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Laura Veirs – Troubled By The Fire

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If Gillian Welch floats your boat, chances are Laura Veirs will, too, though her take on homespun Appalachia is tempered by modernist tendencies. Anyone familiar with 1999's eponymous guitar-and-voice-only debut will be taken aback here, ditching much of its thorny agit-folk for dreamily intoxicating balladry, sawing strings and near-perfect vocal phrasing. Opener "Lost At Seaflower Cove" and "Tiger Tattoos" are flawless backwoods country pickers, while Danny Barnes (see Roundup, right) duets on the folksy "Ballad Of John Vogelin" and jazz legend/sometime Jeff Buckley collaborator Bill Frisell provides classy fretwork. Scintillating stuff.

If Gillian Welch floats your boat, chances are Laura Veirs will, too, though her take on homespun Appalachia is tempered by modernist tendencies. Anyone familiar with 1999’s eponymous guitar-and-voice-only debut will be taken aback here, ditching much of its thorny agit-folk for dreamily intoxicating balladry, sawing strings and near-perfect vocal phrasing. Opener “Lost At Seaflower Cove” and “Tiger Tattoos” are flawless backwoods country pickers, while Danny Barnes (see Roundup, right) duets on the folksy “Ballad Of John Vogelin” and jazz legend/sometime Jeff Buckley collaborator Bill Frisell provides classy fretwork. Scintillating stuff.

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It's now two years since the British music press took leave of its senses in praise of The Strokes-a band whose only mistake was being merely very good when their excessively enthusiastic champions had us believe they were the saviours of rock'n'roll. Like the belated lionisation of The White Stripes that same year, the climate The Strokes instilled?a sometimes desperate reliance on the US underground as the source of hitherto untapped rock'n'roll thrills?seems to have endured. Which is why, after last year's introductory self-titled EP (five cuts of sparse, sassy, twangy power-punk) and its equally brilliant follow-up single "Machine", this first album from fellow New Yorkers the Yeah Yeah Yeahs is already the most eagerly anticipated debut of 2003. The danger of such hype, of course, is that, like The Strokes, people can expect too much. There's nothing shockingly new about the Yeah Yeah Yeahs formula; it's a fairly minimalist bass-free set-up of vocals (the enigmatic Karen O, somewhere between Polly Harvey and Poly Styrene), one guitar (Nick Zinner, somewhere between Link Wray and Jon Spencer) and drums (Brian Chase, somewhere between Art Blakey and Topper Headon). And yet, in the cold sober light of day, every hysterical column inch already thrust upon them, including Uncut's own pledge last summer that "the Yeah Yeah Yeahs are going to be COLOSSAL", seems justified. Reason being that Fever To Tell is, quite simply, magnificent. Twelve tracks and not a filler among them, Fever To Tell moves with calculated stealth. The first six songs alone cumulatively rival the opening halves of Nirvana's Nevermind and The Pixies' Surfer Rosa in terms of punk-guitar savagery, rhythmic brutality and lyrical audacity. Zinner's riffs are from classic rock'n'roll stock but never sound second-hand (new single "Date With The Night" and "Black Tongue" twang like Dick Dale twang genius) while the echoing harmonic bleeps heralding "Rich" and "Y-Control" are inspired. But the real joy, and surprise, is Karen O, who exceeds all "new Courtney" press tags to emerge by the end of Fever To Tell as the most electrifying female voice since Polly Harvey. One moment she's gorgeously provocative ("Boy you're just a stupid bitch and girl you're just a no-good dick!"), the next she's a gibbering harpy hyperventilating through "Tick". The crunch comes with the album's final third, where O's voice assumes an emotional honesty that'll knock you sideways. It begins with "Maps", her earnest address to boyfriend Angus Andrews of The Liars ("they don't love you like I love you") sung with crucifying tenderness; it's got 'Love Song For A Generation' written all over it. "Y-Control" is a bitterer pill, though just as stirring as O yearns "I wish I could buy back the woman you stole". Then the show-stopping "Modern Romance", a sleepy Galaxie 500 drone over which O chirps with a vulnerable innocence not heard since Moe Tucker on the Velvets' "After Hours". And just when you think it's over comes the killer blow of poignancy, the hidden track "Poor Song", where Karen beseeches her betrothed "don't be scared of love" and the crack in her voice tells you she means every syllable. This is as revitalising a debut as could be hoped for. COLOSSAL, in fact.

