Top 100 Albums - #32: The Who By Numbers (1975)

The Who make their fifth entry on the chart with The Who By Numbers, described by one critic of the time as "Pete Townshend's suicide note".¹
Following the release of their second rock opera, Quadrophenia (1973), The Who embarked on a lengthy tour of the States to promote it. The tour went badly, marred by the complexity of the quadrophonic tapes which had become central to the band's set. Keith Moon's health was also becoming an issue - during a show at The Cow Palace, San Francisco in November, he collapsed on stage after taking an overdose of horse tranquilisers. With live performances rapidly curtailed, the band spent the bulk of 1974 working with Ken Russell in adapting Tommy (1969) for the big screen, this absence being interspersed with the release of the rarities album Odds And Sods, compiled by John Entwistle. As he battled with Roger Daltrey through the British press, Townshend constantly questioned The Who's continuing relevance within rock. The occassional live performances didn't help - the May euphoria of Charlton Football Ground was soon replaced with the June depression of Madison Square Garden. With rock entering a mid-life crisis and Tommy scheduled for release, Townshend went back to the drawing board in a desperate bid for reinvention.

'Slip Kid' kicks the album off, and within seconds you have cottoned on to the difference in sound. The opening is complex, with its offset cowbell and the melody which smashes through the middle of the phrase. The melody, contrary to a lot of previous Who material, has a tried-and-tested feel to it; it's not quite formulaic, but there is more emphasis put on refinement and precision and less on raw energy and power. This is perhaps reflected is Daltrey's voice which, as a result of filming Tommy, is more finely tuned, more operatic in nature. This is still a very good song, but the choice of subject matter means that it can hardly be considered a classic.

The next song, on the other hand, most certainly can. 'However Much I Booze' is sung by Townshend himself, and chronicles his helpless struggle with alcoholism. A very close subject, but don't think for a moment that this is some simpering, Cat Stevens acoustic slush. It may begin with an acoustic guitar, but the riff is jagged, and before you know what's going on Moon comes storming through the mix on the drums, supported by Entwistle's percolating bass. From then on in, this song fluctuates from the self-effacing, acrid verses to the frenzied chorus; Townshend tears into himself, the faker, the paper clown, only to consistently conclude that There ain't no way out. You don't even notice the absence of Daltrey, something which under normal circumstances would be sacrilege. Here though, Townshend manages to take a dark, eerie subject and convey precisely what he means without resorting to impossible concepts or mainstream mediocrity (a great achievement for most artists, even moreso for him).

Alas, this wave of brilliance does not last. Along comes 'Squeeze Box' and spoils everything. With its oh-so jaunty melody and tiresome, innuendo-laden lyrics, it manages to throw the whole album off course and out of kiltre. This is at heart, a run-of-the-mill 1970s pop song - cheeky, garish, ever so slightly vulgar and lacking any of the hard substance which The Who brought to rock. And of course, the banjo solo will drive you up the wall.

'Dreaming From The Waist' is more soul-searching from Townshend, this time on the subject of sex. As before, we get a fair bit of aggressive acoustic work, and as before Keith delivers with a subtly apt opening salvo. From then on in, Moon and Daltrey are duelling for dominion - Daltrey leads from the front with a swagger but Moon teasingly plays over his lines in the second half of the verses. The choruses are more subdued, but do wonders in the way of contrast. This is good stuff from The Who.

Which is more than can be said for 'Imagine A Man'. The main problem with this is that it is trying to be like the quieter sections of Tommy ('Amazing Journey', for instance). It's trying too hard, coming across as subdued, weak and overcooked whatever the good intentions surrounding it. It's a shame that a Pete Townshend song about religious belief in the face of adversity could come across as coy and twee - but that's the way it is, without any doubt.

'Success Story' is Entwistle's only contribution to this album and makes no apologies for being an old-fashioned Who song. This has none of Townshend's present self-doubt, conceptual drive or primitive urges about it; instead it is an inward-facing commentary on the band as it approached its 10th birthday. This has a real kick to it, so far matched only by 'However Much I Booze'. The lyrics are self-referencing in extremis, but amazingly, this does not scan as being self-indulgent or pretentious. Entwistle's dark humour and love of parody rescues it, turning a theoretically poor choice of subject into a starkly honest summary of the band's standings. Certainly the lines Back in the studio to make our latest number one/ Take 276, you know this used to be fun are right on the button.

'They Are All In Love' begins with the bright, airy piano of Nicky Hopkins, who also played on Who's Next (1971). But as before, the opening is deceptive, and the first verse appears harmless for reasons which soon become clear. Even the slowest student of lyrics will have cottoned on to the rich sense of irony running through this 3-minute piece - making Daltrey's disgusting raspberry all the more unnecessary. This is Townshend's self-fulfilling retort to punk, Goodbye all you punks, stay young and stay high/ Hand me my cheque book, and I'll crawl off to die. While it may seem quaint now, at the time it was an expression of Townshend's fear that 'the Who myth' would soon be assimilated by those who could not comprehend it.

'Blue, Red And Grey' is without question the strangest song on the album. It's Townshend all on his own, with only a ukelele for company, singing a song about how he likes every minute of the day - so on paper it should be rubbish. But it isn't. Somehow, Townshend has got away with a song which, under normal circumstances, would be too anodyne in its subject matter and too silkly in its execution to suit his tastes. As a result, this is not a thoroughbred Who song by any standards, but it is compelling. The lyrics may be backed by George Formby's preferred instrument of torture, but they flow so beautifully, especially when the horns come in.

'How Many Friends', in a nutshell, is the best track on the album. And it does that by offering something for everyone who has ever loved The Who. For Moon fans, the king of the drummers delivers a series of fills and flams which will resonate around your skull for weeks on end. Daltrey devotees get a commanding performance from the great man; in the verses he is tender and sensitive, perfectly capturing Townshend's self-doubt and curiosity, and in the choruses he is a prancing horse, rearing in the face of extreme paranoia and pure self-hate. Entwistle's bass burbles modestly compared to the other instruments, but turn the dial up to 11 and the man's genius is all there to reward you. And Townshend? Well, we get his most honest set of lyrics to date, coupled with a brilliant rhythm guitar part which grounds the whole piece. This is The Who as they were in their prime - raw, honest, unpredictable and therefore a wonder to behold.

The album closes with 'In A Hand Or A Face', and it's a pretty good choice. Both Moon and Entwistle are on fine form here, the former with a series of tom-tom workouts which completely fill the mix, the latter with a deep, resounding bass line which sends tingles up your spine. In the midst of the tom-toms and the tingling, Daltrey captures Townshend's bizarre ambivalence towards life and music, conveying a mix of inward-facing fear and outward-facing ferocity. In the last 45 seconds, the plughole is pulled and the band slowly fall down the drain into the heart of Townshend's despair.

