Spiderbait - Tonight Alright

Festival kiddies rejoice! Spiderbait's new album heralds the rebirth of their rockin' phase - and it's about bloody time!

Ahh, Spiderbait. Festival favourites, and a band for whom music's more been about oversized, singable tunes than the pursuit of the super-literate - anyone remember Ol' Man Sam and their cover of Run? If you believe the band's website, Spiderbait came together as a result of combining boredom, punk, metal and a combined musical knowledge that amounted to approximately three chords. And, given the circumstances of their beginning, the great thing about the band - more than a decade after their inception, is that the thing that makes them beloved across the nation is still intact. Their enthusiasm for letting loose and playing remains intact, and seems even stronger on Tonight Alright than it has ever before - and perhaps it's because they've quit, for the moment, the electronic excursions that marked The Flight Of Wally Funk.

Of course, the electronics haven't entirely been eschewed on this album. They're still there, it appears. But it seems that largely, they've been supplanted by an increased use of the guitar - or good playing - to create more impressive sounds. There's bleeps and bloops in some places here, but rather than sounding like cheesy analogue or dated drum-machines, they sound like the result of a feedbacking guitar, an echo pedal and a bit of humanity - not to mention some good playing. Not relying on electronics to layer the band's sound means that the resultant tunes kick a lot more - and feel a lot looser, a lot groovier - than Spiderbait have for a while. It's a reaffirmation of where their strength lies: after so many years on the road, Janet, Kram and Whitt are an impressively tight unit. Tonight Alright seems to be the result of them embracing that cohesiveness and laying it straight to tape.

Even the album's artwork is indicative of the band's reconciliation with rock. It certainly breaks with tradition, at least. Gone are the cartoons that've adorned most of their previous releases and formed so much of the Spiderbait iconography. In their place? Simple silhouettes. No real details are discernable, except that each appears to be rocking the hell out - just as it sounds on the disc. It's simple, and mimics what you might see of the band on stage at a gig with a preponderance of red filters. Like a classic Blue Note cover, it's devoid of bullshit, commensurate with the music that's contained within.

And what of that music? Well, Spiderbait aren't exactly reinventing their wheel through these 36-odd minutes. But it's certainly a cobweb-clearing revisitation of some favourite facets of their style. Generally, this is a disc you can imagine playing while tear-arsing along the freeway on the way to the beach, or on a night out. Certainly, most of the tunes here have moshpit gold written across 'em. Indeed, if you're looking for the perfect get-the-night-started tune, you've found it in Take Me Back. Kicking off with an edgy Bo Diddley-on-speed drumbeat, overlaid with circling guitar, an overdriven Kram tells us he's talkin' 'bout love. A tide of guitar sweeps in as wah-swells and drums rise and fall menacingly.

And then, something fabulous happens.

After an accelerated, increasing-chord vamp, the song breaks back into what's perhaps the funkiest thing Spiderbait's ever done. Bass and drums lock tight and the groove is on. Descending basslines that sound like they should be accompanied by someone descending a stairway with a top hat and a cane. Guilty guitar licks escape a carefully-constructed cage, adding just enough freedom amongst the head-nodding. It's difficult to describe, but it's certainly grin-inducing.

The perversely disco-influenced path is continued later - most overtly - with the band's cover of Black Betty. And while it stays pretty true to previous renditions of the song, there's something importantly different about it. It's got a great combination of strength with that trademark Spiderbait weirdness. Handclaps and shout-outs rest hand-in-hand with Sabbath-worthy amp-melting... before the whole thing bursts into a marvellously slack-arsed rock god section which leads off into a sort of "funky-helicopter-flies-into-space" solo. Maybe those cartoonist tendencies have only escaped the cover art - the band's sense of giant robot fun remains intact, thank God.

Fucken Awesome, however, takes the prize as the album's most singable tune. Aside from a parent-baiting lyric line that reiterates how the subject of the song is, unsurprisingly, fuckeen awesome, it's in possession of some of the most perfect pop moments Spiderbait's ever mustered. It also brings to mind the P'TangYangKipperBangUh tune Fucken Ace, though this time around, it's a more mature, yet innocent take. The exuberance, the sheer joy that's communicated in Janet's vocal line is infectious.

Don't wanna walk away
I couldn't anyway
You fill my empty day
You know make me stay
'Cos you're fucken awesome

It's tells of a happiness, a sort of overdriven love that's backed by an almost perfect ooh-aah harmony that you'd be a hard-hearted bastard not to enjoy. Similarly, Cows lands in the same territory, though with some more '80s musical attachments. There's a feeling of tentative love - the thrill of romance tempered by the desire to make sure everything's OK, that nobody's weirded out. It's cute, in a spiky way. Tonite continues the sweetness with something that's surprisingly subtle. Vocally, it's smooth, and reminiscent of some of Lou Reed's work, with a low-key - almost Dire Staits! - musical approach. The reassurance, both musical and lyrical, is that it's all cool - Spiderbait, despite the over-the-top gestures and loudness, will look after you. And you know what? You'll believe it.