It’s now two years since the British music press took leave of its senses in praise of The Strokes-a band whose only mistake was being merely very good when their excessively enthusiastic champions had us believe they were the saviours of rock’n’roll. Like the belated lionisation of The White Stripes that same year, the climate The Strokes instilled?a sometimes desperate reliance on the US underground as the source of hitherto untapped rock’n’roll thrills?seems to have endured.

Which is why, after last year’s introductory self-titled EP (five cuts of sparse, sassy, twangy power-punk) and its equally brilliant follow-up single “Machine”, this first album from fellow New Yorkers the Yeah Yeah Yeahs is already the most eagerly anticipated debut of 2003. The danger of such hype, of course, is that, like The Strokes, people can expect too much.

There’s nothing shockingly new about the Yeah Yeah Yeahs formula; it’s a fairly minimalist bass-free set-up of vocals (the enigmatic Karen O, somewhere between Polly Harvey and Poly Styrene), one guitar (Nick Zinner, somewhere between Link Wray and Jon Spencer) and drums (Brian Chase, somewhere between Art Blakey and Topper Headon).

And yet, in the cold sober light of day, every hysterical column inch already thrust upon them, including Uncut’s own pledge last summer that “the Yeah Yeah Yeahs are going to be COLOSSAL”, seems justified. Reason being that Fever To Tell is, quite simply, magnificent.

Twelve tracks and not a filler among them, Fever To Tell moves with calculated stealth. The first six songs alone cumulatively rival the opening halves of Nirvana’s Nevermind and The Pixies’ Surfer Rosa in terms of punk-guitar savagery, rhythmic brutality and lyrical audacity. Zinner’s riffs are from classic rock’n’roll stock but never sound second-hand (new single “Date With The Night” and “Black Tongue” twang like Dick Dale twang genius) while the echoing harmonic bleeps heralding “Rich” and “Y-Control” are inspired. But the real joy, and surprise, is Karen O, who exceeds all “new Courtney” press tags to emerge by the end of Fever To Tell as the most electrifying female voice since Polly Harvey. One moment she’s gorgeously provocative (“Boy you’re just a stupid bitch and girl you’re just a no-good dick!”), the next she’s a gibbering harpy hyperventilating through “Tick”.

The crunch comes with the album’s final third, where O’s voice assumes an emotional honesty that’ll knock you sideways. It begins with “Maps”, her earnest address to boyfriend Angus Andrews of The Liars (“they don’t love you like I love you”) sung with crucifying tenderness; it’s got ‘Love Song For A Generation’ written all over it. “Y-Control” is a bitterer pill, though just as stirring as O yearns “I wish I could buy back the woman you stole”.

Then the show-stopping “Modern Romance”, a sleepy Galaxie 500 drone over which O chirps with a vulnerable innocence not heard since Moe Tucker on the Velvets’ “After Hours”. And just when you think it’s over comes the killer blow of poignancy, the hidden track “Poor Song”, where Karen beseeches her betrothed “don’t be scared of love” and the crack in her voice tells you she means every syllable.

This is as revitalising a debut as could be hoped for. COLOSSAL, in fact.

Jon Langford And His Sadies – Mayors Of The Moon

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Whichever way you slice it, this is a banker. Langford's recent rollicksome rip-'em-ups with The Waco Brothers are among his most inspired, while Toronto's largely unheralded Sadies, led by brothers Travis and Dallas Good, are modern roots-rock's best kept secret, tripping all switches from surf and chicken-scratch country to garage, psychedelia and Morricone twang. Langford leads the charge with his throaty gallop, spitting political venom (the war-baiting "What Makes Johnny Run?"), fellow ex-Mekon Sally Timms adds silver tonsils to "Shipwreck" and pedal-steel great Bob Egan is outstanding throughout.

Whichever way you slice it, this is a banker. Langford’s recent rollicksome rip-’em-ups with The Waco Brothers are among his most inspired, while Toronto’s largely unheralded Sadies, led by brothers Travis and Dallas Good, are modern roots-rock’s best kept secret, tripping all switches from surf and chicken-scratch country to garage, psychedelia and Morricone twang. Langford leads the charge with his throaty gallop, spitting political venom (the war-baiting “What Makes Johnny Run?”), fellow ex-Mekon Sally Timms adds silver tonsils to “Shipwreck” and pedal-steel great Bob Egan is outstanding throughout.

