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Wayne’s World

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The Flaming Lips Manchester Academy THURSDAY JANUARY 16, 2003 Pandas, aliens, gorillas, giant rabbits and Jetsonesque robots. Enormous spinning glitterballs spewing kaleidoscopic prisms. Silver confetti, fluorescent strobes, glove puppets and vistas of Teletubbies. At the centre of this Fellini-meets-Barbarella-via-Trigger Happy TV weirdness lurks Wayne Coyne, dappered up like a carnival barker on a mission. "People often live their lives looking ahead," opines the fortysomething leader of America's foremost exponents of mind-melting symphonic cyber-pop, "or to the past, when things were better. What happens is people forget how to live right now, for the moment. And who knows? Tonight may be the last show we ever do. I say you've gotta make the fuckin' moment last. Make right now matter." As statement of intent, the nub of Coyne's philosophy can be traced directly to his father's death during the making of the Lips' 1995 album, Clouds Taste Metallic (the point at which their wilfully freakish psych-rock shifted into an altogether more daring realm of sonic adventure), and shored up by the death-triggering triumph of last year's stunning 10th album and Uncut poll-topper, Yoshimi Battles The Pink Robots. If the latter was the Oklahoma trio's attempt to glean meaning and joy from unfathomable cosmic design, then tonight's live experience is the physical manifestation of defiant struggle, of hope forever sprouting eternal. These days, Lips shows bubble with unmatched communal warmth. This heat?from fans dancing on stage in $500 furry costumes to Coyne leading a throng-a-long of "Happy Birthday" to two random crowd-goers?may not have been what Pete Townshend exactly envisaged when he dreamt up that doomed utopia of band/punter communion, Lifehouse, but its effect is as curiously exhilarating as anything I've seen on stage. Their music?like the incongruous optical riot?shouldn't really work, but does so to glorious effect: sadly rippling piano effects over stumbling hip hop beats wrapped in sensory-shifting symphonic dubscapes, all strained with that strangely suspenseful Coyne tremble that suggests the answers to the Big Questions are within reach somewhere over the next cloud. The most beautiful, fragile moments ("All We Have Is Now"; "In The Morning Of The Magicians"; "A Spoonful Weighs A Ton") are counterpointed by ebullient crashes through the classic "She Don't Use Jelly", Pink Floyd's "Lucifer Sam" and the megaphone-wielding "Lightning Strikes The Postman", but it's the likes of "Race For The Prize" and the magnificent "Do You Realize??" that truly transfigure. Honourable mentions go to auspicious support, British Sea Power, and Badly Drawn Boy, whose unheralded three-song prelude to the Lips' appearance came with a much-applauded Joe Strummer tribute during "You Were Right". No stealing of thunder from the main act, though. The Flaming Lips, genuinely humbled by the affection they inspire, urge you to love, live and fill thy cup. Somewhere, there's a panda costume with your name on it.

The Flaming Lips

Manchester Academy

THURSDAY JANUARY 16, 2003

Pandas, aliens, gorillas, giant rabbits and Jetsonesque robots. Enormous spinning glitterballs spewing kaleidoscopic prisms. Silver confetti, fluorescent strobes, glove puppets and vistas of Teletubbies. At the centre of this Fellini-meets-Barbarella-via-Trigger Happy TV weirdness lurks Wayne Coyne, dappered up like a carnival barker on a mission. “People often live their lives looking ahead,” opines the fortysomething leader of America’s foremost exponents of mind-melting symphonic cyber-pop, “or to the past, when things were better. What happens is people forget how to live right now, for the moment. And who knows? Tonight may be the last show we ever do. I say you’ve gotta make the fuckin’ moment last. Make right now matter.”

As statement of intent, the nub of Coyne’s philosophy can be traced directly to his father’s death during the making of the Lips’ 1995 album, Clouds Taste Metallic (the point at which their wilfully freakish psych-rock shifted into an altogether more daring realm of sonic adventure), and shored up by the death-triggering triumph of last year’s stunning 10th album and Uncut poll-topper, Yoshimi Battles The Pink Robots.

If the latter was the Oklahoma trio’s attempt to glean meaning and joy from unfathomable cosmic design, then tonight’s live experience is the physical manifestation of defiant struggle, of hope forever sprouting eternal. These days, Lips shows bubble with unmatched communal warmth. This heat?from fans dancing on stage in $500 furry costumes to Coyne leading a throng-a-long of “Happy Birthday” to two random crowd-goers?may not have been what Pete Townshend exactly envisaged when he dreamt up that doomed utopia of band/punter communion, Lifehouse, but its effect is as curiously exhilarating as anything I’ve seen on stage.

