THE POLYPHONIC SPREE

The Fragile Army

2007 – TVT Records/Good Records

For lovers of huge, baroque, orchestral, upbeat, glorious pop, this week’s choice is as close to perfection as you’re ever likely to encounter.

A masterclass in songwriting and an ambitious stab at creating the actual sound of euphoria, Polyphonic Spree were formed in 2000 by Tripping Daisy mainman Tom DeLaughter as a side project. The project would gather such momentum that seven years later along came this, the Spree’s third album – and a line-up boasting 23 members!

Often derided for their excessive happiness and matching white robes, this album is simply impossible to argue with. Jam-packed with killer melodies, jaw-dropping harmony work and stunning musical arrangements, there isn’t a wasted minute on display here. French horns rub shoulders with grand pianos in a mash up of 70s musicals and classical composition all held aloft by the impressive vocal army at the heart of the Polyphonic Spree sound. It’s a gorgeous collection of ideas working in perfect symmetry, and is as addictive and infectious to some as it is annoying to others. Yes, it’s true, some miserable bastards just can’t stand to listen to anyone sounding this damned happy!

The Polyphonic Spree don’t like to do most things in a traditional fashion, hence their song titles being broken, over three albums, into sections from one to 32. The Fragile Army begins with Section 21 (Together We’re Heavy), adding further confusion to the conundrum as Section 20 is also entitled (Together We’re Heavy), from the previous album Together We’re Heavy. (Hope you’re following this, there’ll be a test later. – Ed.)

At this point it’s a good idea to forego making linear sense of this bizarre art attack and simply allow yourself to be taken into their oddball world with complete trust and acceptance. And a white robe.

After the 30 second opening build-up of Section 21 has reached its orchestral peak the wonderful Section 22 (Running Away) is on top of you like a pack of excited children undergoing a huge sugar rush. DeLaughter’s helium-coated vocals setting a scene of such uncontrolled glee that there is likely to be a huge grin on your face while listening to this perfect blast of hi-octane pop. Once this slice of sonic Prozac has reached its alarming crescendo it would take a critic of the most surly disposition to deny its giddy delights.

And with sunshine filling the room we soak in the floral fragrance that is Section 23 (Get Up And Go) before Section 24 (The Fragile Army) marches into the frame with a Salvation Army swing. A sumptuous one-two package that perfectly sets up the mood of the album, and as feel-good monster Section 25 (Younger Yesterday) cuts a piano lead rug the album begins to open up like a multi-layered rock’n'roll onion releasing chorus after tearful chorus, sang with such majesty and bombast that it’s difficult to imagine ever wanting to listen to a band with less than 23 members ever again.

As Section 25 loses itself in psychedelic Beatles-styled wonder, the true glory of the Spree’s awesome collection of musical instruments is brought into focus. Imagine the Arcade Fire jamming with the London Philharmonic Orchestra and you have some idea of the magnitude of the Spree’s instrumental forays.

Section 26 (We Crawl) is mid-paced melancholy that typically explodes into euphoric celebration mid song, with a million instruments joining the angelic choir for fuller than full effect. Uplifting and mightily impressive, The Polyphonic Spree are not a subtle band.

Section 27 (Mental Cabaret) enjoys an almost disco beat a-la Blur’s Girls And Boys, albeit with over a dozen singers. The close double tracking effect of DeLaughter singing in unison with, most noticeably, the pixie-like Jessica Jordan is truly a wonder to behold.

Section 28 (Guaranteed Nightlife) starts its trajectory as Vaudeville showtune, all parping piano and Annie styled vocals before morphine into David Bowie singing for Roxy Music, very 70s and very classic, before sinking back into cabaret territory. The song will flip-flop like this for its 3:55 running time delightfully disorientating the listener into grateful admission that this mighty and talented band were more than worth of investigation.