Monade – Socialisme Ou Barbarie

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Subtitled 'The Bedroom Recordings', Sadier, with sometime assistance from Pram, airs tracks assembled between 1996 and 2002. And the quality varies. At times displaying her parent band's exquisite Kraut-MOR arrangements ("Vol De Jour"), more often Socialisme is flat and threadbare ("Un Secret Sans I...

Subtitled ‘The Bedroom Recordings’, Sadier, with sometime assistance from Pram, airs tracks assembled between 1996 and 2002. And the quality varies. At times displaying her parent band’s exquisite Kraut-MOR arrangements (“Vol De Jour”), more often Socialisme is flat and threadbare (“Un Secret Sans Importance”, “Un Express”). To her credit, Sadier moves away from familiar Stereolab territory. Nocturnal folk and wonky trombone diversions create a lulling atmosphere, while “Graine De Beaut

The Hacker – The Next Step Of New Wave

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Michel Amato aka The Hacker is principally known outside of his native France for The First Album, created with long-term collaborator (and current electroclash superdarling) Miss Kittin. Amato's solo releases have always recalled early-'80s electro, and his selection here shows the extent to which that sound has mutated with 19 pristine drum-driven tracks, courtesy of amphetamine robo-funkateers Artists Unknown, The Advent, Adult., Dopplereffekt, and The Hacker himself.

Michel Amato aka The Hacker is principally known outside of his native France for The First Album, created with long-term collaborator (and current electroclash superdarling) Miss Kittin.

Amato’s solo releases have always recalled early-’80s electro, and his selection here shows the extent to which that sound has mutated with 19 pristine drum-driven tracks, courtesy of amphetamine robo-funkateers Artists Unknown, The Advent, Adult., Dopplereffekt, and The Hacker himself.

Autechre – Draft 7.30

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Compared with the abstract, buried rhythms of 2002's Confield, Autechre's new album sees Sean Booth and Rob Brown cautiously reconnect with humanity. Their titles ("Tapr", "P:Ntil") still seem to stem from a dyslexic pharmacy, but through the scratchy fog of the opening "Xylin Room" a beat is dimly discernible. By the time we reach "Surripere" we could be listening to a toughened-up Aphex Twin, poignant harmonies battling against oblique but splintering beats. "Theme Of Sudden Roundabout" is even danceable, and "V-Proc" would be ambient in more clueless hands, but here the repose is systematically unseated by increasingly fractious electro-blurts.

Compared with the abstract, buried rhythms of 2002’s Confield, Autechre’s new album sees Sean Booth and Rob Brown cautiously reconnect with humanity. Their titles (“Tapr”, “P:Ntil”) still seem to stem from a dyslexic pharmacy, but through the scratchy fog of the opening “Xylin Room” a beat is dimly discernible. By the time we reach “Surripere” we could be listening to a toughened-up Aphex Twin, poignant harmonies battling against oblique but splintering beats.

“Theme Of Sudden Roundabout” is even danceable, and “V-Proc” would be ambient in more clueless hands, but here the repose is systematically unseated by increasingly fractious electro-blurts.

The Donnas – Spend The Night

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Initially it seemed like a fun, if limited, concept:four Californian high school girls, all allegedly called Donna, playing snarky bubblegum rock that resembled Joan Jett fronting The Ramones. Five albums on, The Donnas miraculously remain a great idea, legal drinking ages, a major deal and endless repetition notwithstanding. Men continue to be objects of scorn, and the prevailing aesthetic is still of a sleepover circa 1979. Inspiration, however, has pleasingly shifted to incorporate Cheap Trick, so that Spend The Night emerges as the sharp-minded, dumb-riffed album Courtney Love tried to make with Celebrity Skin. Oh, and singer Donna A's real name is Brett Anderson. Neat.

Initially it seemed like a fun, if limited, concept:four Californian high school girls, all allegedly called Donna, playing snarky bubblegum rock that resembled Joan Jett fronting The Ramones. Five albums on, The Donnas miraculously remain a great idea, legal drinking ages, a major deal and endless repetition notwithstanding.

Men continue to be objects of scorn, and the prevailing aesthetic is still of a sleepover circa 1979. Inspiration, however, has pleasingly shifted to incorporate Cheap Trick, so that Spend The Night emerges as the sharp-minded, dumb-riffed album Courtney Love tried to make with Celebrity Skin. Oh, and singer Donna A’s real name is Brett Anderson. Neat.