Are good things happening to the band? Hell, from the sound of these tunes - even the more misanthropic ones, like Live In A Box - there's certainly some fabulous stuff going down. There's a feeling of corner-turning, of new beginnings here that's pleasing; all the more because it works so well when combined with riffs that'd do Fu Manchu proud.

Musically, the band's never sounded better. The drum sound that producer Sylvia Massy Shivy - known for her multilayered work with bands like Tool and Skunk Anansie (not to mention Kylie Minogue) - has captured here is perhaps the finest that Kram's ever ridden. One of Australia's greatest (underrated?) drummers ever to occasionally strap on an Elvis jumpsuit, the muscularity of the playing leaps out more than on other discs. Strangely, it's not a sense of a bloke walloping the hell out of a set of skins that comes across here; more, the idea of subtlety is communicated. When the only percussion heard is a cymbal, it's not lost or underwhelming - it's just right, and strangely, not too much in-focus. Likewise, Janet's bass and Whitt's wide-ranging guitar are never spotlit incredibly: rather, the three work together as a whole. This is an album that works because the three musos on it are working as one, something that's often stated but rarely pulled off as well as it is here.

Arse-kicking drumming, fluid basslines and Gary Glitter guitar that's so crunchy it should come with a nut warning: Spiderbait have rediscovered - or should that be re-embraced? - their rockin' roots. And the result, to purloin one of their own lines, is fucken awesome. Tonight? All right!

This article originally appeared on FasterLouder.com.au. I am no longer associated with that website and, as copyright owner, have moved it here for permanent record.

Papa M - Six

David Pajo is indeed a musical luminary. It's just a pity that Papa M's asleep at the wheel.

Over the course of his career, David Pajo � who pursues musical endeavours under the Papa M nomenclature on occasion � has had his hand in a number of well-received, critically important bands. A key member of the legendary Slint, one of the founders of Tortoise, a player with the Palace enclave, guitarslinger for Stereolab, The For Carnation and Billy Corgan�s Zwan. So you�d expect him to release something pretty outstanding, right?

Right.

In reality - given Papa M�s history, including the well-received Live From A Shark Cage album - it�s disappointing to hear the mediocre tunes that comprise Six, the latest release in Papa M�s self-described �endless tour diary�. The concept behind this series of releases is that it allows Pajo the freedom to record whatever he likes and release it in whatever form takes him. What it seems to have resulted in in Six, however, is basically an exercise in tedium.

Accompanied by Dianne Williams, Papa M winds his way through three tunes all remarkable for their innocuousness. There�s not really anything of excitement on offer. Foreign Hotel Garden, for example, is nothing much more than a collection of dodgy rhyme structures and badly read diary entries. Overwrought? Well, it would be if there were some substance to get one�s knickers in a twist about. Likewise, The Trees Do Grow So High is a traditional tune, ground down to a sort of slo-mo Brian Wilson nightmare, all syrup and stultification.

Lovely Room has a wonderfully redemptive moment, though � the guitar solo that bestrides the tune is quite� well, lovely. Doubletracking and what sounds like pitch-shifting push something that�s certainly not a Steve Vai-style solo into the realm of the beautiful. Unfortunately, it�s not enough to lift the disc out of the general bland area it�s resting in. There�s a soporific feel that�s too hard to shake off, and it basically comes across as laziness on the artist�s behalf. Sure, these might be private sketches, after a fashion, but if they�re being put out as a fully-formed release in their own right, surely there should be something appealing about them?

The idea of recording as and when the mood strikes is an appealing one. It�s just a shame Papa M couldn�t be bothered to collect a stack more of them and sift through them before releasing them as another CD with the emotional resonance of some of his other works. There�s no doubt that Pajo�s an important artist � but if you want proof of his grandeur, look elsewhere.

This article originally appeared on FasterLouder.com.au. I am no longer associated with that website and, as copyright owner, have moved it here for permanent record.

Phantom Planet - Phantom Planet/The Guest

A two-for-one deal that highlights a band's growth from sophmore pop to sneery garage - with thanks to stardom and an Amish cabin.

Phantom Planet is a band that's dogged by fame. Seriously. They've released a couple of albums (three studio, one live DVD), have played with � and get serious props from � the likes of Elvis Costello and Bruce Springsteen, Guided By Voices and Ben Lee. Their new album, Phantom Planet is a quantum leap over their previous studio effort The Guest � both of which are included in this release � but it seems that most press wants to focus on the fact that vocalist Alexander Greenwald was in Donnie Darko, and that Jason Schwarzmann, the lead guy from Rushmore, was their drummer.

Fair enough.

But Schwarzmann � who played on both the discs here � is no longer in the band, and they're certainly now further away from the tag of boy-band-for-the-alterna-flick-set. So now it�s out of the way, let's concentrate on this two-for-one set that contains the last two Phantom Planet albums.