That is not quite the end, though. The 1996 remaster contains three live tracks from the 'Who Put The Boot In' concert at Swansea Football Ground, recorded on June 12th 1976. Despite this being one of the high points of The Who's live career, the tracks feel tamed and compressed - you can hear every word, and every beat, but the whole thing is a bit hollow. 'Squeeze Box' features some first-rate banter from Moon - in full aristocrat mood - but there are little else which can redeem it. 'Behind Blue Eyes' is better, having been tried and tested on tour since 1971. Daltrey is in fine voice and while the guitar starts headily, eventually the whole band girds its loins and sets off on another great trek. 'Dreaming From The Waist' barely differentiates from the studio version, and feels completely unforced, so you come away feeling a bit cheated. But only a bit - it still sounds great.

The Who By Numbers is somewhere between the rock of a classic, solid Who album and the hard place of a Townshend suicide note. It is not simply the self-pitying whines of a once-great guitarist turning 30 and being mocked by his own words, I hope I die before I get old. Townshend's fear and self-hatred leach through in his lyrics, but he is clever enough not to let his personal qualms overwhelm and override the Who's own particular kind of music. Far from being a resignation and admission of obsolescence, this is a Townshend war cry, an attempt to connect with the new generation while consistently pointing out their fatal flaws. None of the macho, loud-as-jackhammers songs come across as fake, forced or impotent to any great degree. However, it is not a perfect Who album because, on a number of occassions, this ulterior motive, this secret desire of Townshend's to be relevant creeps in and corrupts the nature of the band, 'Squeeze Box' being the ideal example. Like all Townshend's later work, it is frustrating, but there are enough glimpses of brilliance on here to make this record a must-have.

3.92 out of 5

References
¹ John Swenson, 'The Who By Numbers Liner Notes' (London: Polydor Ltd., 1996), p.9.

Top 100 Albums - #33: Neon Bible (2007)

Arcade Fire's most recent effort is their second and last entry on the chart at number 33.
The success of Funeral (2004, #37) caught Arcade Fire by surprise. Within a year of its release, the group had received the patronage of David Bowie, been nominated for a Mercury Prize, and been forced to extend what started as a small tour of clubs into a global slog culminating with an appearance at Lollapolooza. Riding this wave of new-found critical acclaim, and commercial success, the band took the last six months of 2005 off to take stock and begin writing new material. In this time Funeral was released in the UK and a second wave of fame came, so that by the end of the year it had sold over half a million copies worldwide.¹ After playing with Bowie at Fashion Rocks - which produced Live EP (2005, #98) - the band opened for U2 on a section of their Vertigo tour. 2006 was devoted to writing and producing new material, halted only by the sudden departure of drummer Howard Bilerman.

We kick off this most difficult of second albums with 'Black Mirror'. The differences are instantly apparent. From the moment the first two chords have clawed their way through the smoke, all hopes of a light-hearted follow-up are gone. Even compared to the sound of Funeral, this is darker, heavier, more claustrophobic. Wyn Butler's delivery has changed from the angry wail of 'Rebellion (Lies)' to a throaty, suspicious murmur; he is singing from the shadows and watching his back. The lyrics are more reactive as well - the closing refrain, Mirror, mirror, on the wall/ Show me where the bombs will fall is less an ironic salvo against war and more a cynical curse uttered under one's breath. But you know what? - it works.

If you're not immediately convinced, 'Keep The Car Running' kicks the tempo up and attempts to take the mood with it. The snappy drums and jaunty mandolin serve as an effective counterpoint to what is still a very bleak subject. Had this been done by any other band on any other instruments, this would have been written off as humdrum indie. But in the hands of Arcade Fire, we have an insane foot-stomper, a classic hand-clapper and a splendid second single all rolled into one.

The title track returns to the quieter, more moody sound of 'Black Mirror'. And it is here that we get the first hints as to what this album is about, what it is attacking or seeking to provoke. The lyrics seem impenetrable at first glance, but dig deeper and they speak of a deep-seated alienation from contemporary society. With their talk of poison and golden calfs, it depicts a generation being seduced and turned sour; the 'neon bible' in question is the overpowering influence of TV. At only 2:17 it's the shortest track on here, but all that needs to be said is here.

For the second time, we oscillate from quiet to loud as 'Intervention' begins. And how it begins. The huge, swelling organ chords in the first few seconds seem overpowering at first, but once the guitar arrives you put such thoughts aside as together they set the backdrop for a classic. Its lyrics, on one level, are a thinly-veiled swipe at power-mad governments, in this case the Bush administration (The king's taken back the throne/ The useless seed is sown). In that sense it is similar to 'Rebellion (Lies)' - you certainly won't find any difference in quality, and on the surface they are both the cries of the helpless individual lost in a world of gung-ho politics and unremitting greed. However, this feels more personal, more helpless, more exposed than 'Rebellion (Lies)'. You empathise with the character more, perhaps because of the references to the plight of soldiers which increasingly hit home. It's a brutal, heart-wrenching song. It pulls no punches and deserves pride of place on the album.

The next track, on the other hand, doesn't. 'Black Wave/ Bad Vibrations' not only has a stupid title, but it feels far too much like straightahead indie pop to be considered veteran 'Fire material. Régine Chassagne takes the lead, and while she can actually sing - unlike a growing majority of indie artists - she is lumbered by skittish lyrics. There are a hotch-potch of banal English and gratuitous French. Even when Butler takes over, you are still pissed off beyond all reconciliation.

Fortunately, with 'Ocean Of Noise' the band regains its composure. The teasingly funky bass line provided by Tim Kingsbury is well-met by drummer Jeremy Gara's hi-hat. These two provide the lilting backdrop for the deep, dark piano chords and, eventually, Butler. The ocean in question is a metaphor for lack of control, again conveying a feeling of helplessness and despair in fthe 21st century. The refrain - Yourgot your reasons/ And me I got mine/ But all the reasons/ I gave were just lies/ To buy myself some time - are both another swipe at government secrecy and a musing on the confrontational role of the internet. It's well-reined in, carefully controlled and a big improvement on the last track.