Tegan And Sara – If It Was You

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Tegan and Sara Quinn know all the right people. Their debut album is released on Neil Young's Vapor label and they've toured in support of Ryan Adams. In truth, they have little in common musically with either of them, and If It Was You is a collection of energetic girl-pop full of surging melodies, VH1-friendly hooks and a fashionable punkiness (one song is called "Want To Be Bad") that sounds more like Madonna's discovery Michelle Branch or a grown-up version of Avril Lavigne. They have a more intimate side, heard on "Don't Confess"and the banjo-laden "Living Room", which sounds a little like the Be Good Tanyas gone pop. But mostly it's unashamedly upbeat. And all the more welcome for that.

Tegan and Sara Quinn know all the right people. Their debut album is released on Neil Young’s Vapor label and they’ve toured in support of Ryan Adams. In truth, they have little in common musically with either of them, and If It Was You is a collection of energetic girl-pop full of surging melodies, VH1-friendly hooks and a fashionable punkiness (one song is called “Want To Be Bad”) that sounds more like Madonna’s discovery Michelle Branch or a grown-up version of Avril Lavigne. They have a more intimate side, heard on “Don’t Confess”and the banjo-laden “Living Room”, which sounds a little like the Be Good Tanyas gone pop. But mostly it’s unashamedly upbeat. And all the more welcome for that.

Captain Soul – Jetstream Lovers

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Following 2001's debut Beat Your Crazy Head Against The Sky, the only band with a multi-album deal on Alan McGee's Poptones return with another record of summer '60s pop. The Byrds and Beach Boys influences are strong, especially on the lilting "Make My Day"and "Looking For Love". But there is also a whiff of Drawn From Memory-era Embrace, especially in Sunday Times rock critic-turned-frontman Adam Howorth's winsome vocals. The highlight is the towering "Last Night", which recalls Mercury Rev's "The Dark is Rising". Captain Soul (itself a Byrds song title) mix up classic and contemporary influences, only they do it well.

Following 2001’s debut Beat Your Crazy Head Against The Sky, the only band with a multi-album deal on Alan McGee’s Poptones return with another record of summer ’60s pop. The Byrds and Beach Boys influences are strong, especially on the lilting “Make My Day”and “Looking For Love”. But there is also a whiff of Drawn From Memory-era Embrace, especially in Sunday Times rock critic-turned-frontman Adam Howorth’s winsome vocals. The highlight is the towering “Last Night”, which recalls Mercury Rev’s “The Dark is Rising”. Captain Soul (itself a Byrds song title) mix up classic and contemporary influences, only they do it well.

Maria Ratjke – Voice

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Followers of Spunk, the all-female improv quartet of which Maria Ratjke is a founder member, will probably constitute the only audience for this, her first solo album, which, to say the least, is challenging, occasionally verging on the unlistenable. No conventional songs, indeed very few conventional vocalisings, feature on this disc in which Ratjke's strong, attractive voice is electronically processed into firestorms of cut-up noise. Those in the market for experimentalism may find there is something to take their fancy in this uncompromising release.

Followers of Spunk, the all-female improv quartet of which Maria Ratjke is a founder member, will probably constitute the only audience for this, her first solo album, which, to say the least, is challenging, occasionally verging on the unlistenable. No conventional songs, indeed very few conventional vocalisings, feature on this disc in which Ratjke’s strong, attractive voice is electronically processed into firestorms of cut-up noise. Those in the market for experimentalism may find there is something to take their fancy in this uncompromising release.

Futureshock – Revolvo

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KILLING TIME BETWEEN MEALS

KILLING TIME BETWEEN MEALS

Vendetta Red – Between The Never And The Now

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Vendetta Red caused something of a minor sensation in 2002, with volatile live shows?singer Zach Davidson once inadvertently chewed someone's skull while stagediving?that won them an astronomical deal with Epic. Between The Never And The Now showcases why, combining fiery, earnest emo-punk with the stadium dynamics of U2 and The Who. At The Drive-In and Sunny Day Real Estate are other plausible comparisons, but neither had quite such shameless anthemic clout. One worry for their paymasters, though: while Vendetta Red seem like a perfect hybrid to satisfy both hardcore and trad rock fans, there's a chance they might actually alienate the conservative majorities of both tribes.