To be fair to the band, listen to the second disc of this release, The Guest, first, because it�s an earlier studio effort than Phantom Planet. And therefore, when you whack on the newest platter, it'll be that much more effective. The Guest is a much more populist affair. Produced by Mitchell Froom and Tchad Blake, it's got much highly polished top-40 sound, as you�d expect from the producers of discs by Suzanne Vega and Crowded House.

On the whole, it's an album of youthful exuberance, sure, but it's also pretty close to cringeworthy at times. Alexander Greenwald's vocals sit so firmly in the middle of the road on The Guest that it's sometimes surprising that he hasn't been knocked off by an overtaking SUV on the Californian highway the band's obviously motoring along. But when they're on the ball � and they're not indulging in tedious sub-heartbeat soft-focus time signature schmaltz � it's none too shabby. The epic sweep of Billy Joel (yes, seriously) or The Beatles is invoked occasionally (on the lighters-in-air and faintly godawful Anthem), while tracks like Nobody's Fault sound like Elvis Costello when he was still with The Attractions, albeit with a little more cheese. Harmonies abound! Radiohead's box of tricks is opened on the album's most intriguing electronics-flavoured track, Turn Smile Shift Repeat � a nervous ditty that ultimately proves frustrating as it provides a tantalising example of the band's ability to think outside their pop straitjacket, something that's not really done enough on the album.

Aside from the twelve studio songs, four additional rag-tag tracks � alternate versions, demos and a live track � round out the disc, leaving a vaguely disorganised feel. On the whole, The Guest is sunny, as befits an LA band, and leaves you with a largely happy yet unfulfilled feeling � much like fairyfloss.

Phantom Planet, on the other hand, is a uniformly solid disc that manages to kick large amounts of arse. As it indeed should: anything recorded in six weeks (following an 18-month tour) in a log cabin in an Amish town should certainly sound like it's going stir-crazy. It's rooted in the sort of spazz-garage mire from whence sprang Liars, say, but it's much, much less annoying than some of that scene's stalwarts. Producer Dave Fridmann, formerly known for his work with epic-sweep bands like Mercury Rev, Mogwai and The Flaming Lips manages to make the band sound like they're jamming, but with a much greater sense of precision than most noodling conveys. The looseness inherent in their tour mates The Vines comes across in tracks like the bull-at-a-gate The Happy Ending, but where that band can�t keep their eye on the ball, Phantom Planet succeed. Big Brat is a solid-beat belter that leaps into gear with a pluckiness that's surely got The Strokes worried � and with the aid of what sounds like bass saxophone! Class.

Greenwald's vocals on this outing seem to be a lot more comfortable than previously. There is a certain louche Julian Casablancas overtone in effect, but the strength developed is certainly obvious � particularly in tunes like Making A Killing or You're Not Welcome Here, the latter being a pulsing wall-of-guitars anthem that requires subtlety that the vocalist certainly didn't possess on earlier discs. Touches of Thom Yorke or Robert Smith turn up in other songs on the album, with Beatles references sublimated into the background for the most part.

Then, [even further] out of left field come songs like Badd Business, a ska-styled tune that occasionally turns into car-crashes of guitar and feedback. It's an achievement that's pretty spectacular, particularly given the fact that the muscularity and straight-out rocking � combined with a willingness to play, to chop and change that's apparent on Phantom Planet seems to belong to a different band entirely to that which recorded The Guest. It could be said that they're different beasts: though the ear for melody remains intact, the sneer that's sported is a new � and welcome � addition.

If anything, Phantom Planet/The Guest is an interesting document of the growth of a band over a couple of years. It's the sound of a band finding their feet, increasing in musical ability and broadening their expectations. While both discs, taken at once, underscore the fact that the band's pretty influenced by musical trends that are everywhere at the time of recording � could the next album have Outkast-styled weirdness all over it? � they're both enjoyable for different reasons. Admittedly, The Guest has some pretty horrible missteps on it - but when it does work, it's an example of na�ve pop of a pretty high calibre. Phantom Planet, on the other hand, is an album of drag-knuckled anger and confusion that's well worth hearing. Taken together, this is a set that you should probably give a spin to: there�s more than enough to keep your interest here.

This article originally appeared on FasterLouder.com.au. I am no longer associated with that website and, as copyright owner, have moved it here for permanent record.

Horrorpops - Miss Take

Candy and the crypt combine in this two-track taster of Horrorpops' blend of speedy song.

This two-track taste of Danish psychobilly is as quickly digested as a Chupa Chup � and almost as tasty. Around since 1996, Copenhagen's Horrorpops are pitched somewhere near where the latter-day incarnation of The Cramps hang out: the less freaky and more poppy side of the road. More harmonies, less howling. They're precisely what their name would lead you to believe: a bats-and-spikes wrapper that belies the sweetest candy. And hell, their lead singer's giving the devil's horns on the cover of this single. And their lineup features two go-go dancers. What more do you want from a band?