The next two tracks continue this vein of new-found good luck. 'The Well And The Lighthouse' is up-tempo, echoey and leaves you quivering in your boots. The deceptive pace of the song causes you to move faster, even though the tempo is quite standard and by now you have grown used to Butler's stricken delivery. In the final 90 seconds or so, we slow down to a near-lugubrious crawl as Butler plays with Biblical imagery to convey his contempt of modern life (The lions and the lambs ain't sleepin', yeah). '(Antichrist Television Blues)', meanwhile, manages to avoid being a traditional sleep-inducing strum, even in spite of the off-puttingly postmodern brackets. It may not be crawling, but it is sprawling. With only the 12-bar blues structure to keep him in check, Butler bulldozes his way through this with plenty of sound and fury. Essentially a cross between an impotent, spur-of-the-moment rant and a desperate man wrestling with God, musically it all works out rather well, and the ending is perfectly executed.

'Windowstill' is the third track on here with a bothersome title, in this case a shameless pun or portmanteau. What's more, the structure of the song is flatter than we have come to expect, and we still get the same old brow-beating over war, religion and capitalism:

I don't want to fight in a holy war
I don't want the salesman knocking on my door
I don't want to live in America no more

Don't think, however, that it's a bad song. In spite of these things, this is a damn-sight more original, more compelling and more interesting than anything else recently produced on these subjects. The lyrics, particularly towards the end, are very double-sided. On one reading, they are the angry cry of a rebel, looking to liberate the world from the evil powers which are currently bleeding it dry; on another, it is an exposition of the thoroughly middle-class practice of desiring to ignore any trouble until it becomes personally embarrassing. Because of this fantastic ambiguity - a rarity in today's songwriters - we can even forgive the slapdash references to MTV and World War III.

'No Cars Go' will already be familiar to devoted fans of the 'Fire. It appeared in a more understated guise on Arcade Fire EP (2003). Here, though, it comes in all guns blazing and heavily orchestrated. Which is just how it should be, because here we have the best track on the album. Gara's drumming is like a machine gun powering its way through the mix, passt the sombre violins and cellos, determined not to let the piece drag or become dull. The bass is properly heavy, and at the second verse it jostles with William Butler's Gary Numan-esque synth stylings. This has the style and sophistication of a Parisian café with the raw power of a Koeniggsegg CCX and the brutal honesty of an anarchist. In some respects this is like Peter Gabriel's 'Down The Dolce Vita' (see my review of Peter Gabriel 1 (1977, #71)) - it is unrelenting and uncompromising. It takes your head and messes with it, so that when things finally die down you are left with the sort of ecstacy which takes you ten minutes to get your breath back.

Unfortunately, that is not the end of the story. While we are trying to calm down, we have to sit through 'My Body Is A Cage'. The other political songs on the album got away with being so direct by having lyrics which were crammed full of ambiguity and structures which kept you guessing. This has neither of these things. Lyrically, it's too overt, and with Butler's singing, there is a limit to how long you can put up with ca-age and a-age before you want to rip his head off. The melody meanwhile is restricted by the huge organ, which drowns out everything else. What a crushing disappointment on which to finish.

When compared to Funeral - as it inevitably must - Neon Bible does come up short on a number of points. It doesn't feel as unified as Funeral in either its message or its execution, even if the cause of this unity was largely down to chance. Many will baulk at the grandiose production, which is evident on the closing tracks; a few of the songs are too conventional to satisfy the 'Fire's kookiest followers; and although you get more tracks, you actually get less music for your money. However, if you concentrate very, very hard, everything about this album starts to make sense. The balance between the personal and political - so perfectly captured on Funeral - is there, but the proportions have changed and the goalposts have moved. The mood is more complex, more thought-provoking, and darker to boot. If Funeral reassured you that you were not the only person in the world who felt this way, Neon Bible invites you - nay, commands you - to turn inwards, to investigate yourself and why you feel this way, providing nothing in the way of societal excuses or cultural platitudes. It is a great collection of songs which will, over the years, reveal more and more of itself - and as a result, a great deal more of you.

3.91 out of 5

References
¹ NME News, 'Exclusive - Arcade Fire duet with Bowie released', http://www.nme.com/news/the-arcade-fire/21461. Accessed on July 21 2008.

Top 100 Albums - #34: Hunky Dory (1971)

David Bowie's highest entry on the chart is Hunky Dory, the album which preceded his commercial breakthrough.
After recording a number of forgotten singles under the pseudonym Davy Jones, Bowie signed to Deram Records and released a self-titled album in the autumn of 1967. The album synthesised contemporary psychedelia with his love for music hall, and sold poorly, as did his cult-novelty single, 'The Laughing Gnome'. Bowie spent 1968 writing songs for established artists of the day, only resurfacing (so to speak) with the release of 'Space Oddity'. Recorded and released to coincide with the Moon landing, it became a UK Top 5 hit and made Bowie an overnight success. The resulting album, Space Oddity (1969), took on a much more psychedelic twist, to the extent that commentators saw it (and the single) as an allegory for taking drugs, and Tony Visconti dropped out of producing it. The more rock-heavy The Man Who Sold The World (1970), which followed shortly afterwards, showed the first hints of androgyny emerging in Bowie's image.

We begin with a well-known classic. 'Changes' manages to be whimsical, eccentrically English and a pop song all at the same time. The minute you first hear that eight-note riff on the piano (at 0:12), a series of happy tingles run up your spine. With the intro over, Bowie is free to play around with his words, throwing away amazing lines like So I turned myself to face me in the first verse. But despite this rushed style - and the lyrics tripping over the ends of lines, à la Paul Simon - this is amazingly catchy. The chorus with its Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes takes off The Who's 'My Generation' as Bowie sets out the manifesto for his chameleonic personality, the true magnitude of which was only just becoming clear.

We then go from strength to strength as we move on to 'Oh! You Pretty Things'. The piano remains, and once again we are given a treat with the riff. The lyrics are bizarre, but for all their surrealism and obscure references, they all seem to make sense. Like 'Drive-In Saturday' from Aladdin Sane (1973, #56), they pick up on the theme of a bleak future, where on this occassion the youth have allied with aliens to take over the world. But like 'Drive-In Saturday', you have no real need to understand all these undertones or plot points in order to either enjoy the song or find something meaningful in it. And while the piano dominates the mix, the drums of Woody Woodmansey are perfectly timed and unobtrusive, allowing Bowie to roam freely in his own little world, to the utter delight of everyone listening.

Sadly, however, the run of good luck soon ends. We interpolate straight into 'Eight Line Poem', intended as a sequel of sorts to 'Oh! You Pretty Things'. But this is completely different in feel. With its countryish guitar and more washed-out piano, it has a more American feel. That serves to completely spoil the mood of the album, which so far had immersed itself in late-1960s folk and psychedelia. And even when you lay the lyrics out in front of you, you still have no idea what they mean.

