Coming to work this morning past the giant Budweiser posters of William Tyler, it occurred to me it was really high time I wrote about “OH (Ohio)”. I guess there may have been some reluctance on my part to commit to this one, possibly because I’ve found the last couple – maybe more – Lambchop albums so disappointing, and also because, clearly, none of their slowly insinuating records merit rushed judgments. But anyway, “OH (Ohio)” seems to be a quietly re-energised – though I’m not sure that’s ever quite the right word for Lambchop – album. Of late, they’ve seemed weary; a tentative, beaten musical treatment might have fitted the tales of illness on “Damaged”, but the record still sounded exhausted beyond thematic usefulness. And while I became infatuated with “Is A Woman” (usefully, since I was writing an extensive piece on the band for Uncut at the time), I can’t pretend I’ve played it much in the intervening years. It’s hard to identify exactly what makes “OH (Ohio)” such a (dread phrase) return to form – after all, Kurt Wagner and his bandmates deal in such microscopic nuances that I guess a lot of casual listeners would be struggling to spot the differences. Often, though, this one reminds me of that very first album, “Jack’s Tulips”, in that it rekindles the freshness, even the discreet playfulness, of Lambchop. There’s a lightness of touch rediscovered here, from the opening supper-club shuffle of “Ohio” on. Perhaps one of the problems with recent records has been that the sheer strangeness of Lambchop’s original sound – the hazy, lightly-sketched, characterful synthesis of country, soul and so on – seemed to become over-familiar, even oppressive. This time, though, it works again, as Wagner navigates his rueful way through excellent songs like “Slipped Dissolved And Loosed”, “Popeye” (such a beautiful phased, dynamic coda to this one) and the gorgeously horn-flecked “Of Raymond” with, if not vigour, then a good deal more purpose. Apparently, Wagner has finally come to terms with the fact that Lambchop is ostensibly a vehicle for his songs, which might explain the heightened focus. But it’s weird, because the remorseless spotlight on his disintegrating voice, as on “Damaged” and “Is A Woman” especially, doesn’t feel quite so discomforting on “OH (Ohio)”. The personnel around him have almost completely changed since Lambchop’s early days, but the way they track his ambulatory melodies has all the customary subtlety, but perhaps not the virtual invisibility of those problem records. We can speculate about renewed vigour in the wake of life-threatening illness, of course, and the gentle humour that feeds through “National Talk Like A Pirate Day” may well be evidence of that. But maybe there is no great secret to why a band return to form sometimes, other than that the muse haphazardly drives them to create a batch of better songs. And while I went off on some mild anti-tune rant the other day (check the comments at the bottom), it’s nice to have a Lambchop album with some hooks again, perhaps most strikingly “A Hold Of You”. There’s a palpable, albeit suitably mature, desire to flex muscle on parts of “OH (Ohio)”: along with “National Talk Like A Pirate Day”, “Sharing A Gibson With Martin Luther King Jr” is one of Lambchop’s rare – and more successful than most – attempts to pick up a bit of speed. It’s not “Up With People”, but it’s not bad, either. A grower, then. It’ll be interesting to see how these songs turn out when Wagner plays them solo at his Club Uncut gig next Wednesday, on September 10. James Blackshaw and Cate Le Bon supporting, remember.

Much as I like a fair bit of hardcore, there’s a slightly dim earnestness surrounding some contemporary bands on the scene (like the musically quite interesting Gallows, I suppose) that can sometimes be irritating. Obviously I can sympathise with the ideology, but I guess I’ve reached a point in life where I don’t need to be lectured on the multifarious iniquities of the music business - or the iniquities of life, come to that - in such artless terms. Fucked Up, though, are a grand exception. Their fiercely underground stance (though they have just signed to Matador) never seems quite so sanctimonious and rote as others, and they seem genuinely, esoterically smart – not just anxious to prove that, contrary to crude punk stereotypes, they’ve read a book or two. They’re also, I think, the first hardcore band I’ve come across in a long time – since the ‘90s heyday of post-hardcore, maybe (though my knowledge of this stuff is sketchy at best, to be honest), who really stretch the music. Notoriously, their “Year Of The Pig” single from last year was an 18-minute, semi-motorik chunder that somehow managed to sustain the fireball indignation of a sub-two minute SST single from the ‘80s. Their last album, 2006’s “Hidden World”, was excellent too; a cannily ambitious expansion of the hardcore aesthetic, with strings from Final Fantasy/Arcade Fire’s Owen Pallett and some dynamic gear-shifts that could usefully be described as progressive. “The Chemistry Of Common Life” is in much the same vein, and I’m pleased to say it’s terrific. Sometimes, to be honest, that progressive dimension basically amounts to slow builds for intros - as on the raging, possibly Drive Like Jehu-like “Crooked Head”, or the distant flute which introduces “Son The Father” and the album itself. But “Son The Father” also has a melodiously screaming woman duetting with frontman Pink Eyes, and pummelling wave after wave of Guitar Army noise that is genuinely exhilarating. As “The Chemistry Of Common Life” piles on, these become satisfyingly familiar tricks. The grandiose “No Epiphany” is the culmination of all this, with allegedly 18 guitars, massed organs and female backing vocals, a reversed fuzz intro and a general haywire grandeur that reminds me how oddly close My Bloody Valentine could be to a hardcore band, especially live. My colleagues, I should note in passing, say this one’s like The Dandy Warhols. According to the trusty press release, guest singers on the album include Katie Stelmanis (from Fucked Up’s hometown of Toronto) and the Vivian Girls (who are getting a bit of blog heat at the moment, but who sound perilously like The Shop Assistants to me). It doesn’t, however, reveal which one of these vocalists shares the honours on “Royal Swan”, and who has a grand guignol diva tone which reminds me variously of Siouxsie or PJ Harvey. There are a couple of instrumental interludes that could’ve slid off Mogwai’s “Come On Die Young”. But mostly, amongst all the pomp and self-conscious scope, it’s the pumping, anthemic songs that stick with you: “Days Of Last”, “Twice Born”, the title track itself, that all remind a hardcore dilettante like me of some monstrous dream hybrid between “Damaged”-era Black Flag and Husker Du circa “New Day Rising”. I’m sure some of you can come up with more apposite reference points, mind. . .

Don LaFontaine 1940 - 2008 It’s a fair bet that you don’t recognise the name. But the voice, surely, is as iconic to moviegoers as Harry Lime’s final act appearance in The Third Man, Omar Sharif’s entrance in Lawrence Of Arabia or the great white’s tail fin in Jaws. Don LaFontaine was the unseen star of Hollywood; he was the guy who provided over 5,000 gravely voiceovers for movie trailers. You know the kind of thing. Everything began with “In a world…” or “In a time…”, all delivered by LaFontaine in a deep, ominous baritone. No wonder, perhaps, he was nicknamed “The voice of God”. A native of Bob Dylan's hometown, Duluth, Minnesota, Don started off doing voiceovers in 1964, for a Western, Gunfighters Of Casa Grande, and went on to do trailer spots for everything from Doctor Strangelove to Batman Returns. Anyway, here’s some of his more memorable moments: Fatal Attraction: “A look that led to an evening, a mistake he’d regret all his life…” 2001: A Space Odyssey: “Millions of years ago, before the human race existed, an adventure began…” The Terminator: “Inhuman, relentless, unstoppable. He has only one purpose. Murder…” Here's the trailer for Comedian, the documentary about Jerry Seinfeld’s return to stand-up, which is a great send-up of Don. And here he is, sending himself up in a TV commercial. As the man himself might say: "In a world after Don, we shall not hear his like again..."