Well, maybe a bit of spark would be nice.

The two tracks here have been lifted from the band's debut, Hell Yeah!, and if they're anything to go by, it'd be a great party album. There's not much in the way of depth - "woah-oh-oh!" and references to brain-lust is about as philosophical as things get - but then, the works of Sartre never were the easiest things to sing loudly while pissed and pogoing around the lounge room. They're not reinventing the genre, really - how many times have you seen or heard this kind of ghoul-groove approach? But they're at least passionate about their love of schlock. Certainly, the energy displayed here is pretty intense, and it covers a lot of the simplicity of the tunes: they're both fairly standard three-minute rockers with nifty guitar solos.

It's probably not the comparison that the band would want you to make, but vocalist and doghouse bass player Patricia sounds rather reminiscent of Gwen Stefani - indeed, there's a sort of bad-girl-but-fun feel to the tracks here. Although it's a credit to her ability that at times she manages to channel Siouxsie Sioux and Deborah Harry (who're listed as influences on the band) - and even what sounds like our own Brigitte Handley - without making the listener think that she's merely aping them. Where They Wander - definitely the strongest track on this single - is the perfect vehicle for her, too: it's a Misfits-u-like thrasher with a fine New Wave-styled vocal line that has an irresistible beat that'll have you out of the coffin in no time, largely due to the insistence of the vocals, keeping pace with the drag-racing bassline.

All in all, the tracks on this single are a pretty listenable example of how good tight, dumb psychobilly - is there any kind? - can be. The lead track, Miss Take, isn�t quite strong as it could be - and it certainly begs the question as to why it was the single choice - but the b-side's a killer. They're a damn tight band when they want to be, and while it's probably true that, as with most rockabilly/psychobilly bands, the real measure of the group's in their live performance - it seems records often are letdowns - they put in a pretty exhilarating couple of cuts here. If you're a fan of the Zombie Ghost Train neck of the boneyard, you could do a lot worse than to check 'em out.

This article originally appeared on FasterLouder.com.au. I am no longer associated with that website and, as copyright owner, have moved it here for permanent record.

Gentle Ben And His Sensitive Side - The Beginning Of The End

Aw, sweet Gentle Ben And His Sensitive Side. Buy them a glass and somewhere, someday you'll hear the story of the girl that done them wrong... and what they did in return.

From the opening of The Beginning Of The End, it's clear that there's something special going on. A swivel-hipped songster with a forked tongue, Ben Corbett - half of SixFtHick's twin-headed vocal beast - prowls this platter of tunes like a schizophrenic strongman in the mood for love. From the steamy locale of Brisbane via the go-go singles of the '50s, a little town called Tijuana and anywhere that's bedecked in velvet and mirror balls, Gentle Ben And His Sensitive Side have delivered a collection (too short!) of tunes that you'll quickly store in the I Wish More Bands Did This Kinda Thing file.

Assuming you can get it off your stereo.

The sort of blended fare here - it's sometimes hard to tell if sweet, sweet lovin' or a smack to the head's in store - draws broad comparisons with Vegas-era Elvis (if he were prettier), Kim Salmon's cabaret stylings (if he were less cynical), the windblown power of Calexico (without some of the wank they've accumulated) and the death's head iconography of Nick Cave (with slightly less preachifyin'). What Gentle Ben And His Sensitive Side have pulled off - straight out of the box - is what Dave Graney seems to be reaching for but is never quite able to grasp. What's more, the ironic shield of the joke isn't in use. This album's a rarity: an exploration of lonesome, almost-too-seedy cabaret that doesn't seem to have its roots in pisstaking. It's indulgent, sleazy, hilarious and tear-in-beer moving by turns - and it's far tighter and more accomplished than any debut should be, by rights. There's rarely been something produced that's so fully-formed from the get-go.

And that's not idle; the lyricism at work here is fabulous. A sort of emotional fatalism, a distanced dissection of the acts of a bastard... it's all a bit noir, with hints of barely-contained anger, mysterious burial and unexplained passions. Take some choice lines from Lo Siento, for example:

I screamed and I spat in the eye of the storm
Oh, struggling and squirming, impaled on the horns
Of the creature that's taken up residency
In the boarding house room at the centre of me...
Lo siento!

Of course, the vocal work, fine as it is, would be nothing without the band behind it. And the musicians assembled here - Dylan McCormack, Nick Naughton and Trevor Ludlow being the band's core, with additional help from David McCormack, Shane Melder and Lauren Brown - are the perfect foils for Corbett's perversely cinematic vocals. The tunes borrow from many musical styles - there's keyboard-driven pop sounds that'd be welcome on Gidget's beach blanket parked next to martial drumming and a low-down western guitar. Falling features a powerful, emotive wailed chorus that sounds like it's been lifted from a Roy Orbison track. Don't Wait uses the same sense of crescendo - but with a more soulful effect. There's a mish-mash happening here, with perhaps the only unifying factor being a sense of seediness, a sort of shabbiness, some midnight radio feel hard to define. There's no sense of battle between vocalist and band - instead, it's a wonderful blend.