If you can weather this let-down, you will come to one of Bowie's most famous creations. 'Life On Mars?' features Rick Wakeman on keyboards and came indirectly from Bowie's work as a commissioned songwriter. In late 1968 he wrote 'Even A Fool Learns To Love', placing his lyrics over a French song 'Comme d'Habitude'. A year later, in 1969, the same French song had been re-written as 'My Way' for Frank Sinatra; 'Life On Mars?' is Bowie's parody of the Sinatra hit. But although it is underscored by a feeling of bitterness for missing out on that level of success, the overall mood of the piece is one of surreal grandiosity. It was later described by BBC Radio 2 as "a cross between a Broadway musical and a Salvador Dalì painting"¹, and that's not far off. Either way, it's a brilliant song.

'Kooks' is a lot easier on the palate, if Northern accents are your sort of thing. Or French horns, for that matter. Bowie wrote this song for his then-newborn son Duncan Jones (also known as Zowie Bowie). The piano is straight out of music hall and Bowie seems completely relaxed, almost jubilant. The lyrics speak of his growing acceptance of his zany nature; an indicative example is the opening lines of the second verse: And if you ever have to go to school/ Remember how they messed up this old fool. This is very repetitive, but in a hooky, catchy way rather than an irritating one.

While 'Kooks' was droll, laid-back and comforting, 'Quicksand' is full of brooding and wailing. It's Bowie at his most impenetrable yet, with references to Greta Garbo and Friedrich Nietzsche which often don't make sense. But while this is heady and bleak, on the plus side it features some very well-executed string arrangements, the work of guitarist Mick Ronson. These seemingly indistinguishable background features come into their own in the second half of the track and it all appears a little clearer.

Of all the songs on the album, 'Fill Your Heart' is most typical of the mood Bowie tried to create. Which is ironic, considering he didn't write it, and tragic, considering it's rubbish. Crossing flaired-trouser folk with jaunty music-hall piano, this is a cover of a b-side by US novelty act Tiny Tim. But as with 'Life On Mars?', this song has gone through many motions before Bowie got his hands on it, and the result is nearly a complete mess. Bowie shrieks the closing lines of each verse in an effort to sound new and interesting, but in truth this song, like so much rubbish from the 1960s, is cheap, rigid and completely forgetable.

It is good to know, then, that Bowie has chosen his influences more wisely with 'Andy Warhol' and 'Song For Bob Dylan'. The former fades in from the end of 'Fill Your Heart'. For the first 50 seconds or so, we are treated to reverberating saxophones, studio chatter and distant laughter. From then on in, the guitars becomes flamenco and Bowie goes all tongue in cheek about one of his greatest idols. Warhol reportedly disliked the song because it made fun of his physical appearance², but when you actually listen, it comes across a whole lot more endearing, and has a great chorus. 'Song For Bob Dylan' is slightly more serious and respectful about the man with a voice like sand and glue. The guitars are more sneering and snarling than on the previous tracks, and the drums are back with a vengeance, cleverly pandering to Dylan's late-1960s work with The Band and his classic album Nashville Skyline (1969).

The penultimate track is a real belter. 'Queen Bitch' begins with one of the best double-tracked guitar riffs in rock music; it begins on Bowie's acoustic, and then a few seconds later Ronson's Fender barges in on top of it and kicks up the whole piece. Everything about this tribute to The Velvet Underground feels miles, miles better than anything before it; even 'Oh! You Pretty Things' struggles to match it. Trevor Boulder's melodic bass line ripples through the mix beneath the guitars, titillating you throughout, while Woodmansey returns to his best, dynamic yet restrained. At 3:19 this isn't the shortest song on the album, but it has the punchy nature of a motown jive. It's the best track on the album by far, and a cut above anything he created as Ziggy Stardust.

How disappointing it is, then, that we finish on a real bum note. By Bowie's own admission, 'The Bewlay Brothers' was only written to confuse Americans.³ Its garbled, twisted lyrics are specifically designed to have no meaning whatsoever. As a result, once the obvious irony has worn off - which it will very quickly - there is no point to this track. Commentators have read into this being about Bowie's schizophrenic half-brother, or pedalling a homosexual agenda, but you will come away from this feeling that they have wasted their time.

The best Bowie albums are always unpredictable; they change intention and direction when you least expect it, so that you end up with a collection of very different songs, often at the cost of overall consistency. On these grounds, Hunky Dory fits the bill as a great Bowie album. Not all the songs on here are brilliant - some in fact are quite below-par - but each is so charmingly different from the next that there is something for everyone. But unlike a lot of Bowie's albums, here the eclecticism and variety actually serves as a cement to hold it all together. Whereas subsequent albums took a certain style and pulled it in many different directions - as on Young Americans (1975, #73) - on Hunky Dory there are many strange and wonderful genres at work, all blending together to produce something wonderful. This is Bowie's best album without a shadow of doubt, capturing him on the brink of superstardom. It is a fitting testament to his abilities and it remains his most endearing work.

3.91 out of 5

References
¹ BBC Radio 2, 'Sold On Song - Top 100 - Life On Mars', http://www.bbc.co.uk/radio2/soldonsong/songlibrary/lifeonmars.shtml. Accessed on July 18 2008.
² Jon Howell, 'David Bowie FAQ: Hunky Dory (1971)', http://www.teenagewildlife.com/info/faq/57.html. Accessed on July 19 2008.
³ David Buckley. Strange Fascination - David Bowie: The Definitive Story (London: Virgin Books, 1999) pp.114-115 - cited in 'The Bewlay Brothers', http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Bewlay_Brothers. Accessed on July 19 2008.

Top 100 Albums - #35: Woven Cord (1999)

Iona's second entry on the chart is Woven Cord, their second live album. This was recorded with the All Souls Orchestra at the Royal Festival Hall in London, on May 29th 1999.
Iona's first three releases established them at the forefront of Celtic progressive rock. Their self-titled debut (1990) was a tribute to the island's history and Christian heritage. The follow-ups, The Book Of Kells (1992, #46) and Beyond These Shores (1993) were loose concept albums, the former looking at the eponymous 8th-century manuscript, the latter focussing on the 9th-century voyage of St. Brendan across the Atlantic from Ireland. Between these albums founder member Dave Fitzgerald (saxophone) left the band to concentrate on his teaching career. With sales remaining low, the band's next effort was the more commercial Journey Into The Morn (1996), based around the modern hymn 'Be Thou My Vision'. This was followed by a greatest hits album, Treasures (1996) and a tour to support it, captured on the live album Heaven's Bright Sun (1997). This would be Terl Bryant's last album with the band before Frank van Essen replaced him on drums.

