oslo’s Rune Grammofon is one of those boutique labels defined as much by its graphic design as its music. So Money Will Ruin Everything’s two CDs are enclosed in a hardback book, where essays and notes are secondary to Kim Hiorth

Tim Rose – Snowed In (The Last Recordings)

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Tim Rose's surly baritone was a suitably scourging late-'60s presence on apocalyptic protest songs such as "Come Away Melinda" and the classic "Morning Dew", but there were fewer opportunities for prophets of doom in the hedonistic '70s, and he soon slipped from view. Cover versions by Nick Cave and Robert Plant revived interest decades later, and Rose made a return to performance in the mid-'90s, recording three more albums before finally succumbing to cancer in 2002, leaving behind the material that comprises Snowed In, a collection of murder ballads ("Hanging Tree", "Down In The Valley" and a re-recorded "Long Time Man"), loser's laments ("I Need Saving", "So Much To Lose") and reflections on life's vicissitudes ("Come What May"), some co-written with producer Colin Winston-Fletcher. Best of all is Winston-Fletcher's title track, an atmospheric monologue about enforced solitude set to evocative sheets of synthesiser, which makes good use of the grizzled, weatherbeaten tones that had secured Rose voiceover work on '80s commercials. An intriguing new departure, it was sadly a style discovered too late to affect his career.

Tim Rose’s surly baritone was a suitably scourging late-’60s presence on apocalyptic protest songs such as “Come Away Melinda” and the classic “Morning Dew”, but there were fewer opportunities for prophets of doom in the hedonistic ’70s, and he soon slipped from view.

Cover versions by Nick Cave and Robert Plant revived interest decades later, and Rose made a return to performance in the mid-’90s, recording three more albums before finally succumbing to cancer in 2002, leaving behind the material that comprises Snowed In, a collection of murder ballads (“Hanging Tree”, “Down In The Valley” and a re-recorded “Long Time Man”), loser’s laments (“I Need Saving”, “So Much To Lose”) and reflections on life’s vicissitudes (“Come What May”), some co-written with producer Colin Winston-Fletcher.

Best of all is Winston-Fletcher’s title track, an atmospheric monologue about enforced solitude set to evocative sheets of synthesiser, which makes good use of the grizzled, weatherbeaten tones that had secured Rose voiceover work on ’80s commercials. An intriguing new departure, it was sadly a style discovered too late to affect his career.

Lhasa – The Living Road

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Growing up in Quebec with Mexican parents meant Lhasa experienced a blend of cultures. Now based in France, she sings in Sp...

Growing up in Quebec with Mexican parents meant Lhasa experienced a blend of cultures. Now based in France, she sings in Sp

John Squire – Marshall’s House

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Like Johnny Marr and Bernard Butler, Squire suffers from the lead guitarist's desire to take centre stage. Like Marr and Butler, too, he doesn't have much of a voice?an oddly Americanised, strangled Peter Perrett squawk of extremely limited range which actually sounds painful to produce. Apparently these 11 songs are inspired by Edward Hopper's enigmatic Americana, but there's nothing that evokes the curious conflation of homeliness and unearthly stillness in Hopper's painting. Rather, it's a functional selection of unspectacular power pop with the odd pastoral bit. Hard to believe that this was the man responsible for the fluid, susurrous funk of "Fool's Gold": he needs what he probably wants least?a collaborating vocalist?to really fire him up.

Like Johnny Marr and Bernard Butler, Squire suffers from the lead guitarist’s desire to take centre stage. Like Marr and Butler, too, he doesn’t have much of a voice?an oddly Americanised, strangled Peter Perrett squawk of extremely limited range which actually sounds painful to produce. Apparently these 11 songs are inspired by Edward Hopper’s enigmatic Americana, but there’s nothing that evokes the curious conflation of homeliness and unearthly stillness in Hopper’s painting. Rather, it’s a functional selection of unspectacular power pop with the odd pastoral bit. Hard to believe that this was the man responsible for the fluid, susurrous funk of “Fool’s Gold”: he needs what he probably wants least?a collaborating vocalist?to really fire him up.