Interestingly, the songs here appear to be a further examination of currents that've always been present in the work of SixFtHick. The Lap Of Luxury's Last Lullaby, for example, hinted at some of the quieter backwaters of darkness that Gentle Ben And His Sensitive Side explore. And with most of its brace of songs clocking in under three minutes, The Beginning Of The End offers a series of enigmatic portraits that whet the appetite. Falling In Love offers a nice twist on the ideas of the Elvis tune of the same name, while Moonlight Sea makes a watery demise sound appealing in a half-drunk sort of way. Most immediate of all, however, is I Don't Think She Loves Me - a half-Spanish, half-English, all passion tune adorned in handclaps and rodeo screams. It's difficult to get anything other than an oblique view of what's happening, but like a keyhole vision, the tales intrigue.

If you've ever seen Gentle Ben... live, you'll know that one of the ensemble's strengths is the way they can move from whip-cracking strength to heart-on-sleeve po'boy-ism in the sweep of a verse. With some bands, recording songs of this nature robs them of the shamanic power that a gig can have, alcohol-enhanced or not. Thankfully, the way Ben Corbett strides the stage, an elegant, razor-cheekboned huckster badboy, flamenco-stepping through the smoke to croon or wail with furrowed brow, supported by his supple band - has survived the transition to tape. It's theatrical, yes, but it all just works. I Can't Hurt You is a great example. A tale of weeping and beating, it veers between the low-key and the swing-arsed rocking - but without any sense of the emotional release being ill-considered or forced. Similarly, the lupine derangement of the group is also in evidence on Spell Of The Moon. A howling Corbett exhorts the moon to shine down on him while circling tones - like a persistent ringing in the ears, echoed tenfold - run rings around the band's subtly tidal Mexican lament. The vocal line stops, and the two styles - south-of-the-border versus UFO - try to outpace each other, before the song ends without a feel of a victor. Uneasiness prevails; uneasiness clothed in insanity. Poisonous spines and retribution coming down the hall: that's what, more than anything else, these songs sound like.

The album ends with the plaintive Happiness, a song that begins with the sound of footsteps. It's as if - armed only with a guitar - Ben's providing an apology for all that's gone before, Jimmie Rodgers-style. All the grandeur and the drama of the album are prologue: "I'm skippin' town while you are cryin'," he laments, a masochist who no longer desires happiness or the solace of togetherness. Hell, the litany of things you could do to him without retribution - throw his possessions in the rain, tell people he's gone nuts, 'cause it doesn't matter - is surpassed only by the sense of resignation that's communicated to us, "the pearl before the swine". Faintly discernable backing vocals give a ghostly feel to what turns out to be the perfect closer.

Short and sweet, The Beginning Of The End is a cocktail of dangerous beauty. Head for nearest velvet-draped establishment in your finest rayon and get ready to toast them, because if this is any indicator of Gentle Ben And His Sensitive Side's potential, the main course will be a killer.

Literally.

This article originally appeared on FasterLouder.com.au. I am no longer associated with that website and, as copyright owner, have moved it here for permanent record.

Franz Ferdinand - Franz Ferdinand

The Scottish critical darlings of the art-school rock circuit step up to the plate - but can they deliver?

There's a couple of Franz Ferdinands you can choose from. First, Franz Ferdinand: Austrian Archduke whose assassination led - more or less - to World War I. Or there's Franz Ferdinand: art-school darlings of the UK press, formed to make "music for girls to dance to" after two future bandmates almost came to blows over a bottle of grog. It's fairly safe to say that while the former has more of a handle on the moustache stakes, the latter's acute rock is what's currently preoccupying scribes and hipsters everywhere. And the real question is this: does the Glaswegian quartet's debut full-lengther live up to the Brobdingnagian hype that it's been wrapped in? Is it worth the pimpin' fur coat of writerly praise it's been given?

The answer? Fuck, yes. And the label wrangles that've held the album's release up in Australia - it was out in the UK in February - merely underscore the fact this this disc was worth the wait. The band - who began life giving illegal gigs in a space called The Chateau, who aim to reintroduce fun and melody into the dour wilderness of postrock and who feature a drummer who won't use rack toms because they stop the audience seeing him - has come up with the goods. Like any debut, there's some missteps (Tell Her Tonight, for all its Bowie-esque arse-shaking and bravado, is a little unfulfilling, as is the overlong This Fire) but there's a higher success rate here than most.