We kick off with 'Overture', a 5-minute instrumental designed to settle us into the feel of the album. Of course, since this was written by Troy Donockley, we get the usual whistles and pipes; but we also get the richer sounds from the string section, something which would feature more prominently on Open Sky (2000). The slight downside to this is that a lot of the traditional Celtic edge is lost in the old-fashioned, haughty grandeur of the arrangements. But overall, you have to say, this compliments the Iona sound very well, raising it to the level of a film score.

Even once you have figured out how to pronounce 'Bi-Sé I Mo Shuìl (Part I)' (say bee-suy i mo-hool), the song itself remains a disappointment. Taken from Journey Into The Morn, this is, aside from anything else, an unsatisfactory way of introducing the great voice of Joanne Hogg. Oh sure, she can do the Gaelic pronounciation no problem, but you are left thinking that her entrance would have been a lot better had the song blended with the orchestral accompaniment. On record, this works; live with an orchestra, it doesn't.

No problem though, because we can now move on to 'Matthew - The Man'. As I said in my review of The Book Of Kells, this is one of the great tracks to have come out of prog in the last decade or so. While the album version began with shimmering keyboards and thumping great bass lines, this is driven by a duel between Dave Bainbridge's wailing guitar and Frank van Essen's thundery, dynamic drumming. This may be even longer than the album version at 13:01, but like the album version there is no room for dragging solos. One unfortunate change is the loss of Bainbridge's tear-inducing acoustic guitar solo, drowned out here by the keyboards. However, van Essen more than makes up for it with his subtle but full-bodied fills - the section from 9:17 to 10:27 is just about the most euphoric drum and guitar section you are ever likely to find. It is utterly spectacular.

After all that drum-and-guitar euphoria, 'White Sands' takes things down a notch. With its oboe and clarinet opening, you are transported to a distant beach and are utterly relaxed when you get there. This track, from Iona, is where Donockley really gets into his stride. Backed by what sounds like a bouzouki (akin to a lute or mandolin), he performs a beautiful piece on whistle. The shrill descant of the whistle rises above the slow gushings of the bouzouki chords, while the violins provide what could be called the alto part. This is perhaps the track where you most notice the production; every note has been captured immaculately by Bainbridge.

'Murlough Bay' is from Beyond These Shores, and begins as brightly as the album version. Hogg is back and in fine form, showing that her performance on record can be perfectly replicated live. No other female voice suits the line And here at last I'm on my own with you so very well. Her voice is pure like cut glass, but unlike many singers of such talents there is emotion as well as quality. There is very little to differentiate this from the album version, but then again Iona are never the sort of band to add in lengthy solos to show off; the audience are already well aware of their talents and respond accordingly.

'Dancing On The Wall' is another "oldie, but goodie" as Peter Frampton would say. In its structure, this is considerably more poppy than anything the band have produced since; it is even more the case when we listen further and see the restraint with which instruments are being used. But that is not really a problem. Although this is for the most part just vocals and an acoustic guitar, this is not singer-songwriter schmaltz. The chords are complex and intricate, and the lyrics a damn sight more merry, as is the finished product.

Hereon in, things get a little more hit and miss. 'Encircling' clocks in at 12:25 and most of that is overkill. The lyrics are not as compelling as before, and we get the first hints of van Essen's irritating tendency towards flashy playing. The drums do way too much in this piece, and Bainbridge has put them right at the forefront of the mix so that their effect is unmitigated. Unlike on previous long tracks, the instrumental sections do drag, turning the whole thing into a bitter disappointment.

If you can endure this superfluous epic, you are duly rewarded with the best track on the album. 'Lindisfarne' begins very tentatively; under a slow murmur from the cellos the higher-pitched instruments one by one poke their heads up above ground, like the first flowers of spring. This again has a film score feel to it, rather than just an orchestrated rock song. It is hard to believe that both this and 'Encircling' came from the same album (Journey Into The Morn), because they are so utterly different. Where that was bloated and drawn out, this blends beautifully from one section to the next, and all the time the musicianship is tight and full of lustre. You don't realise that this is a true gem without listening all the way through. Everything is so modest and subtle that it needs to be appreciated holistically, like looking down on a completed jigsaw. This is a quietly-styled masterpiece.

'Revelation' has a hard act to follow, but it has a pretty good stab at it. As on the version from The Book Of Kells, the star of this song is Hogg, who by now has gotten completely settled into her surroundings. Her delivery and diction are not quite as immaculate here as on the album, but even then she wipes the floor with her rivals (ever wondered why Enya never performs live?). Once again, Bainbridge has tweaked his guitar part so that the jaunty solo has been replaced by a screechy workout, but this is still a very good track.

After so many old classics, we come to something new. The title track is another instrumental, and would become the opener to Open Sky just under a year later. Like a lot of that album, this is hardly throughbred Iona, chiefly because (once again) van Essen goes a bit too mad a bit too often. It is not completely impotent, with Donockley's pipes carrying things along nicely. But the riffs are a lot less agreeable than on previous recordings, and by the end they begin to try your patience.

Thankfully, we end on the great Iona closer, 'Beyond These Shores'. This is longer than the album version by nearly 2 minutes, largely because of the long violin opening and the extended (and deserved) applause at the end. Nevertheless, this remains one of the band's all-time great compositions. For a start, it is perfectly suited to Hogg's range and delivery, allowing her to push herself in the name of passion without any sign of strain or struggle. The instruments are more restrained, with Bainbridge handling the piano like an old master while the violins hum near-silently in the background. The lyrics are pretty damn good too. You reach the end, as the cellos and keyboards mingle with the clapping, and you are left completely fulfilled.

Making a good live album is difficult. Making a good prog live album is even more so. Making a good prog live album with orchestral accompaniment is well-nigh impossible, as so often the music is overshadowed by the grandeur and pretention surrounding big bands. The most immediate example is Procol Harum's Live With The Edmonton Symphony Orchestra (1972); all that could have been extracted from a few half-decent songs is ruined by the bloated, stuffy nature of the arrangements (see my review of Procol Harum - The Collection (1985, #67)). With Woven Cord, however, Iona have cracked it. For the most part the orchestra is there to bring out and add to the most emotional parts of songs, rather than just padding out the mix. That said, the best moments are when the band is trying to be as restrained as possible; there is no noodling or shredding of which to speak, but van Essen is not always economical on the drums, too often sounding like a loose cannon. Overall though, you get the sense that Iona did not do this because they had the money, or the egos. They did this because they knew what full orchestration could bring to their work, and the result - for the most part - is profound.