Their music?like the incongruous optical riot?shouldn’t really work, but does so to glorious effect: sadly rippling piano effects over stumbling hip hop beats wrapped in sensory-shifting symphonic dubscapes, all strained with that strangely suspenseful Coyne tremble that suggests the answers to the Big Questions are within reach somewhere over the next cloud. The most beautiful, fragile moments (“All We Have Is Now”; “In The Morning Of The Magicians”; “A Spoonful Weighs A Ton”) are counterpointed by ebullient crashes through the classic “She Don’t Use Jelly”, Pink Floyd’s “Lucifer Sam” and the megaphone-wielding “Lightning Strikes The Postman”, but it’s the likes of “Race For The Prize” and the magnificent “Do You Realize??” that truly transfigure. Honourable mentions go to auspicious support, British Sea Power, and Badly Drawn Boy, whose unheralded three-song prelude to the Lips’ appearance came with a much-applauded Joe Strummer tribute during “You Were Right”. No stealing of thunder from the main act, though. The Flaming Lips, genuinely humbled by the affection they inspire, urge you to love, live and fill thy cup. Somewhere, there’s a panda costume with your name on it.

Andmoreagain…

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Arthur Lee & Love Royal Festival Hall, London WEDNESDAY JANUARY 15, 2003 On paper, Arthur Lee is an unlikely recruit to the rock heritage industry. In a hilarious rant in NME recently, Lee claimed Brian Wilson, Mick Jagger and former Beatle "Paul McCarthy" all "stink". "I'm tired of playing that old stuff," he said, "I'm going to put Forever Changes out of people's minds with this new album I have. It's the best rock album there's ever going to be." It's been noted before that Arthur Lee can be a little schizophrenic. Even so, the enthusiasm with which he is singing, "This is the time and life that I am living," as if 1968 never ended, still comes as something of a shock. For here is Lee and the latest of Love's countless incarnations (the LA band Baby Lemonade, ostensibly), plus string and horn sections, ploughing through the entirety of Forever Changes with a deftness and passion that would be unlikely in far keener revivalists. Lee is, in a way, the luckiest and unluckiest of '60s rock legends. His complete lack of success for 30 years may have left him relatively poor and bitter, but it has also ensured that his artistic vision remains untainted by the commercial exigencies of the '70s and '80s. His cowboy hat, Stars & Stripes bandanna and white fringed shirt aren't historical props, they're the evidence of an aesthetic code that hasn't materially altered since February 1968, when he sat in the hills overlooking LA and contemplated the hippie dream, and society in general, beginning to fall apart. Remarkably, the spirit of Forever Changes is sustained through this formal recital, right down to its deceitful prettiness, its prickly intimations of bad trips and imminent crashes. The show begins with Lee and his core band blasting through a suitably ragged selection, notably a needling version of "Your Mind And We Belong Together" that reveals his wounded soul vocals are miraculously undamaged. Then Forever Changes is performed, in order, from the mariachi fanfares of Bryan MacLean's "Alone Again Or" through to a devastating version of "You Set The Scene". The obvious parallel is with Brian Wilson's Pet Sounds shows last year. But if Wilson's triumph was one of poignancy and a legacy reclaimed, Lee's success is more assertive, a display of musical virility that seems undimmed. The mixture of imprecise yearning and paranoia which characterises Forever Changes is perfectly reproduced, helped by the fact that Lee is far more attuned to these youthful anxieties than the average 57-year-old. Particularly outstanding are the incantations of "The Red Telephone", with the orchestra used sparingly and sensitively, never cluttering up the arrangements with slush. Eventually they troop off, and Lee returns with Baby Lemonade for another smash-and-grab raid on his archives that features a great, psych-garage hack through "My Flash On You", a moving "Always See Your Face" (plenty of Love Four Sail gets an airing), and a version of "Singing Cowboy" featuring Graham Coxon ("Gram Caxton!" announces Lee, bewildered or mischievous) on extra guitar. Finally, one of the fabled new songs is revealed, a bizarre kiss-off to the States and hymn of praise to the UK that features Lee animatedly conducting the orchestra and a bagpiper in full regalia. His happiness at playing new material is infectious, but unfortunately "My Anthem" is cursed by its peculiar resemblance to Slade's "Run Run Away"; not quite the quicksilver charmer we might have imagined. Hence Lee's dilemma, one he's having to face much later than most of his contemporaries. How to reconcile an ongoing career when your fans?entirely justifiably on this evidence?will damn your new songs with, at best, polite tolerance? Lee's ingenuous trust in his genius and his faith in antiquated rock'n'roll values elevates this show far beyond historical re-enactment. But paradoxically, it may also compel him to see his own creative future unrealistically. "The time that I've been given's such a little while/And the things that I must do consist of more than style," he sings in the apposite "You Set The Scene". Still, after three decades of hardship, bitterness, trauma, even imprisonment, it'll be hard to begrudge him one more chance to prove himself.