Vendetta Red caused something of a minor sensation in 2002, with volatile live shows?singer Zach Davidson once inadvertently chewed someone’s skull while stagediving?that won them an astronomical deal with Epic. Between The Never And The Now showcases why, combining fiery, earnest emo-punk with the stadium dynamics of U2 and The Who. At The Drive-In and Sunny Day Real Estate are other plausible comparisons, but neither had quite such shameless anthemic clout. One worry for their paymasters, though: while Vendetta Red seem like a perfect hybrid to satisfy both hardcore and trad rock fans, there’s a chance they might actually alienate the conservative majorities of both tribes.

The Cansecos

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The 12 tracks on this stunning LP by Bill Halliday and Gareth Jones, labelmates of Uncut favourites The Russian Futurists, were recorded over two years "in various bedrooms in and around Toronto". Imagine the askew, deadpan pop of early Eno blended with bucolic '60s West Coast echoes and punctuated by proto-Neptunes breakbeats?hear how the beats on "Are You Lonesome Tonight" (not a Presley cover) suddenly leap out at you from the speakers. Pleasingly, one never knows what to expect: "This Girl And This Boy" is worthy of Brian Wilson, while "In Bloom" sounds like early Richard Carpenter trying his hand at free improv.

The 12 tracks on this stunning LP by Bill Halliday and Gareth Jones, labelmates of Uncut favourites The Russian Futurists, were recorded over two years “in various bedrooms in and around Toronto”. Imagine the askew, deadpan pop of early Eno blended with bucolic ’60s West Coast echoes and punctuated by proto-Neptunes breakbeats?hear how the beats on “Are You Lonesome Tonight” (not a Presley cover) suddenly leap out at you from the speakers. Pleasingly, one never knows what to expect: “This Girl And This Boy” is worthy of Brian Wilson, while “In Bloom” sounds like early Richard Carpenter trying his hand at free improv.

Draw – Simple To Severe

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Recently seen supporting Arthur Lee and Love on the Forever Changes tour, the debut album from Scotland's Draw is all fuzzy guitars and histrionics from singer Brent Proctor recalling Catherine Wheel or, more recently, JJ72. The best tracks, such as "Silver Screen", rock pleasingly enough. Their dreamier side, displayed on "A Chance To Disappear" and "Courage", is less convincing, and it's hard to escape the conclusion that the songs aren't quite yet good enough to encompass their ambition. One to watch?but some way short of the finished article.

Recently seen supporting Arthur Lee and Love on the Forever Changes tour, the debut album from Scotland’s Draw is all fuzzy guitars and histrionics from singer Brent Proctor recalling Catherine Wheel or, more recently, JJ72. The best tracks, such as “Silver Screen”, rock pleasingly enough. Their dreamier side, displayed on “A Chance To Disappear” and “Courage”, is less convincing, and it’s hard to escape the conclusion that the songs aren’t quite yet good enough to encompass their ambition. One to watch?but some way short of the finished article.