Section 29 (Light To Follow) opens in brooding style with a surging threat of imminent explosion that never comes, favouring, instead, operatic echoes and extreme dynamic discipline. Even when they drums spread out and the guitars crunch in staccato fury the effect is still of a lion basking in semi slumber while watching easy prey walk calmly by.

Section 30 (Watch Us Explode (Justify)) returns to the bluster and ceremony of classic Spree as Rufus Wainwright-sized bombast tests the range of your stereo, again, that segues into Section 31 (Overblow Your Nest) in a subtle switch that transforms into classic Bowie 70s pomp mixed with Flaming Lips emotional overload. Powerful stuff, for sure, and a faithful nod to a golden age where cinema and theatre once danced in musical union.

After such a draining, dazzling run of songs there is only a final devastating stroke to produce that easily comes with Section 32 (The Championship), the huge highlight in an album that uses highlights as minute marks. Beginning as a zesty pop song it becomes Bruce Springsteen singing Born To Run with the casts of Rent and Hair as produced by Jim Steinman. To my mind music just doesn’t get any more impressive than this.

And after chorus upon chorus beat away any reserve this awesome album is finally done.

There was a time when music like this enjoyed its very own romp through most genres of entertainment. When Jesus Christ Superstar shared equal billing with disaster movies and man-eating sharks, but where happiness wasn’t relegated to simply comedies.

The Polyphonic Spree return the listener to a simple time where musical movies finally became cultural curios to be enjoyed by the young and the vibrant. Theirs is a sound of freakish hippies dancing in earthy Kodacolor. Theirs is a religion that celebrates joy over cash and love over war.

Can you dig it?

CONCRETE BLONDE
Concrete Blonde
1986 – IRS Records

While this album originally grabbed my attention due to the welcome reuniting of original Sparks members, brothers James and Earle Mankey, it was the talents of singer-songwriter Johnette Napolitano that has it marked as a bona fide, no-nonsense, cast in iron classic as far as I’m, or anyone else lucky enough to own this album, is concerned.

Forming the band as Dream 6 in 1982, James Mankey and Johnette Napolitano opted for a Michael Stipe-inspired name change and began recording this album under the production umbrella of Earle Mankey (The Long Ryders, The Runaways) in 1986 for Miles Copeland’s IRS label.

Marrying middle-of-the-road rhythms, and almost Ry Cooder-style dreamlike guitar passages, with punk spit and Napolitano’s streetwise lyrics the album made for compulsive listening. No self-respecting music-loving punk in my circle was without a cassette copy of this awesome display of wasted talent that still stands up to close scrutiny to this day.

True passion in music leaps the divides of time with authentic ease, and with this credo as our guide let’s dive in.

‘True’ introduces the album with Mankey’s plaintive guitar wailing like a lonesome wolf before Napolitano’s emotive vocal asserts hold of proceedings. The sheer confidence displayed within the effortless swing of this track sets up the album with ringmaster’s magnetism as the lyric stamps home the trials of staying honest to oneself as society’s hardships challenge faith and belief. A timeless theme always worthy of a revisit from any travelling outlaw armed with extensive experience in the school of hard knocks. And a spellbinding opener.

‘Your Haunted Head’ springs to life as the bastard cousin of The Stooges ‘I Feel Alright’ before James Mankey’s liquid guitar sashays into town armed with unlimited supplies of cool. Lead and rhythm guitar are played with bi-polar intensity on one lone guitar track and the biting lyrics battle for centre space like warring poets in the worlds final mic-off. Thrills are commonplace when such talents enjoy the playful friction of their own tangled fusion, wrapping themselves around a theme and manipulating it with absent minded yet easy, vicious intent like a cat plays with a wounded mouse. Accurate and devastating.

‘Dance Along The Edge’ lets the pace slip into a relaxed groove as the delicious harmony vocals of this world-class chorus sail dreamlike on a sea of bourbon and regret as it soothes and empathises. Mankey’s masterful use of the tremolo arm frees ghosts to play amongst the Roxy Music rhythms of the backing track. Truly inspiring and mesmerising stuff that holds the listener tighter than a hand of cards, and with no less intensity.