Arthur Lee & Love

Royal Festival Hall, London

WEDNESDAY JANUARY 15, 2003

On paper, Arthur Lee is an unlikely recruit to the rock heritage industry. In a hilarious rant in NME recently, Lee claimed Brian Wilson, Mick Jagger and former Beatle “Paul McCarthy” all “stink”. “I’m tired of playing that old stuff,” he said, “I’m going to put Forever Changes out of people’s minds with this new album I have. It’s the best rock album there’s ever going to be.”

It’s been noted before that Arthur Lee can be a little schizophrenic. Even so, the enthusiasm with which he is singing, “This is the time and life that I am living,” as if 1968 never ended, still comes as something of a shock. For here is Lee and the latest of Love’s countless incarnations (the LA band Baby Lemonade, ostensibly), plus string and horn sections, ploughing through the entirety of Forever Changes with a deftness and passion that would be unlikely in far keener revivalists.

Lee is, in a way, the luckiest and unluckiest of ’60s rock legends. His complete lack of success for 30 years may have left him relatively poor and bitter, but it has also ensured that his artistic vision remains untainted by the commercial exigencies of the ’70s and ’80s. His cowboy hat, Stars & Stripes bandanna and white fringed shirt aren’t historical props, they’re the evidence of an aesthetic code that hasn’t materially altered since February 1968, when he sat in the hills overlooking LA and contemplated the hippie dream, and society in general, beginning to fall apart.

Remarkably, the spirit of Forever Changes is sustained through this formal recital, right down to its deceitful prettiness, its prickly intimations of bad trips and imminent crashes. The show begins with Lee and his core band blasting through a suitably ragged selection, notably a needling version of “Your Mind And We Belong Together” that reveals his wounded soul vocals are miraculously undamaged. Then Forever Changes is performed, in order, from the mariachi fanfares of Bryan MacLean’s “Alone Again Or” through to a devastating version of “You Set The Scene”.

The obvious parallel is with Brian Wilson’s Pet Sounds shows last year. But if Wilson’s triumph was one of poignancy and a legacy reclaimed, Lee’s success is more assertive, a display of musical virility that seems undimmed. The mixture of imprecise yearning and paranoia which characterises Forever Changes is perfectly reproduced, helped by the fact that Lee is far more attuned to these youthful anxieties than the average 57-year-old. Particularly outstanding are the incantations of “The Red Telephone”, with the orchestra used sparingly and sensitively, never cluttering up the arrangements with slush. Eventually they troop off, and Lee returns with Baby Lemonade for another smash-and-grab raid on his archives that features a great, psych-garage hack through “My Flash On You”, a moving “Always See Your Face” (plenty of Love Four Sail gets an airing), and a version of “Singing Cowboy” featuring Graham Coxon (“Gram Caxton!” announces Lee, bewildered or mischievous) on extra guitar. Finally, one of the fabled new songs is revealed, a bizarre kiss-off to the States and hymn of praise to the UK that features Lee animatedly conducting the orchestra and a bagpiper in full regalia. His happiness at playing new material is infectious, but unfortunately “My Anthem” is cursed by its peculiar resemblance to Slade’s “Run Run Away”; not quite the quicksilver charmer we might have imagined.

Hence Lee’s dilemma, one he’s having to face much later than most of his contemporaries. How to reconcile an ongoing career when your fans?entirely justifiably on this evidence?will damn your new songs with, at best, polite tolerance? Lee’s ingenuous trust in his genius and his faith in antiquated rock’n’roll values elevates this show far beyond historical re-enactment. But paradoxically, it may also compel him to see his own creative future unrealistically. “The time that I’ve been given’s such a little while/And the things that I must do consist of more than style,” he sings in the apposite “You Set The Scene”. Still, after three decades of hardship, bitterness, trauma, even imprisonment, it’ll be hard to begrudge him one more chance to prove himself.

Jackie Leven – Shining Brother, Shining Sister

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The wilfully weathered Leven wears his art on his sleeve: his new work incorporates poems by Rilke, ee cummings and Edith Sitwell, read by Ron Sexsmith, Robert Bly and David "Pere Ubu" Thomas. Despite Leven's wry sleevenotes, it's nothing if not earnest. When it doesn't click, it's a bit Chris Rea/Dire Straits, but when he allows himself to croon songs of honest personal heartbreak, like the lovely "Another Man In The Old Arcade", the library lets some light and shade in and his lilting voice moves you to the marrow.