Cass McCombs – A

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A maverick who's already saddled with accusations of genius, McCombs is a Baltimore-based singer-songwriter whose brief history involves gigs with Will Oldham. The surprising twists and curls of his music may well inspire devotion similar to that thrust at Prince Billy. His voice?a cracked, chipped Dion?brooks no logic, slurring and sliding through arrestingly odd but sincere lyrics and ramshackle, extended structures, sometimes evoking Neil Young's On The Beach. Instant outsider classic "I Went To The Hospital" welcomes us in with a fear-of-death saga, and titles like "A Comedian Is Someone Who Tells Jokes" and "Aids In Africa" tell you this will be either challenge or chore. Take the plunge: anyone singing "I wanna be famous for falling in love" is clearly singing from the only place worth singing from.

A maverick who’s already saddled with accusations of genius, McCombs is a Baltimore-based singer-songwriter whose brief history involves gigs with Will Oldham. The surprising twists and curls of his music may well inspire devotion similar to that thrust at Prince Billy. His voice?a cracked, chipped Dion?brooks no logic, slurring and sliding through arrestingly odd but sincere lyrics and ramshackle, extended structures, sometimes evoking Neil Young’s On The Beach. Instant outsider classic “I Went To The Hospital” welcomes us in with a fear-of-death saga, and titles like “A Comedian Is Someone Who Tells Jokes” and “Aids In Africa” tell you this will be either challenge or chore.

Take the plunge: anyone singing “I wanna be famous for falling in love” is clearly singing from the only place worth singing from.

Obi – Dice Man Lopez

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If Alfie or Gorky's yank your chain, chances are Obi will too. As on 2002's sprightly mini album The Magic Land Of Radio, there are nods to classic American heritage (country-fiddler "Chewing My Soul"; "The Tale Of Old Rodriquez" trumpeting Arthur Lee-isms), but this is distinctly English fare, a latterday Lilac Time with Ian McCulloch out front. The La's without the shoulder chips, perhaps. Leader Damian Katkhuda's easy ear for a melody makes sad-sweet work of "Sleep Well Dear Friend" and the lovely "To Some Folk" which, wedded to Dom Hazlehurst's soothing arpeggios, partly compensates for the lack of cutting edge.

If Alfie or Gorky’s yank your chain, chances are Obi will too. As on 2002’s sprightly mini album The Magic Land Of Radio, there are nods to classic American heritage (country-fiddler “Chewing My Soul”; “The Tale Of Old Rodriquez” trumpeting Arthur Lee-isms), but this is distinctly English fare, a latterday Lilac Time with Ian McCulloch out front. The La’s without the shoulder chips, perhaps. Leader Damian Katkhuda’s easy ear for a melody makes sad-sweet work of “Sleep Well Dear Friend” and the lovely “To Some Folk” which, wedded to Dom Hazlehurst’s soothing arpeggios, partly compensates for the lack of cutting edge.

Mick Karn – More Better Different

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Twenty years on from Japan, Karn is still the bass player's bass player, only a lot less dull than that might sound. His consistently groundbreaking, idiosyncratic technique has bubbled and brooded through a series of solo LPs and "No 1 in the Far East" collaborations. This self-made slab of serenity sees him melding guitars, clarinet, samples and spoken word in nine mood pieces which swing from winningly funky ("The Jump") to cinematic noodling ("The End Gag"). I can't imagine anyone into Eno, Sylvian, Talk Talk or, for that matter, the better Radiohead tracks finding it less than transporting and beautifully optimistic.