And speaking of intensity, ‘Still In Hollywood’, next, is exactly as highly strung as one has now, at a mere four songs into this awesome album, come to expect from Napolitano and co. White-knuckle vocals, arrow sharp, socially astute lyrics and a backing track as tight as a junkie’s grip on the spoon, this is a dark ride through battered streets of the city not mentioned in the tourist guide.

‘Song For Kim (She Said)’ maintains the smooth gait and steady pulse with easy, feline grace as the slightly chopping verse acts as a springboard for another huge chorus to come bursting through the grey clouds riding a beam of pure Californian sunshine. Napolitano lets loose her cannon-like voice and appears to all intents like the sister-to-another-mister of Skunk Anansie’s Skin and Imani Coppola. Awesome stuff that chills the bone yet quickens the blood flow.

Six songs in and I’m finding it hard to argue that this should be in everyone’s top 10 albums of all time, without reservation, as ‘Beware Of Darkness’ raises gooseflesh, liquidises me and pours me into the sea. This is sheer brilliance, classic and momentous. Nothing from today’s ‘young-and-bothered’ is fit to shine the world-trodden shoes of this song, or indeed this entire album. Fuck, is this good!

Music and vocals collide in ageless splendour, showing, indeed, how it should be done. Oh man, that tremolo sweep up into that bristling solo. Oh man, that breathy harmony as major and minor chords enjoy melodic intercourse. Enough talking. Download this track NOW!!! Jesus Christ. The power of great music knows no respite.

Almost in full understanding of their effect on the listener at this point they allow the next track to follow a more traditional, yet no less thrilling, rock formula, with ‘Over Your Shoulder’, featuring another stock Concrete Blonde winning chorus and an overall shift in gear, and we are in home territory. The album has now sunk into the subconscious like the effortless company of a lifelong friend and as ‘Little Sister’ floats in delicate pop surroundings the relationship is complete. Artist and listener are in simple flow like a deal that destiny was always set to make.

And by the time the perfection of the country-tinged ‘Make Me Cry’ pulls up smiling by your side you are in little doubt that Johnette Napolitano absolutely has the best voice in history, at least for the duration of this recording. This is a song that will sit in a special room in my psyche until my final day where it will play alongside the highlights of my listening existence, making sure that there is light until the very end. Simple, emotional and shatteringly powerful, this is simply how songs are written, with pain and passion creating poignant melancholy with which to drive the message home to all who can, and will relate to it.

‘Cold Part of Town’ is like a final kiss from an estranged lover, bittersweet and imminently painful, this almost Fleetwood Mac-meets-Dire Straits number ushers in the final tune like the drawing to an end of an elongated moment of peace and understanding. And sure enough, like the end of a beautiful dream never designed to last, ‘True II’ plays the opening track once again, this time in instrumental fashion, perfectly bookending as magnificent as listening experience as one is likely to ever have recommended.

That very few people even know this album is in equal parts criminal and exciting. Very few things inspire me as much as a thankful shopper being turned on to a new purchase through this very column. And while this album may not be to everyone’s tastes, it certainly is NOT heavy metal, and although there is venom and spit aplenty the average punk fan may despair at the masterful balladry presented here.

For those of you, however, who enjoy a healthy side-order of light to your mixed platter of shade, this could well be the Holy Grail you’ve always suspected your collection is missing.

If melancholia, stirring vocal delivery, awesome guitar playing and sublime songwriting is your cup of chai then I simply cannot recommend this album highly enough. Enjoy each welcome replay. You deserve it.

ABBA – Arrival
1976 (Polar)

Okay, okay, so Abba aren’t exactly a well-kept secret.

Far from it. In fact, they may well just be the most popular pop outfit the world has ever known.

So then why, oh heavens above WHY, do I get, when asking the question, “What’s your favourite Abba album?”, the stock answer of:

“Er… I dunno, er… The Best Of Abba?”

Don’t you people know the albums of Abba?

