Using a Sinatra cut-up technique, and inspired by Vic Chesnutt's tragic death, Kurt Wagner and co's latest is a dark gem... The sound on Mr M is funereal, with flecks of hope. True, that description might not help distinguish it from the rest of Lambchop’s back catalogue, on which Kurt Wagner and his cohorts have pioneered their own take on the Nashville Sound. Just as Chet Atkins added strings and pop manners to hillbilly music, so Lambchop – working with producer Mark Nevers at his Beech House studio – have patented a melancholy sound; filed under Americana, yet steeped in soul. Lambchop’s Nashville Sound is well-mannered, yet Wagner’s lyrics are frequently dark, and sometimes comic. He just about summed it up on the song “The Old Gold Shoe”, from the group’s classic 2000 album, Nixon, which refers in passing to “painful Southern bliss”. So what’s changed? Well, everything, and nothing. The surface of Mr M is smooth, tending towards jazz. It is punctuated by cinematic flourishes. There is hurt, certainly, and there is bliss. Being Southern isn’t really negotiable, but you can sense it in the way Wagner approaches even the darkest subject matter with impeccable manners. But, while Lambchop’s last album - 2008’s OH (Ohio) - attracted apologetic compliments about how they keep re-making the same record, Mr M is bold in parts, and surprisingly experimental. Four years is a long time between albums, and there is perhaps a sense that Wagner also felt that Lambchop had reached the end of their rope with OH (Ohio). After touring that album, he backed away from music, channelling his artistic impulses into painting. The suicide of his friend and occasional collaborator Vic Chesnutt on Christmas Day, 2009, hit hard, but ultimately provided an inspiration for the songs. And, just as Wagner was beginning to sense a way forward, Nevers came to him with an idea. The spark was Frank Sinatra’s version of “September Song”. Listening to it afresh, Nevers found himself struck by the string arrangements. They didn’t just colour in the background to Sinatra’s vocal, though they did that beautifully. The orchestra also swirled ominously, almost taking up arms against the vocal melody. On previous Lambchop albums, the strings had offered support to the tunes, smoothing down the rougher edges of Wagner’s songs. For Mr M, the approach was different. This time, the songs would be sent to an arranger, then the string parts would be deconstructed and reassembled by Nevers, who would play the orchestral sounds as a single instrument, like a guitar. The term Nevers and Wagner coined for this approach was “psycha-Sinatra”, though Nevers concedes modestly that they never came close to capturing the essence of Frank, “because we are stupid and drunk”. Still, you can hear the boldness of their intent straight away on the opening song, “If Not I’ll Just Die”, which swirls in like a Sunday matinee, before settling into a mood of elegant despair. “Don’t know what the fuck they talk about,” Wagner croons, “Maybe blowing kisses, maybe blowing names/Really, what difference does it make?” He doesn’t sound like a member of the Rat Pack; more like an insomniac speed-dialling The Samaritans. Wagner is reluctant to quantify how much of Mr M is directly about Chesnutt, saying only that the record reflects what was going on in his life at the time the songs were written. But it’s a fair bet that the gorgeous title track “Mr Met” is informed by the sense of stumbling through grief. “Friends make you sensitive,” he sings, “love made us idiots/Fear makes us critical/Knowledge is difficult.” It’s a strange song, almost childish in its simplicity, but punctuated by heavenly strings. “2B2” is no less affecting. The tune is worn down, florid with gloom, while the lyrics are apparently a straight record of Wagner’s response to the passing of his soulmate. The opening line is a startling evocation of emotional dislocation: “Took the Christmas lights off the front porch, February 31st” The mood continues on “Nice Without Mercy” which offers a sideways reflection of Chesnutt’s funeral. It’s nostalgic in tone, musically understated, suggestive, elusive, and quite lovely: “And the shadows disappear,” Wagner sings, “in a day that breathes, forever.” Elsewhere, the mood is brighter. “Gar” is instrumental mood