Twenty years on from Japan, Karn is still the bass player’s bass player, only a lot less dull than that might sound. His consistently groundbreaking, idiosyncratic technique has bubbled and brooded through a series of solo LPs and “No 1 in the Far East” collaborations. This self-made slab of serenity sees him melding guitars, clarinet, samples and spoken word in nine mood pieces which swing from winningly funky (“The Jump”) to cinematic noodling (“The End Gag”). I can’t imagine anyone into Eno, Sylvian, Talk Talk or, for that matter, the better Radiohead tracks finding it less than transporting and beautifully optimistic.

Spaced Odyssey

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Those who consider Andy Partridge to be among the select few pop songwriters to possess an artistic spirit almost troubling in its creative rigour and intellectual irreverence have been frustrated over the years by the relative paucity of his output when compared to what they know to be his productivity. Just what does Andy get up to in that Swindon shed of his? Thanks to his own label, Ape, we now know; loads of spanking good demos (appearing regularly as volumes of Fuzzy Warbles) and stuff like this, a fascinating poetry&sound recasting of the Orpheus fable, recorded piecemeal over a 13-year period in collaboration with academic, poet, musician and left-field legend Peter Blegvad. Blegvad intones his fractured, elliptically resonant lines of sinister whimsy in fruity Americanese (whispered, cooed, hissed, barked) while Partridge constructs aural backdrops and scenescapes behind, around and within the spoken text. XTC heads may spot a little familiar material (themes from what became Nonsuch's "Omnibus" float in and out of "The Blimp Poet") but the sounds are mostly of the abstract expressionist variety. The effect recalls Godley & Creme's sonic illustrations of Peter Cook's apocalyptic playlet on their 1977 Consequences album, though the atmosphere and material here is darker and harder. This noise-and-word orgy is initially such an onslaught on your attention resources, it's hard to know what to concentrate on and tempting to dismiss it as the rarefied indulgence of artsy-for-artsy's-sake eggheads. But live with it for a while, study the beautiful booklet and printed text, turn off the light, soak it up as an organic whole and sure enough?just as the creators would have it?your own movie unfolds in your imagination. Blegvad and Partridge haven't just made a record?they've made a whole other world.

Those who consider Andy Partridge to be among the select few pop songwriters to possess an artistic spirit almost troubling in its creative rigour and intellectual irreverence have been frustrated over the years by the relative paucity of his output when compared to what they know to be his productivity. Just what does Andy get up to in that Swindon shed of his?

Thanks to his own label, Ape, we now know; loads of spanking good demos (appearing regularly as volumes of Fuzzy Warbles) and stuff like this, a fascinating poetry&sound recasting of the Orpheus fable, recorded piecemeal over a 13-year period in collaboration with academic, poet, musician and left-field legend Peter Blegvad.

Blegvad intones his fractured, elliptically resonant lines of sinister whimsy in fruity Americanese (whispered, cooed, hissed, barked) while Partridge constructs aural backdrops and scenescapes behind, around and within the spoken text. XTC heads may spot a little familiar material (themes from what became Nonsuch’s “Omnibus” float in and out of “The Blimp Poet”) but the sounds are mostly of the abstract expressionist variety. The effect recalls Godley & Creme’s sonic illustrations of Peter Cook’s apocalyptic playlet on their 1977 Consequences album, though the atmosphere and material here is darker and harder.

This noise-and-word orgy is initially such an onslaught on your attention resources, it’s hard to know what to concentrate on and tempting to dismiss it as the rarefied indulgence of artsy-for-artsy’s-sake eggheads. But live with it for a while, study the beautiful booklet and printed text, turn off the light, soak it up as an organic whole and sure enough?just as the creators would have it?your own movie unfolds in your imagination. Blegvad and Partridge haven’t just made a record?they’ve made a whole other world.

Ani DiFranco – Educated Guess

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With 15 years' profitable independence to her credit, beat poetry-spinning Buffalo gal DiFranco remains, to those outside her loyal fan base, more inspirational as a concept (or as Hamell On Trial's label boss) than a musical experience. It's time, perhaps, to sample the word-drunk intelligence of her 16th-or-so release, which?in the moody, percussive shiver of "Bodily" and "Company"?reads like a minimalist, politicised take on Joni Mitchell's Hejira. Paradoxically, its spare, solo-voice-and-guitar format?a sharp U-turn from 2003's jazzy horns-and-all Evolve?comes closer to matching DiFranco's charismatic live performances than prior band-driven efforts, carrying off the incantatory dissent narrative of standout "Grand Canyon" with striking authority.