Hey, maybe you don’t?

Maybe the sales of Mama Mia! tickets and the annual release of Abba’s Golden Greats have distracted the world from the reality of this band’s amazing album output? Either way the consensus would indicate that people are paying criminally little attention to this particular gem of an album.

The reports suggest that although you have a weighty and formidable music collection there is one glaring omission from your stock. Your musical education is stunted by the absence of a major lesson in the history of the world of perfect pop.

And if, dear, dear reader, this is the case then read on. Oh, by Valhalla, read on.

At the point of this, their fourth album, Abba were already major stars in Sweden and the rest of Europe and were beginning to infect the world with their gloriously layered magic. England was no exception, and in 1977 this album became the UK’s best-seller of the year. Not bad for an album who’s recording began in 1975 and finished in 1976. These four photogenic Swedes were in no hurry to finish this work of art, and listening now, 30 years later, this justifiably remarkable collection of songs makes most modern ‘pop’ whither in its considerable shade.

It would be the subsequent releases of Voulez-Vous and Super Trouper that would garner Abba the title of ‘the greatest pop band of all time’, but Arrival was the sound of a band absolutely at their peak, before the ugly divorces became the depressing theme of future hits, and before every album was an attempt out sell its predecessor, overbloating the conquering Scandinavian monster into ultimately coasting on sleepy autopilot.

This was when the band smiled constantly, presumably a mix of fresh Swedish air, ridiculous clothes, rising stardom and listening to some of their own lyrics.

Oh yes, times were good, and aural gold poured from the fjord four in a joyous spring of timeless beauty that you deserve to revisit more often than you presently do. Stop laughing, I’m serious.

When I Kissed The Teacher is a delightful slice of Euro hokum, so playful that it would fail to ignite the most combustible of log cabins, quite frankly, and although a pleasing enough ditty it owns the inappropriate distinction of kicking off such a blockbusting album. The familiar wall-to-wall production (an effect mastered by double tracking every single instrument) is in full effect, as are the wonderfully shrill, perfectly aimed vocals, courtesy of Ann-Frid Lyngstad and Agnetha Faltskog, so all is well with the world. Still, in all honesty, it appears that the songwriting/production masterminds, Benny Andersson and Bjorn Ulvaeus, were quite unprepared for the colossal success of the band, or indeed the following single, the brilliant, dance floor-levelling Dancing Queen, kack-handedly thrown in at track two, and decided the running order over a few too many shots of Absolut. The gaping chasm of quality  between the first and second song is actually so disorientating that by track 3 expectations are fairly free and easy.

My Love, My Life is arguably, or in this case without argument, the finest song that Abba ever recorded. A song so emotionally infected that it is capable of moving the most mountainous of critics to tears. Angels bring in the sweetest of verses with a choir of celestial voices until that chorus lifts the song heavenwards with such capable majesty that mere accolades do the composition no justice. Like grande classical music brought bang up to date (okay, the date was ‘76, although the production details have aged not one day) this is the song that should act as the standard example in songwriting tuition for the rest of time. If you’re not patting down the hairs on your arms by the end of this chorus then you and me are made of different DNA buddy.

The Eurovisionally entitled Dum Dum Diddle could only have been written by foreigners. A classic slab of solid, well crafted pop is given the Swedish treatment, with semi-remedial lyrics being thrown in almost as an oversight in order to meet the minimal trading standards required by the governing body for 70’s pop imports. Still, devastatingly awful lyrics aside, and hey, they’re no worse than those early Kiss clunkers, the song is genius and if, like me, you have the ability to divorce dire lyrical fare from masterful songwriting in order to gain maximum enjoyment from the embryonic days of international pop, then there is much to love here.

Of course Knowing Me, Knowing You became one of Abba’s biggest hits, but one wonders if messrs Ulvaeus and Andersson had any idea of its imminent impact when penning this song.
In fact isn’t it fascinating to think that people who changed the world of music were once merely jotting down a few ideas in a note pad and strumming an old acoustic guitar, blissfully unaware of their place in the history books.