Rock & Roll Animal

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Almost half a century after it headed on the road to corporate domination, rock culture's unpredictability?in the face of formulae frauds, and trend-setting fatigue?ensures enduring fascination. Two years ago, just before the British media caught the White Stripes bandwagon, who would have thought that Jack and Meg White would be recognised as saviours. Consider their history. In 1996 Jack Gillis, the owner of a Detroit upholstery store, already a veteran of Motorcity garage rock also-rans Goober And The Peas, The Go and Rocket 88, marries barmaid Meg White. Taking his wife's surname and passing himself off as her brother, Jack devises a two-piece band based on minimalist but striking red and white presentation and fixated on the base musical elements of blues, punk and country. The self-titled debut highlights Jack's incendiary guitar riffs and Meg's bare-boned drum accents. Alongside the Robert Johnson and Bob Dylan covers, the talent for transmuting folk narratives into rough-diamond pop shines through. A second album, De Stijl, takes its name from the back-to-basics art design school of the early 1900s and emphasises both the Stripes' primal power and furthers Jack's funny, thoughtful persona. He's an out-of-time/out-of-place Southern gentleman laying down a blues code of honour for the post-Generation X kids lost and rootless on the cyber highway. When the paparazzi on the cover shot of their 2001 major label debut White Blood Cells became reality, heavy rotation on MTV and a Top 30 single, "Hotel Yorba", followed. The question was: how long could they stand the white heat of the spotlight? The couple had divorced in 2000 and Jack, already making plans to launch an acting career, had made it clear the group had a limited lifespan, and even acolytes thought their career was destined to be played out beneath the mass media radar. But there was also the hint that they were still keeping some powder dry, adding to their store of mercurial brilliance, ready when the time came to unleash something even more mindblowing than "I Think I Smell A Rat", funnier than "You're Pretty Good Looking (For A Girl)", even more deranged than "The Big Three Killed My Baby". Elephant, a raging, cantankerous beast (recorded in London's Toerag studios), is where those hints blossom into incontrovertible fact. Laced with enough blue-eyed longing ("You've Got Her In Your Pocket") to make the most diehard Gram Parsons fan weep with wonder and the sort of verbal acuity that would give even Dylanologists pause for thought, Elephant is where the tabloid phenomenon of summer 2001 prove they are no flash in the pan by making a truly phenomenal record. In its promo double vinyl incarnation, Elephant calls to mind pre-digital double albums like Blonde On Blonde, Exile On Main Street or London Calling. Like those landmarks, it features a group at their peak rejoicing in basic forms while bursting beyond their limitations. The taut opener, "Seven Nation Army", explodes with Jack verging on the edge of apoplectic fury. Both here and on the blistering "There's No Home For You Here"?which climaxes in a talking-tongues outburst of contempt and features an astonishing multi-tracked, Vocodered backdrop?media clamour is a springboard for statements of faith and intent. Elsewhere, the album's declared theme?"the death of the sweetheart"?is fleshed out by White exploring blues lore at its most outrageously macho on "Ball And Biscuit". Centred on a pelvis-pulsing riff overlaid with perfectly aimed bursts of Hendrix hysteria, its uproarious swagger feeds off a succession of great lines: "It's quite possible that I'm your third man girl/But it's a fact that I'm the seventh son" or "Tell everybody in the place to just get out and we can get clean together/And I'll find me a soapbox where I can shout about it". A wracked cover version of Bacharach and David's "I Just Don't Know What To Do With Myself" indicates lofty songwriting intent. The gorgeous "I Want To Be With The Boy" rises to the challenge, the reverberating keyboards and worn vocal recalling the Stones in country-inflected mode. But this is no Primal Scream-style shallow homage, it's a product of White's individual and engaging schizophrenia. When Meg sings the unabashedly sexy "Cold, Cold Night" accompanied by White's suggestive bass organ pedals, the pleasure this pair take in toying with sexual role-play is palpable. The theme is replayed on the closing "It's True That We Love One Another", joined by Billy Childish associate Holly Golightly. The White Stripes devise a singalong love triangle that toys with their own myth. Was the marriage a con or was the divorce a put-on? Or is it simply that their musical relationship really is closer than blood brother and sister? Such queries are the stuff of website intrigue but ultimately immaterial. The White Stripes' zeal, the sense of newness they bring to old genres, their incandescent performances and razor-sharp songwriting put forerunners like The Jon Spencer Blues Explosion in the shade. Compared to the Stripes, The Strokes barely register, the one-note pleasures of The Hives and The Datsuns mere ripples to their big bang. They are quite simply in a league of their own. Ladies and gentlemen, your Elephant is ready and waiting.

Almost half a century after it headed on the road to corporate domination, rock culture’s unpredictability?in the face of formulae frauds, and trend-setting fatigue?ensures enduring fascination. Two years ago, just before the British media caught the White Stripes bandwagon, who would have thought that Jack and Meg White would be recognised as saviours.

Consider their history. In 1996 Jack Gillis, the owner of a Detroit upholstery store, already a veteran of Motorcity garage rock also-rans Goober And The Peas, The Go and Rocket 88, marries barmaid Meg White. Taking his wife’s surname and passing himself off as her brother, Jack devises a two-piece band based on minimalist but striking red and white presentation and fixated on the base musical elements of blues, punk and country.

The self-titled debut highlights Jack’s incendiary guitar riffs and Meg’s bare-boned drum accents. Alongside the Robert Johnson and Bob Dylan covers, the talent for transmuting folk narratives into rough-diamond pop shines through. A second album, De Stijl, takes its name from the back-to-basics art design school of the early 1900s and emphasises both the Stripes’ primal power and furthers Jack’s funny, thoughtful persona. He’s an out-of-time/out-of-place Southern gentleman laying down a blues code of honour for the post-Generation X kids lost and rootless on the cyber highway.