With 15 years’ profitable independence to her credit, beat poetry-spinning Buffalo gal DiFranco remains, to those outside her loyal fan base, more inspirational as a concept (or as Hamell On Trial’s label boss) than a musical experience. It’s time, perhaps, to sample the word-drunk intelligence of her 16th-or-so release, which?in the moody, percussive shiver of “Bodily” and “Company”?reads like a minimalist, politicised take on Joni Mitchell’s Hejira. Paradoxically, its spare, solo-voice-and-guitar format?a sharp U-turn from 2003’s jazzy horns-and-all Evolve?comes closer to matching DiFranco’s charismatic live performances than prior band-driven efforts, carrying off the incantatory dissent narrative of standout “Grand Canyon” with striking authority.

The Coral – Nightfreak And The Sons Of Becker

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The nagging feeling that The Coral rushed the recording of their second album without having amassed a really meaty selection of songs isn't alleviated by the arrival of Nightfreak..., 11 songs rather bizarrely classed as a mini album (see also Erykah Badu's similarly disingenuous Worldwide Underground)?presumably by a label keen that this not be seen as an official follow-up. There are some diverting moments?most notably the sparse, languid funk of "Grey Harpoon"?but generally the sense is still of a bunch of tasteful influences (The Doors, natch, Nuggets-ish psych/garage) and some well chosen chords failing to coalesce into something with real emotional weight. Nightfreak... is little more than a bunch of B-sides in search of a point.

The nagging feeling that The Coral rushed the recording of their second album without having amassed a really meaty selection of songs isn’t alleviated by the arrival of Nightfreak…, 11 songs rather bizarrely classed as a mini album (see also Erykah Badu’s similarly disingenuous Worldwide Underground)?presumably by a label keen that this not be seen as an official follow-up. There are some diverting moments?most notably the sparse, languid funk of “Grey Harpoon”?but generally the sense is still of a bunch of tasteful influences (The Doors, natch, Nuggets-ish psych/garage) and some well chosen chords failing to coalesce into something with real emotional weight. Nightfreak… is little more than a bunch of B-sides in search of a point.

The Veils – The Runaway Found

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This could be a roaringly great band. The Veils veer at you with a sound both startling and familiar, hints of Smiths and Bunnymen flavouring their joy-of-angst epic rock. A debut part-produced by Bernard Butler features four recent singles, from the Radio Ethiopia rush of "More Heat Than Light" to the charming "The Wild Son", and each is remarkable, dynamic and lean. Frontman Finn Andrews (son of XTC/Shriekback's Barry) wants their image to be one of "quiet glamour"; while he's working hard on that, his voice is effortlessly narcissistic and pained, like Jeff Buckley, buckling and bold. There's a new skinny giant in town. Intoxicating.

This could be a roaringly great band. The Veils veer at you with a sound both startling and familiar, hints of Smiths and Bunnymen flavouring their joy-of-angst epic rock. A debut part-produced by Bernard Butler features four recent singles, from the Radio Ethiopia rush of “More Heat Than Light” to the charming “The Wild Son”, and each is remarkable, dynamic and lean.

Frontman Finn Andrews (son of XTC/Shriekback’s Barry) wants their image to be one of “quiet glamour”; while he’s working hard on that, his voice is effortlessly narcissistic and pained, like Jeff Buckley, buckling and bold. There’s a new skinny giant in town. Intoxicating.