I digress.

Knowing Me… further illustrates Abba’s compositional skills with their ever-flowing choruses, never simply ending where a traditional chorus would, or indeed should end, and instead carrying the motif another few miles further down the road that most writers would ditch it.

By the way, pub-quiz fans, did you know that Abba is also the name of a seafood spread, established in 1938? You didn’t? Then you’re welcome. Mine’s a vodka.

The dreary Money, Money, Money follows with clever rhythmic twists but far too many minor chords to exist peacefully on such an up-beat pop album. Like the slightly entertaining drunk that enters the party, laughing louder at their own jokes than anyone else, by the three minute mark you’re relieved to see the back of this jovial oaf and resume the festivities with That’s Me, a wonderful piece of shimmying delight that has Abba regaining their melodic poise upon the throne of throwaway pop music.

Why Did It Have To Be Me? has that much missed classic 70s boogie stomp that makes for a winning formula when mixed with Abba’s trademark harmonies and bouncing piano riffs. A comfortable ride down memory lane where the roads are wide and the trousers are wider. Dances are designed with anything but sex in mind and haircuts act as treasured proof of just how forgiving the human race used to be. Times have changed, boys and girls, and I, for one don’t like it. Oh no. Back then they predicted the year 2000 would feature floating cars and people in silver all-in-one space catsuits. I was lied to. Where is my visual telephone? Oh yeah, I’m writing on it.

Tiger is almost surreal in its portrayal of the girls speaking from the point of view of a huge jungle cat prowling the streets of, presumably, Stockholm. Quite why this would form the subject matter for the song is quite immaterial, suffice it to say that alcohol is accountable for around 25% of deaths in Swedes below the age of 50, and responsible for 90% of lyrics. Probably.

The album ends on a high so death defyingly stratospheric that The Darkness even used this track as an intro tape to their staggering live shows. Arrival is nothing short of amazing. With an intro that sounds like a crowd of surging, bagpipe blowing Vikings the marauders are quickly joined by a flotilla of ponytailed milk maidens in bodice-challenging mid yodel, only to have the entire production capped off with a thousand tiny angels singing in perfect harmony. That, my friend, is Abba Arrival.

Of course you are a rock fan, and Abba are, effectively, the enemy. Their geeful charm at complete odds with the brush chested might of Black Zeppelin and their toothy, Scandinavian grins the lighter side of your prog moon, but, let’s face it, pop music in the present day seems alarmingly deficient in charm of any type whatsoever, be in melodic or otherwise.

Yes, the modern age gave us nothing but cars that still run on petrol, and the ground, backpacks that do not elevate the wearer above the houses, and over expensive clothing that would be of little benefit if worn on a space station. Not only did the modern future give us way less than the 70’s promised but it stripped us, stripped y’hear, of grinning, ever chirpy foreigners and replaced them with po-faced Euro metallers and moody goths.

I ask you, fine folk of the rock jury, is it not time to forgive Abba their crimes of fashion and rejoice in their domestic-drama based choons?

Isn’t it time to reopen the box, chained for decades, marked Swedish imports then stored in a nuclear holocaust proof chamber, and delve, once more, into its melodic delights?

For the betterment of the ears and hearts of mankind can we accept the past as a glorious and fertile breeding ground and denounce the present for the scam that is most surely is?

The answer, as always, is yours.

BIG BLACK: Songs About Fucking
Touch & Go (1987)

Before his legendary tenure in the producer’s seat for Nirvana’s ‘In Utero’, and famously being fired for making that album sound typically less commercial than band and label wanted, Steve Albini was the mastermind behind one of the noisiest bands ever to demand the purchase of paracetamol, but more on that a little later.

