A bit of a rush today, since we're trying to finish the next issue of Uncut. But I've been revisiting the MGMT record that turned up last year, and which features fairly prominently in the New Brooklyn Bands feature in the current issue. I must admit that I'm not completely sold on the whole album, "Oracular Spectacular", but the single, "Time To Pretend", is excellent: a snarky, syrupy cosmic pop trifle that recasts The Flaming Lips as jaded young hipsters rather than mature humanists. "Time To Pretend" is a wry, cutely quotable pisstake of rock star ambition, with Andrew VanWyngarden claiming, "Let's make some music, make some money, find some models for wives. I'll move to Paris, shoot some heroin and fuck with the stars," before briefly mourning a loss of childhood innocence and wanting his mummy. There are a lot of shifting planes of irony and ambivalence here, and I'm sure plenty of bands will probably take, "This is our decision to live fast and die young, we've got the vision, now let's have some fun," as a manifesto rather than an indictment. MGMT - it's pronounced 'Management', apparently - would probably argue that you can have fun while being aware of the process, which is fair enough. I'm going to get very irritated by this song after a few dozen more plays, but for now - fittingly for a record predicated on the idea of subverting transient, shallow, pop posturing - it works. Next week, by the way, I should get round to writing about the Elbow record, which I can hear even now drifting into the office from NME next door, plus there's some rumour that we may hear the Portishead album which, if the post-ATP stories are to be believed, should be interesting.

A couple of records I’ve been meaning to blog about for weeks today. One is the new album by Earth, “The Bees Made Honey In The Lion’s Skull”, which further confirms Dylan Carlson’s drift away from absolute minimalist metal drone to a kind of slow, but surprisingly melodious desert rock. I wrote a review of this for the magazine the other day, which suggested – perhaps fancifully – that there was no reason why Calexico fans shouldn’t enjoy this as much as more typical acolytes of doom; those of us who’ve faithfully followed Carlson’s pained journey from grunge outrider (and, notoriously, Kurt Cobain’s gun club buddy) into a godhead for any number of monolithic noise artists, most notably Sunn 0))). But still, “The Bees. . .” has that distinct blasted Morricone aspect, a parched and reverberant twang that locates it as a heavy interloper in the world of Americana. It’s curious that Carlson’s music once felt utterly disconnected from the idea of a grand tradition, an absolute negation of the rock continuum, but now it seems, ostensibly, to be the blues; a music wired into the culture, rather than the product of some backwoods avant-garde. There are similarities, I think, with Savage Republic, and the early Scenic albums, expansive landscape music that sought to evoke the American wilderness without resorting to the easy clichés. Anyway, if you’ve been mortally afraid of Earth records since those grim – though compelling, to me at least – blots on the early Sub Pop catalogue, maybe give them another go? Bill Frisell, bizarrely, guests here, if that makes a difference. A quick mention today, too, to “Invitation Songs” by The Cave Singers, a more conventional take on Americana by some Seattle associates of the mighty Black Mountain. American readers have probably come across this one already – I remember someone recommending it in the comments here a few months ago – though it’s only just got a release date in the UK. It’s growing on me, though. There’s something of The Violent Femmes about the band, though none of the manic eccentricity – maybe it’s the pinched, sometimes pretty shrill, nasal vocals of Pete Quirk, which I suspect might be a stumbling block for some people. Instead, there’s a homely, mildly eerie folk intimacy to these songs which would probably work for old Iron & Wine fans. The links with the Black Mountain Army are revealing, too, since there’s a similar vibe to the underrated Lightning Dust album that came out last year (Amber Webber contributes backing vocals here), and a primitive synth hum under a few tunes (most notably “Helen”) which sends these earthy little songs towards a woody, handcrafted take on spacerock. Nice record.

A bit early in 2008, I think, to start talking about Albums Of The Year and such. But over the past week, I must admit I’ve been completely knocked out by the new Stephen Malkmus & The Jicks album. It’s called “Real Emotional Trash”, and it’s out in March on Domino in the UK. Malkmus, I guess, now has some kind of senior guru status in the indie/college rock world, with Pavement being spiritual godfathers of so much of the erudite, skewed music that seems to be selling bucketloads in the States these days. It is, I’m sure, the source of infinite wry amusement to Malkmus – if not to some of his ex-bandmates – that Pavement never got within light years of the Billboard charts, while their descendants like Modest Mouse and The Shins can effortlessly fetch up in the Top Five. Maybe the fact that history will see Pavement as one of the best and most important bands of the past 20 years is satisfying enough. It certainly hasn’t knocked Malkmus off his current musical trajectory. “Real Emotional Trash” is his fourth post-Pavement album, though it feels like a follow-up to the second one, “Pig Lib”, which also explicitly featured The Jicks as backing band, rather than 2005’s solo and slightly disappointing “Face The Truth”. One of the nice things about these records, beyond their general excellence, is the sense is that Malkmus is on a similar musical path of discovery to many of us; that while skinny collegiate lo-fi might be lucrative these days, it’s not half as interesting as heavy, intricate jams. Like “Pig Lib”, “Real Emotional Trash” features elaborate, sometimes charmingly proggish folk-rock melodies, still maintaining those quizzical, ambulatory vocal lines which were so winning in Pavement, filled out with some incredibly fluent, expressive playing. I’m sure Malkmus’ encyclopaedic and arcane tastes would throw up much more interesting and specific reference points than those I can manage this morning, but I’m variously reminded of Richard Thompson, Television, The Grateful Dead – wiry, silvery guitarists who head for cosmic extremes in a way which is at once precise and zigzagging. “Hopscotch Willy” is playing now, and it’s just incredible; a hairy, intuitive groove that keeps rolling through new vistas and valleys, powered by the equally gifted Jicks. The newest Jicks recruit is the wonderful Janet Weiss, from Sleater-Kinney and Quasi, and it’s clear that she’s by some distance the best drummer Malkmus has ever employed. There’s a theory that this is how he always wanted to sound, but that Pavement never had the musical chops to keep up with his ideas (particularly in the drummer’s seat). They made up for this, of course, with great songs, immense charm and, at their best, a sense that five men were accidentally and entertainingly heading in the same direction by accident. Listening to the title track, or the earthy spacerock of “Elmo Delmo” here, it’s plain that virtuosity hasn’t eradicated the maverick sense of fun that’s integral to Malkmus’ appeal. He’s a lot warmer than some withering, cerebral stereotypes might suggest, too; “Out Of Reaches”, in particular, is as pretty and tender a song as he’s ever written (you’ll have to forgive me, but I haven’t been listening close enough to parse the lyrics. I’ll get there in a month or so, maybe). We’re onto that title track now, the early ebbing, chiming stages of it. By the end of its ten minutes, we’ll have wandered brilliantly through multiple sections, including one galloping bit around six minutes in which, it occurred to me over the weekend, is very roughly like “Heroes And Villains” as re-imagined by Status Quo. I realise that might not be the most appetising comparison I’ve ever made, but, honestly, it works. I have a press release in front of me, and its scanty info reveals that “Real Emotional Trash” “was recorded in Montana by TJ Doherty, whose credits include Wilco and Sonic Youth”. That makes sense, since those two bands strike me as being Malkmus and The Jicks’ vague peers these days; ambitious, expansive, relaxed, propelled by a fantastic understanding between bandmembers that can move mighty songs into big, free, even more satisfactory pieces of music. But the Status Quo bit has just started. You’ll have to excuse me. . .