Future Pilot AKA – Salute Your Soul

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Never knowingly unambitious, Sushil Dade's second album proper as Future Pilot AKA opens with a benediction from Philip Glass, proceeds with an Indian folk song featuring Mikey "Bankrobber" Dread and ends up as a spiritual act of defiance in the face of ongoing global doom. Like 2001's wonderful Tiny Waves, Mighty Sea, Dade soars far beyond his indie roots (bassist in The Soup Dragons, no less) to draw on jazz, funk, dub and avant-pop, and unite diverse strains of religious music. But this time, his imperturbable faith in human goodness and potential is given a polemic focus, most explicitly on "Love Of The Land", where Vic Godard croons for peace. By the time "Heaven Celebrated On Earth", reminiscent of both Yo La Tengo and George Gershwin, rolls to a close, you're tempted to believe?as Dade evidently does?that most things are possible given faith and tenacity. A truly inspiring album.

Never knowingly unambitious, Sushil Dade’s second album proper as Future Pilot AKA opens with a benediction from Philip Glass, proceeds with an Indian folk song featuring Mikey “Bankrobber” Dread and ends up as a spiritual act of defiance in the face of ongoing global doom. Like 2001’s wonderful Tiny Waves, Mighty Sea, Dade soars far beyond his indie roots (bassist in The Soup Dragons, no less) to draw on jazz, funk, dub and avant-pop, and unite diverse strains of religious music. But this time, his imperturbable faith in human goodness and potential is given a polemic focus, most explicitly on “Love Of The Land”, where Vic Godard croons for peace. By the time “Heaven Celebrated On Earth”, reminiscent of both Yo La Tengo and George Gershwin, rolls to a close, you’re tempted to believe?as Dade evidently does?that most things are possible given faith and tenacity. A truly inspiring album.

The Stranglers – Norfolk Coast

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From the ominous bass line, keyboard flourishes and brash guitars that announce the opening, title track, it's clear The Stranglers have reconnected with their early muse. And as they journey to the opposite, slow tempos of "Tucker's Grave" via a glistening "Dutch Moon" and the hilarious "Sanfe Kuss", they reveal a new depth and versatility, both heightened by a production that focuses as much on the instrumental variety, the melodic colour and the persuasive backing vocals as it does on The Stranglers' trademark darkness and aggression. Their best album in years.

From the ominous bass line, keyboard flourishes and brash guitars that announce the opening, title track, it’s clear The Stranglers have reconnected with their early muse. And as they journey to the opposite, slow tempos of “Tucker’s Grave” via a glistening “Dutch Moon” and the hilarious “Sanfe Kuss”, they reveal a new depth and versatility, both heightened by a production that focuses as much on the instrumental variety, the melodic colour and the persuasive backing vocals as it does on The Stranglers’ trademark darkness and aggression. Their best album in years.

The Von Bondies – Pawn Shoppe Heart

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Confession time. I did, indeed, once declare Detroit's Von Bondies "the greatest rock'n'roll band on the planet" in Uncut, but back in the summer of 2002 that seemed more than feasible. In the context of this, their second album proper and first since signing to Warners, such enthusiasm seems outrageous. Nevertheless, Pawn Shoppe Heart is a step in the right direction. Where on 2001's Lack Of Communication their cranked-up Stoogeisms were adorably desperate, here they're glibly glamorous, energised by a Pixies-like concision (weirdly enough, "Not That Social" really sounds like The Breeders, too). I may be proved right yet!

Confession time. I did, indeed, once declare Detroit’s Von Bondies “the greatest rock’n’roll band on the planet” in Uncut, but back in the summer of 2002 that seemed more than feasible. In the context of this, their second album proper and first since signing to Warners, such enthusiasm seems outrageous. Nevertheless, Pawn Shoppe Heart is a step in the right direction. Where on 2001’s Lack Of Communication their cranked-up Stoogeisms were adorably desperate, here they’re glibly glamorous, energised by a Pixies-like concision (weirdly enough, “Not That Social” really sounds like The Breeders, too). I may be proved right yet!