Albini, whose production credits range from Manic Street Preachers’ latest, Journal For Plague Lovers, to the Pixies, Surfa Rosa (with his no-nonesense approach to life and work detailed with no greater clarity than here) is an opinionated and largely pro-artist maverick. Albini’s trademark raw, analogue soundscapes have rendered even Led Zeppelin and Cheap Trick uncompromising sonic terrorists, and judging by his giraffes neck list of production credits his love of his art is without question. Charging the same amount per session, whether you’re an independent band or on a major label, means that his reputation as a producer of the people is as untarnished as his production techniques are grubby masterpieces.

And before he became knob twiddler for those demanding a raw result Steve Albini fronted arguably the most offensive aural scatterbomb of industrial based live performance in the history of American noise.

Big Black, a name still so fearsome to some sensibilities that love is often hard to find for this unit, have been known to clear a room full of hardened punk and extreme metal aficionados for simply being too noisy (believe me, I was that DJ). Those in the know, however, revere this outfit with the same reverend tones as Christian evangelists save for the big guy upstairs taking care of the money worries.

Albini’s anti-love song stance, along with Frank Zappa’s equally unemotional approach, was the basis for The Wildhearts’ original nihilistic style of songwriting, and Big Black’s ‘Songs About Fucking’ was a huge influence on our universally hated album ‘Endless Nameless’.

Let this be warning enough to the casual listener that this is not music for the faint-hearted or melody loving. This one nasty, noisy little sucker that demands certain tastes be present for maximum effect.

Formed in Illinois in the very early 80’s, Big Black stood against everything that was sonically acceptable in modern punk music, pre-dating the industrial movement by years and providing an anarchic, no-wave blue print for the likes of NIN and Ministry to follow in their assault on the senses. Shows would end in smashed gear and fireworks being set off in the audience, while the band (featuring Dave Riley on bass and Santiago Durango on guitar, as well as a drum machine named, conveniently, Roland) played at nose-bleed volumes that would test even the most ardent of supporters.

I first heard this band on the John Peel show, and after hearing that Mr Peel would be literally moved to tears by the initial sounds of Ramones and Cocteau Twins I was delighted to be moved in the same way by the panzer attack of Big Black’s ‘Bad Penny’ (or was it ‘L Dopa’?) as it came charging through the radio speakers. Floored and spent, Big Black affected me in a way entirely unlike any other musical force up until that point, and I live to feel such a twisted love repeat its thorny invasion of my comfort zone.

I recall seeing the original cover for their Headache EP in Camden Market and falling in love with how uncompromising this band were. (uncensored image presented here at viewer’s risk). The music, lyrics and imagery represented everything that was ugly about the world, and once upon a time (along with underground anti-zine Answer Me) this was everything I needed in art.

Warnings aside, let’s delve into this most visceral of aural thrills.

‘The Power Of Independent Trucking’ and a cover of Kraftwerk’s ‘The Model’ open the album with a volley of uncharacteristic subtlety, establishing the oddball marriage of screeching guitars and rumbling drum machine with Albini’s trademark sneering vocals before launching into the bass intro for ‘Bad Penny’, with just enough time before your happy place is invaded by a plague of broken glass and shrapnel as the brutality of Big Black finally erupts.

Noise invades from every corner of the psyche as razorblade riffs compete in staccato based chaos overseen by Albini’s delightfully angry vocals. This is not punk as you know it, nor it is metal or industrial. This is the originator. The storm before the storm. Primal and fresh with authentic evil.

As quickly as the exhilarating rush that is ‘Bad Penny’ fades into shattered climax comes the devastating, full-on assault that is ‘L Dopa’. Raping and defiling expectations this is a purely bad taste drive-thru of Led Zeppelin riffs played at breakneck speed, and they’re all the more perfect for it. This model of dirty, chugging blasts of guitar has been repeated by Al Jourgensen to equally breathtaking, although never greater effect, most noticeably on ‘Jesus Built My Hotrod’. ‘L Dopa’, like the title would suggest, is a drug like rush to the central nervous system that is as addictive as it is disorientating.