music, with outer-space Beach Boys’ harmonies, signalling – perhaps – an emotional thaw. “Buttons” is funny and sad, rhyming "night long struggle” with “metaphoric housing bubble”. “Betty’s Overture” is like a 1970s’ TV theme: something starring Peter Falk, perhaps, or Harry Dean Stanton as a horse doctor with a past he’d rather not confront. By the end, on “Never My Love”, the emotional journey is complete, with Wagner musing hopefully on the nature of love. Here, the musical arrangement is delicate, and rather experimental, with melancholy strings brushing against angelic harmonies. So, yes, death is all around, with Wagner slumped uneasily in his easy chair. But this is Lambchop, so the tough stuff comes rolled in cinnamon. Psycha-Sinatra doesn’t quite capture the record's spirit of jazzy strangeness. Maybe you could call it Frankadelic. But, really, this is lounge music. Departure lounge. Alastair McKay Q&A Kurt Wagner What was the idea for the record? It was something that developed in the studio, mainly. I was just trying to get back to writing songs, and trying to make ’em count. As I was doing that, Mark Nevers had this production idea he wanted to try. We put those two things together and built the record up slowly. Why had your songwriting dried up? Partially, it was due to my friend Vic [Chesnutt]’s passing. But also when we finished OH (Ohio), and did the touring, I started going back to painting. I was trying to make painting part of my life again. Vic passed away right around that time, and it was difficult for me to get my head around making music without him around. Is the song ‘Nights Without Mercy’ about Vic’s funeral? Yeah. Of course everything I do is comes about in a sideways kind of way. I was working on a book where I’d create text with a photographer, so part of the song is taken from that, then I went off and tried to deal with it. It’s important for me to recognise Vic’s passing; I want to make sure people remember him. It’s just difficult to share. My point in general is that it’s really a record about love and the discovery I made about love by experiencing a loss. On paper that could look like a pretty big downer, but ultimately it’s fairly hopeful. It just drags you through my experience of working through it. Interview: Alastair McKay

The lesser-known 1980s works of Jarvis Cocker... Some bands, as John Peel said of The Smiths, ‘spring fully-armed as if from nowhere’, while others take longer to find their feet. Pulp are the headline act for the latter category. Before the breakthrough “Babies” in 1992, Pulp slowly felt their way into music with three albums in the 1980s – It, Freaks and Separations –all of which have been reissued on Fire Records. It is impossible – and pointless – to listen to any of them without cocking half an ear towards the future, and comparing the tentative 1980s Pulp with the triumphant force that would blossom in the 1990s. Pulp had already been around for five years when It came out on Red Rhino in 1983. The ‘schoolboy Pulp’ had split by the time Simon Hinkler (later of The Mission) persuaded 19-year-old Jarvis Cocker to go into the studio with a pick-up band. It begins, unsettlingly, with the sound of seagulls and the album, co-written by Cocker and Hinkler, is out-of-kilter with the post-punk mood, soft and acoustic, heavily influenced by Leonard Cohen, even if Cocker’s vocals are disturbingly reminiscent of Morrissey. His needy crooning on the flute-ridden “Wishful Thinking” is very different to what was to come, and on much of the album there’s a curious tension between the knowledge that Cocker is trying too hard, while also holding something back. This is broken in places, such as the romp of “Love Love”, sung with a lusty wink rather than a teenage eagerness to please. It’s bizarre jazz-pop, LSD-meets-music hall, but it’s definitely Pulp. As is one of the bonus tracks, an alternative mix of “Blue Girls”, with organ swirling and tempo raised accordingly, offering a tantalising glimpse of the ghost of Pulp’s future. But that is still half a lifetime away. By the time Freaks came out in 1987, Pulp were refreshed, Cocker having been persuaded to stick with music by the addition of Russell Senior and Candida Doyle. Senior’s influence is crucial, taking lead vocals in the manic “Fairground”, a gurning