Thee first track, Jacqueline, is almost without peer in terms of opening salvos. Beginning with a meditative acoustic strum, it's not long before a Peter Hook-heavy bassline kicks into gear, accompanied by guitars that spray out a rising, circling riff (and occasional shard of high-end funk chunking). Drums with cymbal breaks like pneumatic jets keep robotik time as vocalist Alex Kapranos intones a veritable hymn to hedonism on what's one of the most balls-out rocking cuts on the album. The music puts you in mind of creeping spies, while the lyrics are pure surrender, pure release of work and responsibility:

It's always better on holiday
So much better on holiday
That's why we only work when
We need the money

The band thunders like hoofbeats over lines about being alive - it's affirming and immediate, relatively unguarded in a way in which some other tunes on the disc are not. The song that first got the band widely known in Australia, Take Me Out, remains almost perfect, even though it does almost everything a tune shouldn't do: it gets slower and slower and changes direction almost entirely. But somehow, dangers are sidestepped, and the two-parter celebration of sexual tension (or sniper tension, if you like) makes its transition from Strokesville to some kind of high-stepping Land Of Booty seamlessly, with enough jangle and handclaps to make you dazzle at the chutzpah rather than decry its dilettantism. As far as pop goes, it's great. And it's immediately followed by The Dark Of The Matinee - already single-fodder in the UK - a thumper of a song with a glorious chorus testifying to the narcotic embrace of the movie theatre. Schoolboy desire and urges to impress are communicated elliptically, before a laid-back verse speaks of appearances with Terry Wogan in the afterglow of fame. Prescience? Fantasy? It's hard to say.

But that's the point of the band, it seems: desire, regret and observation are all combined in an obfuscatory way, and left to the listener to tease out
- and all without the help of a real string section or found-sound recording. Lyrically, it appears that sexuality drives the disc. It takes the tight-chested feeling of pursuit, the breathless desire of the unattainable individual, the hedonistic freedom of the party circuit (and its after-effects) and a shabby sense of voyeurism (seen through alcoholic shades and a dusting of dancefloor glitter) and wraps them in a musical covering that's tight enough to appear awkward yet loose enough to groove. Many times, the viewpoint seems to mirror the feeling you might have had if you've ever arrived somewhere at 3am, sober when everyone else is horribly, horribly drunk: that magical time when the edges are rubbed off everything else but you, and the world's little tragedies are somehow more visible - George Grosz-style.

Glamour and despair walk hand in hand on this album - but they've never really done it in such a catchy way before. Tunes like This Fire feel like the product of a night of overindulgence, but manage to provide enough upstroked-chord slink to survive. Darts Of Pleasure is a disco-rocking dissection of the art of seduction that features a vocal line that fairly oozes from the speakers - "Words of love and words so leisured/Words are poisoned darts of pleasure" - before collapsing in a German-tinted post-coital crash. Michael sounds like an accelerated, updated version of John, I'm Only Dancing - riotous gay abandon in its truest form, while 40' is a confusion of just-viewed portraiture, la-la-la lyrics and strident, arse-wiggling riffage. Every silver lining must have its cloud, it seems - but you won't really notice unless you're searching for it, and therein lies the band's real achievement. It's good, shabby fun.

Of course, Franz Ferdinand's tightly reined-in aesthetic - designwise, rhythmically and tonsorially - is largely lifted from Kraftwerk's Man-Machine period. (Which, in turn, was largely ripped off from Russian Constructivist El Lissitzky.) But their much-vaunted angularity - a critic's favoured phrase - comes solely from the recognition and nurturing of the musical ephemera that makes a fucking great (Orange Juice-flavoured?) pop song, and the fact that they're unashamed to stick to it. You won't get huge experimental diversion here - but you will get some of the strongest pop songwriting heard this year. The energy overflows here: it's hard not to get swept up in it.

You might hate Britpop. Fair enough. But to ignore this album would be a mistake. It's poppy, but in a glorious way: exuberant, convinced of its own style, and in possession of enough skill to pull it off. Out of the box, Franz Ferdinand speak softly but carry a big stick: something that took Pulp - a band whose happy tune/sad lyric shadow looms large here, particularly on Come On Home - a number of albums to get right. There's enough offhandedly-literate, gritty kitchen-sinkery here if you look. But if you'd rather just look at the brilliantly-cheekboned dancers and shake your arse, that's easily done too. This album's well-constructed enough to satisfy your brains and your backside - and while the approach to the tunes can appear a little too familiar after a while, it's an exciting taste of what the band are capable of. If they survive the press adulation and Britpop treadmill - hello, Menswear? - what these guys next produce could be fearsomely good.

This article originally appeared on FasterLouder.com.au. I am no longer associated with that website and, as copyright owner, have moved it here for permanent record.

The Black Heart Procession and Solbakken - In The Fishtank 11

The Black Heart Procession are still bummed out. But this time, it's with the aid of Dutch prog.