‘Precious Thing’ opens up like ‘Thus Spoke Zarathustra’ (the theme to 2001: A Space Odyssey) before hitting its own supernova as it opens up into an airtight fusing of disparate elements, all vying for prime position in a vicious squall. Beautiful and ugly, in parallel equal.

‘Columbian Necktie’ (named after the delicious South American style of assassination wherein the victim has their throat cut open and their tongue pulled through the gaping slit) begins in almost 70s glam stomp fashion, bringing to mind one of the more upbeat hooks of Rocket From The Crypt, then shifts into a panoramic spread of the most melodic industrial noise.

Big Black, for all their love of extremity can surely write a sweet tune. Seriously, there beats a heart of pure pop within this cyborgian nightmare of clashing, clanking sounds that makes the experience an oddly emotional one.

The lurching bass riff that pins down ‘Kitty Empire’ is a menacing threat of impending impact that, cleverly, never comes. Building on a solitary theme ‘Kitty Empire’ is the only song that exceeds the three minute mark, making its execution almost unbearably tense, presumably by design.

‘Ergot’, by comparison, is an explosive charge that seems to misfire in an dizzying intro of abrasive stabs before the song detonates into a convulsive riff, only to return to its stop-start origins with disorientating ease. The end effect is akin to being brought to orgasm using barbed wire and ground glass.

Big Black never make easy listening and although perseverance yields great rewards the average listener will get very little on first spin, possibly only a headache, but for those hardy enough to make it through to the other side there is bliss, sheer bliss, in spades.

‘Kasimir S. Pulaski Day’ is another slow burner based on a simple, thinly disguised Zeppelin styled riff over a booming drum machine beat which twists and expands without ever catching fire, which it never really needs to, that’s the job of ‘Fish Fry’, which closely follows it, dragging the listener back into the boiling metallic fray that is the signature of this deranged band. Bulldozing beats and driving bass swing with screaming guitars and spat-out lyrics of hate and disgust creating the now familiar bleak high that is Big Blacks trademark sound. ‘Fish Fry’ crams all the cathartic anger you’ll ever need into just over two minutes.

Still, little of this intensity will prepare you for ‘Pavement Saw’, next, which is just about the nastiest thing on what has to be described as a pretty downbeat album! Awesomely pissed off, this is the nearest thing to a love song on the entire album, albeit the, very, dark side of love where rejection meets psychotic reaction. Brilliant and abrasive, I’d love to cover this song someday.

‘Tiny, King Of The Jews’ is a superbly moody piece of well constructed black noise that revisits 2001: A Space Odyssey in ultra-dark fashion. Like a cavernous precursor to the gloomy anti-gospel of Spiritualized this is a powerful surge of energy that sets up the perfect ending for this subversively flavoured delight of an album.

And as the closing strains of ‘Tiny…’ fade the final colossus that is, ironically titled, ‘Bombastic Intro’ is the absolute last word in titanic guitar riffs wound tightly to deafening drum machine. All 36 seconds of it!

The CD edition of this album ends with the welcome addition of bonus track ‘He’s A Whore’, the Cheap Trick classic from their first, self titled album. The song works perfectly given the Big Black treatment, a shining example of classic songwriting, and a wonderful insight into the secret, pop/rock-loving mind of Steve Albini.

As previously stated, with intent, this album is not for everyone’s tastes. The deafening drum machine will put off as many people as it will enthrall, and the bleak nature of the subject matter mixed with the shrill attack of the guitars will be at once one mans ‘bloody racket’ as it will another persons sonic nirvana (sic).

If you do happen to fall into the latter category you shall be rewarded with the realisation that not only are you not alone in your twisted blackness but even at your most screwed tight there is art in the world that is created by people even more fucked up than you. Art that can soothe the savage temperament and make sense, once again, of a confusing world of mass contradiction.

If, however, you reside the the former camp you might want to not only invest in the aforementioned headache pills but you should probably avoid the operation of heavy machinery and resist social interaction for a short while afterwards. The disturbing after effects of Big Black can’t be underestimated.