celebration of the grand guignol. This is the sound of a band coming together, Doyle’s organ transforming the mood, while the lyrical themes have got darker, smarter, Pulp-ier. “I Want You” is one of the few 80s songs the band still perform, while “Being Followed Home” is paranoid and queasy, an evil sibling to future suburban classic "David’s Last Summer". Freaks is a break-up album, though, and consequently as depressing as anything they would record until This Is Hardcore. On the morose triptych “Master of The Universe”, “Life Must Be So Wonderful” and “There’s No Emotion” the bonkers promise of the first few tracks gets lost amid self-pity and solipsism. But ultimately it’s the simplicity of “Don’t You Know”, that foretells the future: no histrionics, just a catchy tune and witty lyric. This is the skeleton of all future Pulp hits – only the tunes would get catchier and the lyrics wittier: a bonus disc of Freaks-era singles – including the superb “Little Girl (With Blue Eyes)” – confirms the direction they were moving in. “Give me the city…” is the telling opening line on “Love Is Blind”, the first track of Separations, released in 1992 but recorded in 1989 after Cocker had moved south and allowed London to expand his mind. This is the first ‘real’ Pulp album, with Steve Mackey and Nick Banks on board, and Mackey’s love of acid house proves to be the missing ingredient. The first side is decent but humdrum – the punchy but forgettable “Don’t You Want Me Anymore?” is typical –recognisably a Pulp album, just not a particularly good one. Things pick up on side two, with the acid influence driving “My Legendary Girlfriend”, “Death II” and “Countdown” close to pop perfection. Cocker confidently gasps, oohs and leers over trademark beats of fleapit disco, lapsing into conspiratorial spoken word when the mood demands and mining his past for inspiration - the key first sentence of “Countdown” is “Oh I was seventeen…”. Pulp, looking back with panache, have finally arrived. Peter Watts Q&A Simon Hinkler How did you get involved with Pulp? I was in a band called Artery and the early Pulp supported us. I got friendly with Jarvis and started going out with his sister. Jarvis and I were playing music around the house and I persuaded him to make an album. We wanted do something laidback and introspective. Jarvis was in his late teens and his lyrics were very angsty, and we wanted to reflect that. I was into Leonard Cohen and we both liked Velvet Underground, and wanted something stripped down and simple. We split up, but I continued to produce the EPs around the time of Freaks. Did you expect them to be as big as they became? Jarvis was immature but had something about him. He was the smartest kid in school, but for a long time he was his own worst enemy. He wouldn’t compromise. When he moved to London I persuaded my girlfriend at the time to see Pulp, and she offered to manage them. She made them do things properly and persuaded people to see them, and got them signed to Island. They had the attention they’d needed for years, all they had to do now was let Jarvis carry on being Jarvis. Interview: Peter Watts

Their post-punk early years, boxed... There be gold in them stadium rock foothills. Before the superannuated MTV anthems, the spot lit spouses, the charity mega gigs, Simple Minds were the very opposite of boring. They made dark, dazzling, unconventional records whose influence would later echo through the music of U2, Primal Scream, Manic Street Preachers, The Horrors and Blur (speed up the carnival rhythms of “Life In A Day” and “Girls And Boys” drifts into view). A new box-set assiduously tracks this alternative narrative. It contains remastered versions of the band’s first five albums (though it lacks, sadly, any unreleased treasure) and begins with the callow charm of John Leckie-produced debut Life In A Day (1979). Although they’ve outgrown their early incarnation as Johnny & The Self Abusers, the spirited music remains highly derivative, a post-punk melange of Cockney Rebel, The Doors, Roxy Music, Bowie, Magazine and Neu!. Dodgy eight-minute dirge “Pleasantly Disturbed” is prog-rock-meets-the-Velvets. Significant progress is made on Real To Real Cacophony (1979). The work of a band in rapid transition, it features an ambitious, experimental concatenation