The wilfully weathered Leven wears his art on his sleeve: his new work incorporates poems by Rilke, ee cummings and Edith Sitwell, read by Ron Sexsmith, Robert Bly and David “Pere Ubu” Thomas. Despite Leven’s wry sleevenotes, it’s nothing if not earnest. When it doesn’t click, it’s a bit Chris Rea/Dire Straits, but when he allows himself to croon songs of honest personal heartbreak, like the lovely “Another Man In The Old Arcade”, the library lets some light and shade in and his lilting voice moves you to the marrow.

Melys – Casting Pearls

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Following the surprise success of their song "Chinese Whispers", which topped John Peel's Festive 50 at the end of 2001, there has been increased expectation surrounding Welsh four-piece Melys' third album. But try as they might to match the lush indie-pop of their most famous song, they never fully achieve this. The sumptuous vocals of lead singer Andrea Parker continue to enchant, but the melodies here lack the necessary bite to make them truly memorable, and even the better ones are frustratingly undermined by poor production and arranging.

Following the surprise success of their song “Chinese Whispers”, which topped John Peel’s Festive 50 at the end of 2001, there has been increased expectation surrounding Welsh four-piece Melys’ third album. But try as they might to match the lush indie-pop of their most famous song, they never fully achieve this. The sumptuous vocals of lead singer Andrea Parker continue to enchant, but the melodies here lack the necessary bite to make them truly memorable, and even the better ones are frustratingly undermined by poor production and arranging.

Mira Calix – Susanne Brokesch

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South African-born, London-based Chantal Passamonte, aka Mira Calix, creates experimental electronica... sort of. Less obsessed with laptop gadgetry, she utilises analogue synths and vintage mixing hardware to collage found sounds, battered guitar riffs and the wide variety of weird and wonderful instruments she's picked up on her world travels, creating an exquisite suite of almost palpably textured instrumentals. Vienna's Susanne Brokesch composes post-industrial artcore electronica where the ghosts of ancient opera recordings resonate in the same space as new-age jazz keyboards and retro-futuristic sci-fi sound effects.

South African-born, London-based Chantal Passamonte, aka Mira Calix, creates experimental electronica… sort of. Less obsessed with laptop gadgetry, she utilises analogue synths and vintage mixing hardware to collage found sounds, battered guitar riffs and the wide variety of weird and wonderful instruments she’s picked up on her world travels, creating an exquisite suite of almost palpably textured instrumentals.

Vienna’s Susanne Brokesch composes post-industrial artcore electronica where the ghosts of ancient opera recordings resonate in the same space as new-age jazz keyboards and retro-futuristic sci-fi sound effects.

Songdog – Haiku

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If 2001's superb The Way Of The World was a fittingly damaged, literary affair for a songwriter in thrall to the Beats, Brel and Dylan, Haiku ups the ante with more extreme, nerve-jarring tales of love and sex in all its obsessive, voyeuristic, clammy glory. Award-winning playwright and frontman Lyndon Morgans' acute, tragic-comic heart-letting is never less than captivating, be it salivating over the girl in HMV from behind a Lara Croft cut-out, pining for a girl who's bogged off with a "cutie in clean chinos... and big joy in his jeans" ("Hat-Check Girl") or being horrified about a husband murdered with the spike of a shoe. Delivered over gorgeously understated guitars, strings and bowed bass in a desperate, lurching voice, Morgans' near-suicidal anguish makes for oddly liberating listening.

If 2001’s superb The Way Of The World was a fittingly damaged, literary affair for a songwriter in thrall to the Beats, Brel and Dylan, Haiku ups the ante with more extreme, nerve-jarring tales of love and sex in all its obsessive, voyeuristic, clammy glory.

Award-winning playwright and frontman Lyndon Morgans’ acute, tragic-comic heart-letting is never less than captivating, be it salivating over the girl in HMV from behind a Lara Croft cut-out, pining for a girl who’s bogged off with a “cutie in clean chinos… and big joy in his jeans” (“Hat-Check Girl”) or being horrified about a husband murdered with the spike of a shoe. Delivered over gorgeously understated guitars, strings and bowed bass in a desperate, lurching voice, Morgans’ near-suicidal anguish makes for oddly liberating listening.

Joy Zipper – American Whip

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Been fantasising that one day there'd be a new My Bloody Valentine album? In all but name, the improbable has happened. Produced by both Kevin Shields himself and one David Holmes, this is Isn't Anything with postmodern lyrics. Long Island couple Vinny and Tabitha hook up with R.E.M./Beck drummer Joey Waronker for a superb re-imagining of that 1988 dreamscape, all phased girlie backing vocals and slipstream guitars. Snow's started to fall as I play it: very appropriate. Songs of drugs, Alzheimers and the inner child in love, Lash yourself in.