3.91 out of 5

Top 100 Albums - #36: Graceland (1986)

Legendary singer-songwriter Paul Simon's only entry is Graceland, the album which introduced Ladysmith Black Mambazo to a large European audience.
After Simon & Garfunkel split for the second time in late-1969, their final album, Bridge Over Troubled Waters (1970), won two Grammys (for Best Album and Best Song, for the title track). While Garfunkel largely devoted his energies to acting, Simon began a successful and prolific solo career, beginning with a self-titled effort in 1972. This, along with the follow-ups There Goes Rhymin' Simon (1973) and Still Crazy After All These Years (1975), received universal critical acclaim. With the 1980s, however, Simon's career began to falter - after the poor response to One Trick Pony (1980), he reunited with Garfunkel; what was meant to be a one-off show led to a world tour throughout 1982. After the (again) poor response to Hearts & Bones (1983), Simon was in desperate need of reinvention.

It is this reinvention which is present in Graceland, an album which begins with 'The Boy In The Bubble', as Simon-y as title as ever there was. Everything else, however, is completely uncharacteristic of Simon as he is often remembered. For a start, this is catchy, much catchier than 'Mrs. Robinson' and a lot less old hat. The accordian which kicks things off is jazzy, while the bass line of Bakithi Kumalo is just too cool for words. The drums have a thundery sound to them, and Simon is in great voice. Unlike his recordings of the late-1960s, which now can seem tinny and twee, hear his voice is fuller, more optimistic - and a damn sight more bearable.

The title track may take its inspiration from Elvis Presley, but don't let that put you off. This is not some 1950s take-off, not even slightly. Instead, this has the same burbling bass and lilting guitars which glide through the mix and counterpoint the lyrics as they talk of Memphis and Mississippi. The influence of township jive on Simon is clear, because this is from the start a very bright track, bright enough to make you dance in a dusty street on a hot summer's evening. There is none of the plastic spirit and stricken soul which haunted much European music in this time; instead we are treated to a very reasonable few minutes of pure fun.

Having started so well, Simon comes unstuck on the next two tracks. 'I Know What I Know' sounds inane from the start, with its tacky drums and oh-so-jangly guitar. More than that though, Simon here appears to be using the world influences as a token gesture to liven up a boring love song, instead of melding the two together properly like his contemporaries. The chorus section in particular, with its woop woop woop woops is incredibly tiresome. 'Gumboots', the track which kicked off this whole change in genre, is no better. The accordian is back, but Simon is at his worst lyrically, as his words tumble through the mix in no discernable order. This may be more reasonable on the ears than its predecessor, but like its predecessor it leaves you completely cold.

So with two duffers on our hands, it's Ladysmith to the rescue in the shape of 'Diamonds On The Soles On Her Shoes'. This is a true fusion of Europe and South Africa; the opening gels beautifully as Simon's coy lyrics about a love which bridges rich and poor blend seamlessly with the classic Ladysmith choral work. From then on in, we return to the lilting mood of the opening tracks, and we get the same teasing bass as before. If you listen carefully, you will also spot the clever jazzy drum work from Issac Mtshali; his sticking is quietly crisp, straight out of pre-war jazz.

We now come to the most well-known track on the album. 'You Can Call Me Al' was made famous by its video, starring Chevy Chase, but underneath the publicity that generated there is a fantastic pop song. The synth hook, which comes in right at the start, completely draws you in and soon you find yourself an integral part of what is a very snazzy mix. The lyrics, at first glance, appear as rambling and as unintelligible as any of the other gibberish produced by singer-songwriters. In reality, this is a song with a proper story behind it, namely that of a man searching for whom he is and finding himself in Africa (maybe it's the Third World/ Maybe it's just first time around). There is no one thing that makes this track utterly remarkable, even the bass solo towards the end. It just feels so right, even if we are so unable to say why.

The good news continues as we enter the second half of the album. 'Under African Skies' begins with another tantalising, teasing riff from Ray Phiri's Fender. Once again, this flows and wafts along without a single thing to make it unpleasant or boring. And once again, the vocals are for the most part playing second fiddle to feel, but here there is a difference, in the shape of Linda Ronstadt's backing vocals. On the 'chorus' sections, her wails help to lift the song, preventing it from getting flat; they come in just when it matters.

'Homeless' can only be described as utterly charming. Arguably the track which launched Ladysmith Black Mambazo in Europe, it opens with their delightful harmonies and tongue rolls. In the mix of English and Zulu which follows, you fall completely in love with these remarkable men, whose voices are charming and sweet without seeming weak and pitiful like so many contemporary European singers. Even when Simon comes in and the song changes tack, the beauty and composure is not lost. It is one of the highlights of the album.

'Homeless' may be as a smooth talker, but as a pop song it is very much overshadowed by 'Crazy Love Vol. II'. The drum beat on this is the very definition of infectious, and the guitar so wondrous that even the most embarrassed, lead-footed individual will struggle to sit still when there is so much temptation to get up and jive. The lyrics are ridiculous - ridiculous in a friendly and admirable way. If anyone else began a song with the lines Fat Charlie the archangel sloped into the room/ He said "I have no opinion about this/ And I have no opinion about that.", they would be sent to the songwriters' asylum. But with Simon, everything makes a crazy sort of sense, and the affectionate rhythms mean that it all keeps rolling along nicely.

The penultimate track is another duffer, I'm afraid. 'That Was Your Mother' is distinctly mutton dressed as lamb. It's Simon playing the same trick (or making the same mistake) as he did on 'I Know What I Know', taking token influences from a genre and plastering them over what is essentially a bit of American easy-listening. Had he bothered to craft something which interpolated all the different sounds into something new and exciting, then maybe it would have worked better.

The closer, 'All Around The World, or The Myth Of Fingerprints', is also a case of Simon slacking off, though not with the music per se. Simon allegedly stole this song from his collaborators, Los Lobos; the song came out of a jamming session towards the end of recording, for which the group provided most of the material - but on the final release, Simon gave them no credit, and when questioned why, he replied, "Sue me. You'll see what happens."¹ Litigation aside, this isn't all that bad. Perhaps a bit too easy-listening again, but there is still plenty to stimulate you.

Graceland is by no means unique as a record by a Western artist which introduced world music artists to a European audience. World influences had been creeping in since Joni Mitchell's The Hissing Of Summer Lawns (1975), and Peter Gabriel had been doing much the same thing for four years (see my reviews of Peter Gabriel 4 (1982, #80) and So (1986, #41)). But both Mitchell and Gabriel used the world influences to bring out the darker, sadder, more brooding side of their psyches. With Mitchell, it served as a backdrop for songs about failed relationships and selling out; with Gabriel, it acted as a tool to highlight personal turmoil and concerns about human rights. Graceland, on the other hand, is a distinctly happy record. Rather than being sombre about what could be, it chooses to highlight and celebrate the present. It has within the very fibre of its being an innate optimism, a hope and assurance for the future, which is conveyed by the sheer beauty of what has been created here. Even in its current state, as something of a time capsule of a brighter age, none of the magic has been lost.