of styles. “Naked Eye” and “Carnival” are nightmare vaudevilles, the aural equivalent of a hall of mirrors. “Veldt” is incipient world music, a post-colonial dream fever nodding to Peter Gabriel and Bowie’s Lodger. Elsewhere, the growing rhythmic interplay between bassist Derek Forbes and drummer Brian McGhee edges songs onto the dancefloor. “Premonition” is hard, futuristic Euro-funk; “Changeling” metallic post-punk overlaid with a sawing synth groove. Both are wonderful. On Empires And Dance (1980), Leckie’s final album with the band, they follow this path into the heart of disco-rock darkness. Jim Kerr’s agitated travelogue observes Old Europe decadence, pre-war “drug cabarets” and contemporary New European turmoil: Baader-Meinhof, bombs in Rome and Paris. It’s both disturbing and bleakly romantic. On the almost unbearably taut “Thirty Frames A Second” existential panic and the lure of the glitterball unite in perfect lockstep. “I Travel” is whirling dance-rock and the relentless “Celebrate” is a chain-gang electro-blues, a proto-“Personal Jesus”. Slow and monolithic, “Today I Died Again” and “This Fear Of Gods” are suffused with dread. You can certainly see why Empires And Dance might have made a profound impression on the Manic Street Preachers, whose The Holy Bible drew on everything from its cover art to its unsettling themes. The mood changes again on Sons And Fascination/Sister Feeling’s Call (1981). Recording with Gong-master Steve Hillage, the original intention was to make a double album and, although the two records were eventually released simultaneously but apart, they share the same thick, sinister, bass-heavy atmosphere. Smoky tribal rhythms and North African and Middle Eastern melodies snake through “League Of Nations”, “Boys From Brazil” and the title track, while Kerr’s clipped bark is now pitched so low he almost swallows his own words, which are generally disquieting: “Not just the boy who’s crying wolf now / Somebody’s screaming up at our door”. Yet at the same time something less ominous is emerging from the shadows, evident in almost-hits “Love Song” and “The American”, which expires in Charlie Burchill’s thrilling squall of wah-wah. The ability to shackle artfully alienated dance-rock to a warm, hummable chorus point towards New Gold Dream, which appeared in 1982 like a shimmering heat haze, lit up from within with an ambient, golden pop glow. Hits “Promised You A Miracle” and “Glittering Prize” may be persuasive, but it’s “Big Sleep” and Herbie Hancock’s sublime keyboard solo on the mesmerising “Hunter And The Hunted” which attain true transcendence. Sultry assassin’s song “King Is White And In The Crowd” reprises the old menace, but the dawning of a new age in which the cover of Smash Hits was as coveted as that of NME brought these perennial outsiders in from the cold. Simple Minds rapidly became a very different band, sucked into the rock slipstream. Anyone who knows only that part of the story is urged to immerse themselves in these albums which, though far from flawless, are fascinating, endlessly inventive and somewhat magical. Not only have they have never sounded better, they’ve rarely seemed so in tune with the times. Graeme Thomson Q&A Jim Kerr Why do 5 x 5 now? Over the past few tours we’ve been delving into more obscure early songs and finding that some of them had a contemporary vibe. They have a new context. A wealth of newer bands seem to be drawing on, not Simple Minds in particular, but that period in general. Did you want to set the record straight in some way? Nobody owes us anything, but the Simple Minds story has been too condensed. After Live Aid and “Don’t You Forget About Me” there hasn’t been quite the credit for those first few records. I think they contain some really special music. I can hear the flaws but there’s something about the spirit and imagination in them that feels good. They draw from such a wide range of influences. We’d go from really obscure krautrock to Chic and Sister Sledge to Beefheart to Bowie and Eno, but the spirit of it was always Simple Minds. There was no identity loss. Do you have a favourite? Empires And Dance, a travelogue with spiky dance music. We were young men travelling through classical Europe, reading Camus, and it was all feeding the machine. INTERVIEW: GRAEME THOMSON