Been fantasising that one day there’d be a new My Bloody Valentine album? In all but name, the improbable has happened. Produced by both Kevin Shields himself and one David Holmes, this is Isn’t Anything with postmodern lyrics. Long Island couple Vinny and Tabitha hook up with R.E.M./Beck drummer Joey Waronker for a superb re-imagining of that 1988 dreamscape, all phased girlie backing vocals and slipstream guitars. Snow’s started to fall as I play it: very appropriate. Songs of drugs, Alzheimers and the inner child in love, Lash yourself in.

Papa Garcia – Bring Me The Head Of Papa Garcia

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If there's a definable thread to Garcia's work, it's a love of guitar. A six-string obsessive since the age of 11, an unorthodox upbringing in both Panama City and Manhattan makes for broadly stylistic riffola, be it power pop ("I Don't Mind," "Blue"), Nile Rodgers funk ("Fast"), garage rock or Skynyrd boogie. But this is more than orgiastic plank-spanking. Garcia's recent relocation to his native UK was sparked by submersion in analogue electronica, injecting the likes of "Life & Death" and "The Feeling" with enough squelching beats to scramble Heavenly Social headz. Jaw-droppingly inspired, Garcia shuffles identities with all the techno-headed aplomb of a latterday Mister Ben.

If there’s a definable thread to Garcia’s work, it’s a love of guitar. A six-string obsessive since the age of 11, an unorthodox upbringing in both Panama City and Manhattan makes for broadly stylistic riffola, be it power pop (“I Don’t Mind,” “Blue”), Nile Rodgers funk (“Fast”), garage rock or Skynyrd boogie. But this is more than orgiastic plank-spanking. Garcia’s recent relocation to his native UK was sparked by submersion in analogue electronica, injecting the likes of “Life & Death” and “The Feeling” with enough squelching beats to scramble Heavenly Social headz. Jaw-droppingly inspired, Garcia shuffles identities with all the techno-headed aplomb of a latterday Mister Ben.

This Month In Americana

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WICHITA/DARLA Led by whiskery 24-year-old Jim James, My Morning Jacket, five rock hounds from the farmlands of Kentucky, were formed back in 1998. Early days rehearsing and recording amid the barns and silos of guitarist Johnny Quaid's grandparents' farm were pivotal, smearing their countrified slacker rock in a haze of reverb. The effect, now duplicated in the studio, is like buckshot clanging' round the pillars of an empty cathedral. At its epicentre is James' remarkable delivery, as oddly beautiful as The Flaming Lips' Wayne Coyne, but five times as tough. Debut The Tennessee Fire (1999) finds them manfully struggling to nail the sound. There are mercurial moments, but James is often buried in the mix or seemingly unconvinced of his own strengths. Last year's At Dawn, however, kicked over a welter of traces in dazzling style. There's straightforward country-pop ("Lowdown"), shorn, stoned ballads ("If It Smashes Down"), the odd, ill-advised 12-bar blues ("Honest Man"), bell-bottomed Southern boogie ("Just Because I Do") and even a dabble in dub ("Phone Went West"), but James' soulful, inflamed howl is enough to crack open a marble moon. This is simple stuff at heart. The songs cover the time-honoured staples of love, loss and death, but, though hardly happy-clappy, there's no miserabilist baggage to unload here (they adore Led Zep, despise Will Oldham). And this stunning, sometimes transfiguring music is all the healthier for it.

WICHITA/DARLA

Led by whiskery 24-year-old Jim James, My Morning Jacket, five rock hounds from the farmlands of Kentucky, were formed back in 1998. Early days rehearsing and recording amid the barns and silos of guitarist Johnny Quaid’s grandparents’ farm were pivotal, smearing their countrified slacker rock in a haze of reverb. The effect, now duplicated in the studio, is like buckshot clanging’ round the pillars of an empty cathedral. At its epicentre is James’ remarkable delivery, as oddly beautiful as The Flaming Lips’ Wayne Coyne, but five times as tough.

Debut The Tennessee Fire (1999) finds them manfully struggling to nail the sound. There are mercurial moments, but James is often buried in the mix or seemingly unconvinced of his own strengths. Last year’s At Dawn, however, kicked over a welter of traces in dazzling style. There’s straightforward country-pop (“Lowdown”), shorn, stoned ballads (“If It Smashes Down”), the odd, ill-advised 12-bar blues (“Honest Man”), bell-bottomed Southern boogie (“Just Because I Do”) and even a dabble in dub (“Phone Went West”), but James’ soulful, inflamed howl is enough to crack open a marble moon.

This is simple stuff at heart. The songs cover the time-honoured staples of love, loss and death, but, though hardly happy-clappy, there’s no miserabilist baggage to unload here (they adore Led Zep, despise Will Oldham). And this stunning, sometimes transfiguring music is all the healthier for it.