3.91 out of 5

References
¹ 'Rhymin' Simon: Not Welcome in East L.A.', http://blog.wfmu.org/freeform/2008/04/rhymin-simon-no.html#more. Accessed on June 30 2008.

Top 100 Albums - #37: Funeral (2004)

Arcade Fire's first of two entries comes in the shape of their debut album, Funeral.
The origin of Arcade Fire can be traced back to 1995, when 15-year-old Win Butler formed a band with classmates Josh Deu and Tim Kile while at the Phillips Exeter Academy, New Hampshire. Butler went on to study creative writing at Sarah Lawrence College, New York, and later moved to McGill University, Montreal. It was here that he met Régine Chassagne, a Canadian with Haitian roots, and they were married in 2003. Around 2003 the band's line-up solidified around Butler (guitar, vocals), his brother William (synthesiser, bass) and Chassagne (piano, xylophone). They were joined by Richard Reed Barry (double bass, guitar), Tim Kingsbury (guitar, bass), Sarah Neufeld (violin) and Howard Bilerman (drums). The band released a self-titled EP in mid-2003, originally only sold at gigs but since remastered and re-released. Taking their name from a fire in the Exeter arcade, the band spent the remainder of 2003 and early 2004 recording their debut album for Merge Records.

This critically-acclaimed album kicks off with the first of four 'Neighbourhood' tracks. 'Neighbourhood #1 (Tunnels)' kicks off with some tragically struck piano and mournful guitars. Butler's voice may come across as weak and unintelligible to those unfamiliar either with the band or with the genre of alternative rock, but bear with it, because in the higher registers it begins to come into its own. The guitars become more savage as the song wears on, counterpointed by the twinkling keyboards and the smash of the half-open hi-hat. It's a good start, subtly imposing it self upon your consciousness.

'Neighbourhood #2 (Laïka)' begins with one of the most memorable drum beats of recent years. The floor tom and snare pattern ricochets through the mix as the accordion intervenes. This is the first time we see both Butler and Chassagne on vocals, and the first impression is that it works, a good balance of Butler's strained yearning and Chassagne's laid-back reediness. The lyrics are not immediately clear, but eventually you come to realise their significance in what is essentially an allegory of the Russian space mission of 1957 which put Laika into space.

'Une Année Sans Lumière' literally translates as 'a year without light', and there's plenty of French to go around in this track. It's more down-tempo and guitar-oriented than the previous track, like a hybrid between indie (in its drums) and folk rock (guitar) - except in the final third where it suddenly turns a bit rockabilly. Butler's voice is weaker here, a fact that could either be taken as him being more vulnerable or being lazy. The jury is out.

The verdict on 'Neighbourhood #3 (Power Out)' is clear, though. This is an articulate and immaculately executed song, which shows off the eclecticism and versatility of the whole seven-piece. Chassagne oscillates between kooky xylophones and stern keyboards while Butler thunders on and the violins and guitar create the creaking, agèd texture which suits the song to a tee. Then the jagged guitar riff kicks in at 2:16 and the classic becomes complete. The brooding atmosphere fits the subject matter(s); the most obvious meaning that can be attached can be the growing apathy among humanity in the face of duplicitous leaders: the power's out in the heart of man/ Take it from your heart, put it in your hand is a worthy and timely message for the iPod generation.

It is such a shame, then, that the final 'Neighbourhood' track is such a big let-down. 'Neighbourhood #4 (7 Kettles)' not only has the strangest title of all four such tracks, but it comes across as almost embarrassed of itself. Unlike #3, which rose to the occasion and filled the mix, this shies away with the screeching violins and even screechier acoustic guitar. The sound of a squeaky chord change is one of the most irritating and commonplace sounds in alternative rock. This comes across as an almost unashamed parody of Radiohead, circa The Bends (1995), and like most of Radiohead the lyrics take way too long to come out of their shell, even if they do emerge as quite good in the end.

Things get back on track with 'Crown Of Love', largely because the dark, foreboding textures have returned. The violins have been put back in tune to add to the mourning - as befits the album title - and the piano is deep, grand and sonorous. Butler is back on form as well, producing a great chorus:

If you still want me, please forgive me
The crown of love has fallen from me
If you still want me, please forgive me
Because the spark is not within me

Add in a perfectly executed tempo change in the last minute of the song and you begin to fall back in love with this band. Sadly, it is a love that they spurn so readily with their next two songs. While 'Wake Up' may thematically be a cornerstone of the album, as a song in its own right it comes across as rather impotent, filled with enough oh, oh, oh-oh-oh-ohs to serve as a bed on a dozen radio shows. It is has also, like so much recent indie, been mercilessly overplayed, and there is a fine line between a song being instantly recognisable and a song being boring. Finally, the music hall piano at the end really winds you up. 'Haiti' suffers from a different set of problems. The drums, especially the snare, is straight out of the 1980s, with its dodgy echoed production and oh-too-crisp sound. The keyboards are too weird to do justice to this subject matter (the dictatorship of Jean-Claude Devalier, a.k.a. Bébé Doc). And while Chassagne's vocals come across as great when read on paper, they are drowned out in the studio. What a shame.

Do not despair, though, because we now come to the best track on the album. This was the track, during their performance on Later... with Jools Holland,¹ that kick-started their career in Britain, and it's not hard to see why. If 'Neighbourhood #3 (Power Out)' blasts through into your skull with its jagged guitars, 'Rebellion (Lies)' creeps very slowly up your spine until the sadness, fear and helplessness take control. The lingering keyboards act as a pulse over which Bilerman can open the taps a little bit. Butler's lyrics, about goverment propaganda are superb once again; the structure is so strict and formal, and yet not one of the lines comes across as compromised by rhyme or rhythm. The opening lines - Sleeping is giving in/ No matter what the time is - are among the best written this side of the millennium, and even the more trivial lines like Come and hide your lovers/ Underneath the covers scans as powerful poetry. There is no fault to this song whatsoever, it is an unassailable masterpiece.

The album winds slowly down with 'In The Backseat', again sung by Chassagne. And while it cannot hold a candle to its predecessor, it feels good. This time, the lyrics are given the space to breath, so you can (for the most part) get the message. It feels tight, poised and delicate, and even at the very top of her range there is not a hint of straining from Chassagne. Occasionally, the drums get too much and the mix gets too heavy, but otherwise it serves as a fitting finale.

