‘Harmony soaked love songs’, I get – but what’s this? ‘Pre-Psychedelic? What the hell does that mean? Is that ‘Pre-Psychedelic’ in the sense of how you feel just before you get high? Or ‘Pre-Psychedelic’ in the sense of anything between Lewis Carroll, Salvidor Dali and See Emily Play? Hmm. Not sure about that. ‘Hallucinogenic’ maybe, in the same way ‘Exaltation Of Larks’ and tracks like ‘Tall Flowers’ in particular, scratch the tenderest sketches of altered consciousness with their wistful streams Continue Reading

Inspired by the melodies of Cole Porter and the lyrics of Morrissey, it’s inevitable that people are going to draw parallels between the London-Irish-Scouser, Eugene McGuinness and Manhattans’s Stephin Merritt, both capable of running circles around most popular artists and both capable of joyfully literate u-turns and baritone, burlesque sincerity; the only difference being that the multi-faceted McGuinness is capable of far greater circus tricks with his profanely agile vocal, which, just like the curbside princess in his song ‘Bold Continue Reading

In a dimension parallel to this one in which moneys drive cars, engineer feats of sparkling musical dissolution and bang on over and over with miniature cymbals, there exists a musical hierarchy in which New Order, Brian Wilson, Brian Eno, Lieutenant Pigeon, Paul McCartney, Hot Chip, XTC, Yo La Tengo and Spacemen 3 had been replaced by one 26 year old London resident with a debilitating compulsive-obsessive disorder and a fear of the sea. Mark Ronson doesn’t just sound like Continue Reading

If Gogol Bordello’s goggle-eyed cameo during Madonna’s thus spectacular Live Earth headline the other month served any real purpose – other than possibly selling a few more energy saving light bulbs and making people consider using less carrier bags at Tesco, of course – it was to highlight (yes, admittedly to about 6 people watching at home) that not all folk music is hand-knitted and cross-legged, and that the east European gypsy variety in particular is fairly off its nut. Continue Reading

Occasionally, just occasionally, a band is outshone by the rays of sparkling trivia that emanate from their own sprawling history: and Fountains of Wayne just happen to be one of them. So what do we have? Well you’ll love this one; remember that sticky, catchy pop tune from Hugh Grant/Drew Barrymore flick ‘Music and Lyrics’? The one that kickstarts the movie? ‘Pop Goes My Heart’? That affectionate and hugely enjoyable eighties parody? Well that was written by the band’s bass Continue Reading

We’re living through interesting times right now, or sometimes we are. The past 10 years have been a colourful era for UK indie music, for music with character, made by characters. From the masked psychosis of Clinic, through Super Furry Animals’ adventurous skirmishes, the Beta Band’s Mormon psychedelia, 80s Matchbox’s early distorted eccentricities, British Sea Power’s uniformed, textured vim, Mystery Jets’ bric-a-brac prog blend to The Horrors’ noisy theatricality. Bands linked not in an immediate or apparent sense, but by Continue Reading

Some bands – well, most bands – as good as they are or have been, still have an uncanny ability to make you wince with apprehension, adopting the listening equivalent of the crash position in case of impact, fingers over eyes, elbows over ears, when spinning any new album. There’s always that strong possibility that the stack of expectation amassed since their last acclaimed release will collapse in on itself leaving a pathetic pile of dust, debris and dead hope Continue Reading

Errmmm. Don’t really know what to say. On the one hand it’s a remarkably accomplished and well realised album full of joyous, cloud-bursting sunshine and perfectly poised intentions and on the other it’s a wordy, slightly irritating slice of militant miracle-love served up by a posh bird with aspirations pertaining to poetry and jazz. Lyrically it shuffles awkwardly amidst a hailstorm of polysyllables and extended metaphors, crawling bravely toward the profound but without ever seriously challenging it’s defences. In fact, Continue Reading

Following up the gentle, woozy ramble through the fishing ports and tavern trails around Edinburgh that was 2006’s, ‘The Year of The Leopard’, the athletic James Yorkston returns with yet another album, ‘Roaring The Gospel’. And whilst not ‘roaring’ exactly (more ‘yawning’) it is significantly more playful and dissolute than it’s perfectly balanced predecessor, packed to it’s fusty wooden rafters with all manner of tales regaled in his usual unsteady drawl to the languorous hum of his jugband army of Continue Reading

That Samson-esque voice, that gravely tone that stands firm like granite – not groaning under the weight of the dusky woe that it carries on its shoulders at all, but hunched pensively nonetheless – leaving a epic silhouetted impression as the backdrop to every song, is impossible to deny. It’s a genuine force of nature, an ace with which he can win every hand he plays. Its purpose is to be marvelled at and to communicate great scales of emotion. Continue Reading