When the paparazzi on the cover shot of their 2001 major label debut White Blood Cells became reality, heavy rotation on MTV and a Top 30 single, “Hotel Yorba”, followed. The question was: how long could they stand the white heat of the spotlight? The couple had divorced in 2000 and Jack, already making plans to launch an acting career, had made it clear the group had a limited lifespan, and even acolytes thought their career was destined to be played out beneath the mass media radar.

But there was also the hint that they were still keeping some powder dry, adding to their store of mercurial brilliance, ready when the time came to unleash something even more mindblowing than “I Think I Smell A Rat”, funnier than “You’re Pretty Good Looking (For A Girl)”, even more deranged than “The Big Three Killed My Baby”.

Elephant, a raging, cantankerous beast (recorded in London’s Toerag studios), is where those hints blossom into incontrovertible fact. Laced with enough blue-eyed longing (“You’ve Got Her In Your Pocket”) to make the most diehard Gram Parsons fan weep with wonder and the sort of verbal acuity that would give even Dylanologists pause for thought, Elephant is where the tabloid phenomenon of summer 2001 prove they are no flash in the pan by making a truly phenomenal record.

In its promo double vinyl incarnation, Elephant calls to mind pre-digital double albums like Blonde On Blonde, Exile On Main Street or London Calling. Like those landmarks, it features a group at their peak rejoicing in basic forms while bursting beyond their limitations.

The taut opener, “Seven Nation Army”, explodes with Jack verging on the edge of apoplectic fury. Both here and on the blistering “There’s No Home For You Here”?which climaxes in a talking-tongues outburst of contempt and features an astonishing multi-tracked, Vocodered backdrop?media clamour is a springboard for statements of faith and intent.

Elsewhere, the album’s declared theme?”the death of the sweetheart”?is fleshed out by White exploring blues lore at its most outrageously macho on “Ball And Biscuit”. Centred on a pelvis-pulsing riff overlaid with perfectly aimed bursts of Hendrix hysteria, its uproarious swagger feeds off a succession of great lines: “It’s quite possible that I’m your third man girl/But it’s a fact that I’m the seventh son” or “Tell everybody in the place to just get out and we can get clean together/And I’ll find me a soapbox where I can shout about it”.

A wracked cover version of Bacharach and David’s “I Just Don’t Know What To Do With Myself” indicates lofty songwriting intent. The gorgeous “I Want To Be With The Boy” rises to the challenge, the reverberating keyboards and worn vocal recalling the Stones in country-inflected mode. But this is no Primal Scream-style shallow homage, it’s a product of White’s individual and engaging schizophrenia.

When Meg sings the unabashedly sexy “Cold, Cold Night” accompanied by White’s suggestive bass organ pedals, the pleasure this pair take in toying with sexual role-play is palpable. The theme is replayed on the closing “It’s True That We Love One Another”, joined by Billy Childish associate Holly Golightly. The White Stripes devise a singalong love triangle that toys with their own myth. Was the marriage a con or was the divorce a put-on? Or is it simply that their musical relationship really is closer than blood brother and sister?

Such queries are the stuff of website intrigue but ultimately immaterial. The White Stripes’ zeal, the sense of newness they bring to old genres, their incandescent performances and razor-sharp songwriting put forerunners like The Jon Spencer Blues Explosion in the shade.

Compared to the Stripes, The Strokes barely register, the one-note pleasures of The Hives and The Datsuns mere ripples to their big bang. They are quite simply in a league of their own. Ladies and gentlemen, your Elephant is ready and waiting.

Hanin Elias – No Games No Fun

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Fatal Recordings?formed as a sub-label of Digital Hardcore, but since divorced from it?is a platform for electronica that strives to break away from the male-dominated music business. Hopefully this will give Elias space to flourish as, behind the riot grrrl posturing and iD-style make-up, this is actually a disappointingly safe album that fails to stray from the path of sleazy electrotrash laid down by the likes of Lydia Lunch et al over the years.