Funeral's greatest irony is that it gave Arcade Fire the life and success they need when its themes and recordings are marred by death. The fear of government, the war on terror and the death of self-hope and confidence are perfectly encapsulated in these ten songs; and death within the families of so many of the band members adds further to the atmosphere of mourning. It is this unique combination of the personal and the political which makes this album such a rare joy. Most overtly political albums can seem very abstract, distant, and with little humanity in them which the listener can grab hold of. Likewise, many of the personal records in rock and elsewhere are so individual and introspective that they become absolutely impenetrable and no greater issues can be drawn from them. What Arcade Fire have done with Funeral is put the two poles together almost by accident, and created one of the finest pieces of musical social comment that we are ever likely to see.

3.90 out of 5

References
¹ http://youtube.com/watch?v=42g4T_tZPTA. Accessed on June 4 2008.

Top 100 Albums - #38: Send Away The Tigers (2007)

Welsh rockers Manic Street Preachers' only appearance on the chart is also their most recent effort, widely seen by critics as a return to form after the limp-wristed Lifeblood (2004).
After the mysterious disappearance of guitarist Richey Edwards in February 1995, the Manics regrouped and entered a period of critical and commercial success. Everything Must Go (1996) was shortlisted for the Mercury Prize, and was snapped up by the growing lad culture, who presumably missed the irony of the line We don't talk about love/ We only wanna get drunk in 'A Design For Life'. The follow-up, This Is My Truth, Tell Me Yours (1998), contained the No.1 single 'If You Tolerate This Your Children Will Be Next', written about the Spanish Civil War. The band recorded their second No. 1 with 'The Masses Against The Classes' in 2000. After this great crest of popularity, the band's work grew more inconsistent, with both Know Your Enemy (2001) and Lifeblood (2004) being written off as insipid and inconsistent. Following a two-year break to focus on solo projects - including James Dean Bradfield's The Great Western (2006) - the band returned to the studio to regroup.

We kick off with the title track, and it's instantly clear how far this band have come. Don't be put off by the 1970s organ opening, this a beautiful combination of their punk and metal roots dressed up in the dignity of alterative rock. The lyrics may not be especially compelling, especially well they've been coated in some annoying reverb. But the drums are straight and true, and the guitar is deep and menacing, especially at the end of the choruses. Most impressive of all, though, is Bradfield's voice. It remains as rich and politicised as the glory days of the band in the late-1990s.

With 'Underdogs', the mood temporarily switches to toned-down indie, with all its squashed snare work and near-whispered lyrics. But before this becomes even remotely irritating, the whole mix explodes in a ball of socialist fire. The chorus follows the punk formula of short, loud and simple; it's the formula that made them famous and it still works today, producing a cocktail of passion, angst and violence designed to blow your head to smithereens.

'Your Love Alone Is Not Enough' can came across as perturbing. The vocals are shared with Nina Persson, lead singer of Swedish pop group The Cardigans, hardly the most credible force in music today. And the song pattern is more pop than punk, with its frequent breaks and light refrains. You even have overworked lyrics, which reference both Pink Floyd - trade all your heroes in for ghosts - and the band's past glories - you stole the sun straight from my heart. But if you can overlook all of these, hard as it may seem, you have a good midsummery number. It might be a little forgettable, but the feel of the piece just about redeems it.

Enough being generous. 'Indian Summer' doesn't need to pass on feel, it's good in its own right. Bradfield isn't singing at his clearest, but the way in which this is put together feels tighter than before. The lead-in to the chorus showcases the talent of Sean Moore on drums, as he plays with both tightness and brio. The guitars sound good and everything is crisply produced, preventing it from dragging at all. 'The Second Great Depression' isn't all that bad either. If anything, its overtly political nature marks it out an improvement. This feels like an old-school Manics song, though not quite along the same lines as 'The Masses Against The Classes'. The slower tempo means that it is also nowhere near as good, but still packing a fair punch.

It is from this point onwards that we get into dodgier territory. 'Rendition' may be political in image, but the punch is slipping away, being replaced by everything noisy and obnoxious that makes punk such a difficult genre (something that was, perhaps, designed to be). This is too chaotic, too frenetic and without anything to tie their rage down. Like Green Day's most recent work, it comes across sound and fury, signifying very little than hadsn't already been said by better musicians and writers.

Having tossed up such a turkey, we somehow get 'Autumnsong'. And it sounds like a whole different band, as if in a single song the band had gone forward ten years in experience and talent. The opening chords are sublime, screechingly high and yet so easy on the ease. The lyrics are better too - wear your love like it is made of hate is one of the most skillfully crafted lines of 2007. This may be a summery song, in both title and subject, but it blows everything else of this category out of the water. It may be just as simple as 'Your Love Alone Is Not Enough', but here, without stupid extra vocals and with a lot more substance, you get your money's worth. This is the Manics at the best, taking the angst-ridden rawness of the band members' emotions and chanelling through the music to create something which never drags or rushes, never bores, and always thrills.

'I'm Just A Patsy' is political - the title comes from Lee Harvey Oswald - and it may sounds like a riot. But again the punch, the climax never comes. Listening to this song is a bit like driving an Aston Martin V8 Vantage - it sounds amazing, it looks good, but when you put your foot down and demand speed, it never really comes, and you are left ever so slightly empty, and out of pocket. It's a good thing, then, that 'Imperial Bodybags' is a real belter. This is the first track on the album on which the political content properly works. The reason is simple: it's more subtle, tinged with suggestion and irony amid the metallic rhythm guitar and dark thump of the bass. The chorus is reminiscent of 'A Design For Life', and the result is that this album is completely back on track.

The closer is a double whammy, with 'Winterlovers' and a cover of John Lennon's 'Working Class Hero'. The former, with its Na na naa footballers' opening, is a sure-fire anthem. The chorus is catchy, and although, like most of the album, it is written in 4/4, the result does not come across as even slightly tedious. To call it that would be to do it a disservice. 'Working Class Hero', which is in itself an good-to-average song, is given a kick up a backside to produce a punk anthem. To use the car analogy again, this is like taking a moped engine and fitting it with a supercharger and active exhuasts. It's a great way to finish.

Although it marks a return to the glory days for the Manic Street Preachers, in terms of critical acclaim and commercial success, it seems strange to compare it to any of their previous work. Not because it is in any way a massive departure; to put it harshly, it could be described as a return to the formula which made them famous. Instead, this is the first Manics album of recent years in which they appear content in their position within the industry. This doesn't sound like a middle-aged rock album, but you get the sense that all talk of burning out and disappearing is gone, completely. The band are no longer kidding themselves that they are now an established and successful act, and they seem to be content with that. And with the quality of material they have produced here, let's hope that this continues to be the case for a long time to come.

3.90 out of 5

¹ 'Manic Street Preachers', http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Manic_Street_Preachers. Accessed on May 22 2008.