Great Western

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Take a twist of the Wild Bunch and some ghosts from The Alamo, wash down with tequila, then fall asleep on the back porch. That music you can hear drifting through your dreams is from Calexico, who christened themselves after a town on the border between California and Mexico. Their music is an intoxicatingly vivid evocation of the mythology of the American west and its Hispanic heritage, and Feast Of Wire lays down an optimistically early marker as one of the albums of the year. From the opening cantina two-step of "Sunken Waltz", you're transported to a place where the sun is hot enough to bake bricks and there's always a couple of mangy dogs in the shade. The nucleus of Calexico is drummer John Convertino and multi-instrumentalist and singer Joey Burns, but the duo act as musical traffic cops, marshalling a small army of sympathetic collaborators. You've been here before, but never quite like this. "Black Heart" lifts off in a Portishead-like shimmer of distortion and woozy violins, before opening out into a sullen epic of space and distance. "Close Behind" thunders across the prairie like a Pony Express rider with a war party on his tail and arrows wedged in his Stetson, strings and mariachi trumpets arching across pedal steel and Convertino's bustling percussion. "Across The Wire (Widescreen)" finds Burns hijacking Marty Robbins, narrating a classic border ballad bristling with trumpets, accordion and Spanish guitar ("He spotted an eagle in the middle of a lake, resting on cactus and feasting on snakes"). But there's more to the Calexicans than leftovers from a campfire. Ennio Morricone's deadpan surrealism floats over the horizon like a mirage, and many a minimalist composer will be picking apart "The Book And The Canal". "Dub Latina" fans out across Latin America, and "No Doze" ends the disc in an eerie mist of drones and roaring percussion. "Crumble" fuses Gil Evans-style piercing horn with the feral rumble of Charles Mingus' Tijuana Moods, embellished by Nick Luca's jazz guitar. And apart from all that, Calexico's world is big enough for the classic heartbreaker-pop of "Not Even Stevie Nicks... ", in all its wondrousness. Saddle up, it's showtime.

Take a twist of the Wild Bunch and some ghosts from The Alamo, wash down with tequila, then fall asleep on the back porch. That music you can hear drifting through your dreams is from Calexico, who christened themselves after a town on the border between California and Mexico. Their music is an intoxicatingly vivid evocation of the mythology of the American west and its Hispanic heritage, and Feast Of Wire lays down an optimistically early marker as one of the albums of the year.

From the opening cantina two-step of “Sunken Waltz”, you’re transported to a place where the sun is hot enough to bake bricks and there’s always a couple of mangy dogs in the shade. The nucleus of Calexico is drummer John Convertino and multi-instrumentalist and singer Joey Burns, but the duo act as musical traffic cops, marshalling a small army of sympathetic collaborators.

You’ve been here before, but never quite like this. “Black Heart” lifts off in a Portishead-like shimmer of distortion and woozy violins, before opening out into a sullen epic of space and distance. “Close Behind” thunders across the prairie like a Pony Express rider with a war party on his tail and arrows wedged in his Stetson, strings and mariachi trumpets arching across pedal steel and Convertino’s bustling percussion. “Across The Wire (Widescreen)” finds Burns hijacking Marty Robbins, narrating a classic border ballad bristling with trumpets, accordion and Spanish guitar (“He spotted an eagle in the middle of a lake, resting on cactus and feasting on snakes”).

But there’s more to the Calexicans than leftovers from a campfire. Ennio Morricone’s deadpan surrealism floats over the horizon like a mirage, and many a minimalist composer will be picking apart “The Book And The Canal”. “Dub Latina” fans out across Latin America, and “No Doze” ends the disc in an eerie mist of drones and roaring percussion. “Crumble” fuses Gil Evans-style piercing horn with the feral rumble of Charles Mingus’ Tijuana Moods, embellished by Nick Luca’s jazz guitar. And apart from all that, Calexico’s world is big enough for the classic heartbreaker-pop of “Not Even Stevie Nicks… “, in all its wondrousness. Saddle up, it’s showtime.

Manorexia – The Radiolarian Ooze

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Manorexia releases eschew the meticulous approach of Thirlwell's Foetus and Steroid Maximus aliases, allowing a freer-flowing approach to composition. Water imagery is very much in evidence here?the previous Manorexia album, Volvox Turbo, was named after pond-dwelling organisms, while The Radiolarian Ooze refers to slime secreted by plankton on the ocean's floors (a similar sub-aquatic leitmotif dominated Thirlwell's recent live laptop performances as Baby Zizane). Cinematic in scope, the album explores a sinister psychological inner space before blossoming into a suite of uplifting compositions that express awe at the vastness of nature.