Konkurrent's a musical distributor in the Netherlands that has, since 1996, been running a creative endeavour called In The Fishtank. Artists - chosen from the musical tastes of Konkurrent - are given two days in the studio to record whatever they feel like. Previous recipients of the time have included June Of 44 and NoMeansNo, but there's also been notable team-ups, including Low and Dirty Three, or Tortoise and The Ex. This, the eleventh volume in the ongoing series sees the perennially-gloomy bards of The Black Heart Procession head into the studio with leading Dutch prog-rock exponents Solbakken to make a little musical magic of variant quality.

The two bands first played together in 1998, and it seems that the bond forged was strong enough to encourage this series of tunes, hammered out mid-2003, just after The Black Heart Procession's tour in support of their quasi-concept album Amore Del Tropico had finished. Curiously, it seems that Solbakken - doubting their abilities in the improvisational side of things - chose to suggest a couple of ideas to their Fishtank partners, acting perhaps more on the side of production than performance. As a result, this disc sounds a little more prepared than some others in the series: a little more thought-through, rather than being the sole production of two bands noodling about with the tape rolling. It sounds like an augmented version of The Black Heart Procession with a little more in the way of electronic touches. Solbakken - though possibly because of their lack of fame in this neck of the woods - seem here to be reduced as not much more than guns for hire rather than important contributors.

The lack of individual song credits on this series of discs make picking who does what for particular tunes a rather infuriating task. In the end, you'll end up lumping everyone in The Black Heart Procession's camp, because it sounds so much like one of their other recordings - but with a little less wind blowing through the high-tension wires, and a little more of that Montreal-collective-band feel tacked on. In that respect, this EP's perhaps not as intriguing as others in the series have been - the Low/Dirty Three disc springs to mind - because it's very difficult to really tell it apart from another Black Heart Procession release. This is particularly obvious in tunes like Dog Song, which borrow from much of Amore Del Tropico's tricks (slow-burn time-signatures, building basslines, musical saw) to produce something that's reminiscent - but not as strong - as their other work.

There's not a great deal of challenge for the listener in these songs, particularly if you're familiar with the rest of their output. BHP vocalist Pall (or Paulo, if you're following his apparent changes in nomenclature) sings here as he does elsewhere - the slightly ill-conceived and poorly-articulated bass singing in Things Go On With Mistakes aside. The best vocal performance, in fact, is one in which the bulk is taken over by someone who's not a member of either band, Swiss singer Rachael Rose. On Voiture En Rouge, she sings verses sexily (over standard doomy piano voicings) while Pall steps in and out of a shower of cymbal shimmers, singing of entropy, of ending - as ever.

The quality of the lyrics on this release are a sticking point. They're not as polished as those that appear on The Black Heart Procession's other discs, and in some places (Dog Song in particular) skate perilously close to banality. Of course, this isn't particularly surprising to anyone who's a fan of The BHP, given their occasional penchant for clunky lyrics. But it's this almost palpable disregard for something so fundamental to a literate band that lets the disc down. This is mentioned in the EP's liner notes, where it's said that vocals were recorded through a reverb-heavy guitar amp to conceal the fact that there wasn't much in the way of wordy goodness during the session. Which begs the question: what'd they do in there for two days, if this was as planned as it seems?

Griping aside, there's some fabulous moments on this disc: the martial drums that give music-box guitar harmonics a nudge in the almost-anthemic Your Cave; the double-drummer assault - reminiscent of Godspeed You! Black Emperor - and aircraft-like sounds of Things Go On With Mistakes; the kick drum and guitar sea-crashing in Voiture En Rouge; the circling, opium-clouds of violin mystery and muezzin wailing in Nervous Persian. These elements work to create a doomy feel with an undercurrent of softness that's a little more freaky - and a little less considered or planned - than other releases. But there's always the question: what would this collaboration be like if it sounded a little less stock-BHP?

In The Fishtank 11 is probably not the best place for beginners with these bands to start. But if you approach it with a grain of salt, it'll certainly provide good background music for a couple of snorts of absinth on a stormy night. Cheers!

This article originally appeared on FasterLouder.com.au. I am no longer associated with that website and, as copyright owner, have moved it here for permanent record.

The Brian Jonestown Massacre - ...And This Is Our Music

The San Franciscan legends of freak-out psych-rock don't really know how to describe their music, either. But that's OK: just relax and enjoy the ride. We'll talk you through it.

First things first. ...And This Is Our Music is an album created by people who'll probably want to kick in the heads of reviewers everywhere. Scope out the liner-notes and you'll see that self-serving critics make a list of people officially put on notice that they're "Officially uninvited to our party!!!" - replete with three exclamation marks.

That's not very hippie, is it? In fact, it probably qualifies as a freak-out, baby. But that's fine, because the music recorded here overtakes any attitude-based party exclusions that The Brian Jonestown Massacre (Anton Newcombe, boss man and chief sonic wrangler) could hurl. (Of course, the fact that elsewhere in the same notes - couched in a track-by-track commentary, revealing musical inspirations, drug information and touching rave-ups of guest vocalists - lies a thoroughly shameless attempt to pick up BJM-fancying ladies weighs a little in their favour, too.)