Fatal Recordings?formed as a sub-label of Digital Hardcore, but since divorced from it?is a platform for electronica that strives to break away from the male-dominated music business. Hopefully this will give Elias space to flourish as, behind the riot grrrl posturing and iD-style make-up, this is actually a disappointingly safe album that fails to stray from the path of sleazy electrotrash laid down by the likes of Lydia Lunch et al over the years.

Cave In – Antenna

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Mapping the evolutionary twists of Cave In is a tricky business. Active since 1995, early records experimented with chaotically corrosive trash metal before making way for the prog bombast of 2000's Jupiter. By last year's Tides Of Tomorrow EP, the excess flab had been trimmed, throwing their inherent gift for melody into sharper relief. Antenna compresses the formula further, fetching up crisp, anthemic crunch-rock several notches above the inexplicably popular likes of Bush or Papa Roach and suggesting a classic may soon be within reach.

Mapping the evolutionary twists of Cave In is a tricky business. Active since 1995, early records experimented with chaotically corrosive trash metal before making way for the prog bombast of 2000’s Jupiter. By last year’s Tides Of Tomorrow EP, the excess flab had been trimmed, throwing their inherent gift for melody into sharper relief. Antenna compresses the formula further, fetching up crisp, anthemic crunch-rock several notches above the inexplicably popular likes of Bush or Papa Roach and suggesting a classic may soon be within reach.

Daryl Hall & John Oates – Do It For Love

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Initial, eventually-junked work on this album with the British team behind recent banal smashes by Enrique Iglesias, and the title track's No 1 success on America's "Adult" chart, show the taste-tightrope Hall & Oates walk right now. Recent compilations revealed how their Philly soul roots mutated into monstrously beat-slamming, melodic synth-soul; supreme '80s pop craft. Do It For Love instead teeters near the pretty vacancy of today's blue-eyed chart acts. Only the duo's ear for a hook, Hall's still-soaring voice, and Rundgren's help on an eccentric cover of The New Radicals' "Someday We'll Know" keeps them special, just.

Initial, eventually-junked work on this album with the British team behind recent banal smashes by Enrique Iglesias, and the title track’s No 1 success on America’s “Adult” chart, show the taste-tightrope Hall & Oates walk right now. Recent compilations revealed how their Philly soul roots mutated into monstrously beat-slamming, melodic synth-soul; supreme ’80s pop craft. Do It For Love instead teeters near the pretty vacancy of today’s blue-eyed chart acts. Only the duo’s ear for a hook, Hall’s still-soaring voice, and Rundgren’s help on an eccentric cover of The New Radicals’ “Someday We’ll Know” keeps them special, just.

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Recorded with a nine-piece band before an invited audience, this is an ebullient showcase for the Tom Tom Club's musical prowess. "Suboceana" showpieces brutal funk-rock guitar and swirling synthesized effects, while the hypnotic groove of "The Man With The 4-Way Hips" reveals enough surprises during its 10-minute-plus duration not to overstay its welcome. With effective reworkings of "96 Tears", Lee Perry's "Soul Fire" and Al Green's "Take Me To The River" (once covered by Talking Heads), this is a home win for the postmodern rhythm freaks.

Recorded with a nine-piece band before an invited audience, this is an ebullient showcase for the Tom Tom Club’s musical prowess. “Suboceana” showpieces brutal funk-rock guitar and swirling synthesized effects, while the hypnotic groove of “The Man With The 4-Way Hips” reveals enough surprises during its 10-minute-plus duration not to overstay its welcome. With effective reworkings of “96 Tears”, Lee Perry’s “Soul Fire” and Al Green’s “Take Me To The River” (once covered by Talking Heads), this is a home win for the postmodern rhythm freaks.

Magic Malik Orchestra – 00-237

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Comprising at its best music of real depth and spirituality, flautist Malik Mezzadri's second album is a two-disc collection of which the first is truly impressive. The basis of the music is eclectic, combining many world music flavours. His quintet negotiate these with aplomb and subtle invention, playing together as if for many years. Devoted to collective improvisations within a system devised by Mezzadri, the second disc is less accessible and somewhat less gripping.

Comprising at its best music of real depth and spirituality, flautist Malik Mezzadri’s second album is a two-disc collection of which the first is truly impressive. The basis of the music is eclectic, combining many world music flavours. His quintet negotiate these with aplomb and subtle invention, playing together as if for many years. Devoted to collective improvisations within a system devised by Mezzadri, the second disc is less accessible and somewhat less gripping.