Manorexia releases eschew the meticulous approach of Thirlwell’s Foetus and Steroid Maximus aliases, allowing a freer-flowing approach to composition. Water imagery is very much in evidence here?the previous Manorexia album, Volvox Turbo, was named after pond-dwelling organisms, while The Radiolarian Ooze refers to slime secreted by plankton on the ocean’s floors (a similar sub-aquatic leitmotif dominated Thirlwell’s recent live laptop performances as Baby Zizane). Cinematic in scope, the album explores a sinister psychological inner space before blossoming into a suite of uplifting compositions that express awe at the vastness of nature.

Scout Niblett – I Conjure Series

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On 2001's promising Sweet Heart Fever, Nottingham's Scout Niblett presented herself as a combination of Cat Power and P J Harvey. For this follow-up, however, one suspects she's tried too hard to cultivate her own idiosyncrasies. A couple of tracks are in Japanese, while others feature Niblett accompanied only by her Animal-ish drumming. A bolshy experiment. Presumably she's saved the tunes for her Steve Albini-produced full-length album, due in spring

On 2001’s promising Sweet Heart Fever, Nottingham’s Scout Niblett presented herself as a combination of Cat Power and P J Harvey. For this follow-up, however, one suspects she’s tried too hard to cultivate her own idiosyncrasies. A couple of tracks are in Japanese, while others feature Niblett accompanied only by her Animal-ish drumming. A bolshy experiment. Presumably she’s saved the tunes for her Steve Albini-produced full-length album, due in spring

Horsepower Productions – In Fine Style

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"Hyperdub" isn't an ideal name for this music, but better than ghastly alternatives like "intelligent 2-step." Horsepower apply architecture to their post-drum'n'bass adventures, and while tracks like "Fist Of Fury" drift too far into Gilles Peterson-land, interest is ensured by the slaloms of punchy rhythm which ski round your head ("Pimp Flavors"), the dancehall interjections ("Gorgon Sound"), the immense vistas of space that owe more to Juan Atkins than Lee Perry ("The Swindle"), and even, in "To The Beat Y'All", what sounds like Todd Terry meets Boards Of Canada.

“Hyperdub” isn’t an ideal name for this music, but better than ghastly alternatives like “intelligent 2-step.” Horsepower apply architecture to their post-drum’n’bass adventures, and while tracks like “Fist Of Fury” drift too far into Gilles Peterson-land, interest is ensured by the slaloms of punchy rhythm which ski round your head (“Pimp Flavors”), the dancehall interjections (“Gorgon Sound”), the immense vistas of space that owe more to Juan Atkins than Lee Perry (“The Swindle”), and even, in “To The Beat Y’All”, what sounds like Todd Terry meets Boards Of Canada.

Matchbox Twenty – More Than You Think You Are

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Matchbox Twenty and Grammy-winning frontman Rob Thomas are adored in the US but their angst-ridden melodic rock has failed to ignite the UK. Their second LP, 2000's Mad Season, was an eclectic record full of catchy hooks and lyrics. More Than You Think You Are is flat by comparison. Thomas' lyrics are too frequently overwrought, with "Unwell" and the ghostly ballad "Hand Me Down" the only standouts.

Matchbox Twenty and Grammy-winning frontman Rob Thomas are adored in the US but their angst-ridden melodic rock has failed to ignite the UK. Their second LP, 2000’s Mad Season, was an eclectic record full of catchy hooks and lyrics. More Than You Think You Are is flat by comparison. Thomas’ lyrics are too frequently overwrought, with “Unwell” and the ghostly ballad “Hand Me Down” the only standouts.

Grand Mal – Bad Timing

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Red in tooth and claw, Grand Mal's third album is a raucous, righteous paean to the mythological decadence of their hometown. There are, however, enough kinks in their bourbon-soaked blueprint to deflect charges of artlessness, with the ingeniously ersatz gospel of the title track, for example, recalling Odelay-era Beck. But it's their dirty, lowdown rock pastiches that truly score, with "First Time Knockout" and "Duty Free" beaming with the glam-kissed exuberance of the New York Dolls. A bona fide blast of ageless, pretension-free rock'n'roll, Bad Timing is the nazz.

Red in tooth and claw, Grand Mal’s third album is a raucous, righteous paean to the mythological decadence of their hometown. There are, however, enough kinks in their bourbon-soaked blueprint to deflect charges of artlessness, with the ingeniously ersatz gospel of the title track, for example, recalling Odelay-era Beck. But it’s their dirty, lowdown rock pastiches that truly score, with “First Time Knockout” and “Duty Free” beaming with the glam-kissed exuberance of the New York Dolls. A bona fide blast of ageless, pretension-free rock’n’roll, Bad Timing is the nazz.