Smart Bomb

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Even if your instinct is to hurl bricks at bandwagons, leap aboard this one, and leap high. If 2004's maverick motif is to be a return to intelligence, a post-Oasis state where 'art' isn't considered a dirty word, rejoice. Franz Ferdinand are firing on all synapses, if you please. The young Glaswegian four-piece may remind you of the days when Postcard Records flung the accurately messy Orange Juice and Josef K at the nation. Equally valid will be claims that Franz are this month's UK Strokes. Also, you may ask yourself: Talking Heads, Interpol, The Rapture, Wire, Led Zeppelin, The Sweet, Television, Magazine, Sparks? Franz are fragments of then, and figments of now, and they make their own glorious beast, a clinical collage of these elements. This dynamic, direct debut (under 40 minutes) has a gleaming six-pack for a belly and belches lavender. It's made by funky, punky junk-shop monkeys who strut, swagger and shrug nonchalantly. "Jacqueline" teases us elegantly before the first clipped, precise guitar line. "Oh I'm alive," it announces, "and how I know it." The lyrics throughout proclaim an identity; abstract, peculiar, making only their own brand of foppish sense. First chorus goes: "It's always better on holiday... That's why we only work when we need the money." I mean, what's that about? But at the same time, what a fabulous pop refrain! "Tell Her Tonight" covers failed chat-ups, faint touches, breath on a neck. "Take Me Out" sashays through its staccato riffs and perverse, powerful structure, sexily. These boys are cheeky and charming: for all the influences, their voice is uniquely, gently mad. While their rhythms are as sharp and clean as a knife, listen close and you'll hear a cough, a yawn. Further songs deal with infidelity, girls, boys?if "Michael" is overtly homo-erotic, "Cheating On You" brags, "Goodbye girl, yes I'm a loser". Excellently strange. Previous single "Darts Of Pleasure", is just excellent, while aggression meets agility in the closing pole-vault of "40Ft". Songs that sound like they're about to come, but not just yet. That good. You want a piece of their war.

Even if your instinct is to hurl bricks at bandwagons, leap aboard this one, and leap high. If 2004’s maverick motif is to be a return to intelligence, a post-Oasis state where ‘art’ isn’t considered a dirty word, rejoice. Franz Ferdinand are firing on all synapses, if you please.

The young Glaswegian four-piece may remind you of the days when Postcard Records flung the accurately messy Orange Juice and Josef K at the nation. Equally valid will be claims that Franz are this month’s UK Strokes. Also, you may ask yourself: Talking Heads, Interpol, The Rapture, Wire, Led Zeppelin, The Sweet, Television, Magazine, Sparks? Franz are fragments of then, and figments of now, and they make their own glorious beast, a clinical collage of these elements. This dynamic, direct debut (under 40 minutes) has a gleaming six-pack for a belly and belches lavender. It’s made by funky, punky junk-shop monkeys who strut, swagger and shrug nonchalantly.

“Jacqueline” teases us elegantly before the first clipped, precise guitar line. “Oh I’m alive,” it announces, “and how I know it.” The lyrics throughout proclaim an identity; abstract, peculiar, making only their own brand of foppish sense. First chorus goes: “It’s always better on holiday… That’s why we only work when we need the money.” I mean, what’s that about? But at the same time, what a fabulous pop refrain! “Tell Her Tonight” covers failed chat-ups, faint touches, breath on a neck. “Take Me Out” sashays through its staccato riffs and perverse, powerful structure, sexily. These boys are cheeky and charming: for all the influences, their voice is uniquely, gently mad. While their rhythms are as sharp and clean as a knife, listen close and you’ll hear a cough, a yawn. Further songs deal with infidelity, girls, boys?if “Michael” is overtly homo-erotic, “Cheating On You” brags, “Goodbye girl, yes I’m a loser”. Excellently strange. Previous single “Darts Of Pleasure”, is just excellent, while aggression meets agility in the closing pole-vault of “40Ft”.

Songs that sound like they’re about to come, but not just yet. That good. You want a piece of their war.