Eno-esque synth washes and organ tweetings reminiscent of birds in heaven open this wide-ranging album. It's not particularly rock, though it's not entirely misleading: this disc is certainly akin to a soundtrack. You know how some of them don't make sense entirely without knowing the film - the soundtrack to Angel Heart is a good example - but work on the basis of their own musical merits? That's what ...And This Is Our Music is like. There's the maddening sense that if you had a couple of visual cues there'd be an unfolding of meaning, a narrative that's perfectly understandable. But over the course of the smoky-aired album, it becomes apparent that we're never meant to really understand; just absorb. Which is a challenge with something as narcotic-minded - and as wilfully meandering - as the songs collected here are. There's no power-pop press-out formula at work, and it's somewhat redundant to look at any one tune as being indicative of the whole album. But here's a selection - a psychedelic taster, if you like.

(Yes, it's particularly hard to avoid making drug references when you're dealing with song titles like You Look Great When I'm Fucked Up, A New Low In Getting High and Prozac Vs. Heroin on the album, as well as references to crack pipes, DMT and magic mushrooms in the liner notes. Ahem.)

You Look Great When I'm Fucked Up is the album's most epic moment, and probably its most immediately affecting. It's a landslide of Morricone and Leone; whistling, football horns, lamenting Mexican troubadours and an unearthly vocalise that could be coming from galaxies light years away. If bands like Godspeed You! Black Emperor could take themselves a little less seriously, this is the kind of grandeur that they could attain. If you want spacerock, there's no finer example.

On the other hand, Maryanne, a song of love uncommunicated, is a tune that's so simple and honest - though it's filled with multiple layers of guitar and reedy organ - that it grabs you completely with its plainness. Only two minutes long, it sounds almost like a rehearsal, but there's something endearing enough to make it fly. There's a moment where horns doubling the vocal lines ramp up and turn human voice to brass tones that's so beautiful you'll hardly believe what you're hearing.

Tracks like Here It Comes see the BJM taking on The Beatles, it seems. Well, The Beatles if they'd been a little more whacked-out, and had heard Mercury Rev. Sleepy vocals, almost-there drumming and the moaning, ecstatic anticipation of a celestial hit swathed in warm, rounded bass. When Jokers Attack is a phenomenal pop song. It's reminiscent of something that The Church might put out, all shimmering guitars of mystery and somehow melancholic jauntiness. Geezers sounds like something from The Stone Roses' Second Coming, only better. And What Did You Say? is a 44-second burst of Latin beats and craziness that sparks intrigue before disappearing, leaving you quizzical.

And so it goes. And that's only a handful of what you'll hear here. Messy and occasionally infuriating - but worth the journey.

There's a very strong whiff of Spacemen 3 and Spiritualized to the music that's created by The Brian Jonestown Massacre's group of musicians, not least of all because of the overwhelming number of them that contribute to the recording process. There's been over forty different members of the band, apparently, but here there's fifteen at work all up - including our own Matthew J. Tow of The Lovetones, who kicks in a very Lennon-sounding vocal on Starcleaner - ranging from horns and guitar to whistling and flute. And that's not even including The Holy Spirit, who gets a nod for "just kicking back and doing his thing". But quite aside from that, the Jason Pierce predilections of faith, redemption and getting fucked-up with symphonic grandeur soundtracking are all intact here. At one point - Prozac Vs. Heroin - the listener is confronted with a perversely solipsistic version of The Lord's Prayer, with Anton as the son of God. You're left with the feeling that he's an excess-driven holy roller by the album's end; but he's one with a deeply soft spot. Sort of like a deity who'd offer you some Quaaludes instead of a smiting. There's faith and love alongside the solipsism, and it's what gives these tunes soul.

Over the length of its fifteen tracks, ...And This Is Our Music is an album that'll take you on a trip, literally. It supports casual listening, sure - when was the last time you heard a psychedelic album that didn't make great, spongy background sounds? - but to get the most out of this disc you'll need to give it your attention. Listen to it in total. Try to decipher the clues in the liner notes. Sort of like a musical Where's Waldo?, the album veers all over the shop, a riff-and-feel-driven game of Scotland Yard. And despite the fact that by the end it's highly likely that you haven't reached any real decision about what the album's meant to be communicating, it doesn't seem to matter. This music's a trip and is best experienced as such - on a thought-free, couch-dwelling day when you can just let it wash over you. It's less about the tunes and the indefinite way it makes you feel. If you're terminally hip and crave angularity and constant precision, you probably won't like it. But if you're feeling a little smeared, if you're entranced by the ephemeral and the out-of-focus, this is a tasty disc.

This article originally appeared on FasterLouder.com.au. I am no longer associated with that website and, as copyright owner, have moved it here for permanent record.