Electric Music AKA – The Slapback Sound

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Electric Music AKA doesn't quite mirror their moniker. Anth Brown and Tom Doyle's songcraft resounds with smooth '70s MOR?Steely Dan and The Beach Boys navigated via chiming nu-folk glockenspiels, harps and trebly guitar twangs. Yet they do possess an adventurous streak. Organic glitch textures and stop-start judders house the traditional and the modern. As such, their yearning adult pop is magnified, refracted and brought whizzing to life. An album that gets lovelier with every listen.

Electric Music AKA doesn’t quite mirror their moniker. Anth Brown and Tom Doyle’s songcraft resounds with smooth ’70s MOR?Steely Dan and The Beach Boys navigated via chiming nu-folk glockenspiels, harps and trebly guitar twangs. Yet they do possess an adventurous streak. Organic glitch textures and stop-start judders house the traditional and the modern. As such, their yearning adult pop is magnified, refracted and brought whizzing to life. An album that gets lovelier with every listen.

Dakota Suite – This River Only Brings Poison

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Any fan of American Music Club and Red House Painters knows that the only kindred spirits in the UK are Dakota Suite, the Leeds-based trio with a handful of achingly beautiful albums under their belt. Their latest logically teams the band with ex-AMC members Bruce Kaphan and Tim Mooney, who give the arrangements a majestic sound. Horns, acoustic guitars, piano, Chris Hooson's shattered voice: from start to finish, this is a gem.

Any fan of American Music Club and Red House Painters knows that the only kindred spirits in the UK are Dakota Suite, the Leeds-based trio with a handful of achingly beautiful albums under their belt. Their latest logically teams the band with ex-AMC members Bruce Kaphan and Tim Mooney, who give the arrangements a majestic sound. Horns, acoustic guitars, piano, Chris Hooson’s shattered voice: from start to finish, this is a gem.

The Legendary Pink Dots – All The King’s Horses

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Formed in 1980 and led by Amsterdam-based English ex-pat Edward Ka-Spel, The Legendary Pink Dots have never quite fallen into fashion in their 20 years but have been steadily prolific all the same. Their music, an easy mix of mock-whimsical psychedelia and avant-garde techno, is redolent of the nightmarish, fractured fairytales'n'toyboxes imagination of Syd Barrett. All The King's Horses' Humpty Dumpty allusion is deliberate?this is their oblique take on September 11. However, the ultimate message of these songs is that the world, like the Pink Dots themselves, is fragile but strangely resilient.

Formed in 1980 and led by Amsterdam-based English ex-pat Edward Ka-Spel, The Legendary Pink Dots have never quite fallen into fashion in their 20 years but have been steadily prolific all the same. Their music, an easy mix of mock-whimsical psychedelia and avant-garde techno, is redolent of the nightmarish, fractured fairytales’n’toyboxes imagination of Syd Barrett. All The King’s Horses’ Humpty Dumpty allusion is deliberate?this is their oblique take on September 11. However, the ultimate message of these songs is that the world, like the Pink Dots themselves, is fragile but strangely resilient.

Of Montreal – Aldhils Arboretum

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In contrast to the recent crop of bands purveying twee '60s-style sunshine pop, the latest from Of Montreal comes as a relief. While they, too, are feeling the hippie spirit?their artwork leaves us in no doubt they believe free love and flower power are groovy, baby?they blend retro psychedelia with a healthy sense of irony: here, witty lyrics are just as important as sweet melodies and honeyed harmonies. An irreverent and enjoyably silly listen.

In contrast to the recent crop of bands purveying twee ’60s-style sunshine pop, the latest from Of Montreal comes as a relief. While they, too, are feeling the hippie spirit?their artwork leaves us in no doubt they believe free love and flower power are groovy, baby?they blend retro psychedelia with a healthy sense of irony: here, witty lyrics are just as important as sweet melodies and honeyed harmonies. An irreverent and enjoyably silly listen.

Pilot To Gunner – Games At High Speeds

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There's no doubting Pilot To Gunner's conviction. From opening track "Every Minute Is A Movie" on, this careers forth on densely knotted anthemics that are passionate and exhilarating. Guitarist Pat Hegarty displays a staggering sonic range, while Scott Padden's breathless articulacy compounds the urgency. But for all their complexities, Pilot To Gunner repeat their explosive shifts too often. At a concise 32 minutes, though, such limitations are a minor aggravation.

There’s no doubting Pilot To Gunner’s conviction. From opening track “Every Minute Is A Movie” on, this careers forth on densely knotted anthemics that are passionate and exhilarating. Guitarist Pat Hegarty displays a staggering sonic range, while Scott Padden’s breathless articulacy compounds the urgency. But for all their complexities, Pilot To Gunner repeat their explosive shifts too often. At a concise 32 minutes, though, such limitations are a minor aggravation.