This is one review that I can’t wait to see the comment section for. Please leave a message after the beep, squeal, boom, yell and crunch…

DECKARD
Stereodreamscene
2001 – Warner Brothers

While some bands are just plain unlucky, it would appear that others are basically cursed.

Y’know, like sometime, somewhere a witch dropped a hex in the street and the main creative force behind a typically unlucky band of minstrels stepped on it, dragged it to rehearsal and accidentally jinxed the fortune of the band forever.

And then there are Deckard.

Not to be confused with the German hip hop outfit, Deckard, possibly the unluckiest band to almost have walked the planet, unfortunately never really broke out of Glasgow.

This tragic four-piece began their lives as Baby Chaos, a fresh-faced bunch of Scots with a deft knack of penning hits-to-be and mixing up the brew with fearsome heaviness and math-core tightness. Led by charm-blessed frontman Chris Gordon, this potent crew attempted to plough a furrow in the UK rock scene at a time when grunge was being replaced by Britpop.

By 1998, after two excellent albums (1994’s Safe Sex, Designer Drugs And The Death Of Rock N Roll, and 1996’s Love Your Self Abuse) Baby Chaos became justifiably disillusioned with a largely disinterested industry and retreated to lick wounds, regroup, write some new tracks and rename the band Deckard.

Adding ex-Jesus Jones drummer Simon Gen Matthews, after the heartbreaking retirement of BC drummer Davy Greenwood, due to health problems, the remaining members (guitarist Grant McFarlane and bassist Bobby Dunn) joined Gordon to record the first album under the new name. While still stuck with, er, I mean signed to Warners, the new moniker for the startlingly inefficient East West label, and attempting to negotiate a new deal with US Reprise label, things would not look too healthy for the world’s unluckiest band.

And then it all went wrong, again, this time even wronger than it had previously went, which was very wrong indeed.

The recordings of 2000’s Stereodreamscene would be shelved and criminally ignored in favour of the burgeoning nu-metalisms of Korn and the ilk.

Without an easy market this startling album would gather dust, eventually being granted a half-hearted release by Warners long after the point was well and truly missed.

Great music will always rise through the grime but someone has to actually release the bloody thing in the first place.

Thankfully, thanks to the wonderful internet, there are still very limited, but very definite outlets, such as Amazon and eBay, where this wondrous album can occasionally be found today. I can’t urge you strongly enough to avail yourself of this gem of a record, if only to own a piece of history in the shape of possibly the most criminally neglected album of all time.

Stereodreamscene is nothing short of astounding.

Opening up with ‘What Reason’ the quality of the production is the first thing readily apparent from the listening experience, closely followed by the crystal clarity of Chris Gordon’s wonderful voice, and then, finally, THAT chorus hits you like a double-barreled discharge of sheer class. Just when you think you’ve had yourself a perfectly great hook, shouted at you like a public service announcement, the second half of the chorus drags your limp resolve around the dance floor like a throughly thankful rag doll as wave after wave of melody wash over your inert form. Absolutely marvelous.

With such an elegant introduction, Stereodreamscene eases into the journey with the effortlessly appealing ‘Remain This Way’, mixing almost trip hop rhythms with a Bacharachian control of understated melody creating a timeless fusion of classic elements.

This is the perfect scenario in which to set up glorious third track ‘Conversation’, the last segment of the opening barrage that solidifies the albums intent by mixing pure rock pop with grand orchestral arrangement and establishing a quality and scope that never once, not once, lets up throughout the entire duration of this awesome listen. ‘Conversation’ has one of the greatest multi-tier choruses ever put to record, flowing in ever broadening strokes, creating a gloriously dizzying, slightly exhausting result by the songs climax.

‘Christine’ tells of a friend longing for a sex change using classic punk/pop-rock chugging with which to relate the tale, and as another great chorus offers way more than expected within the context of the musical style one thought resonates heavily. There are many great tunesmiths out there and there are many great pop rock bands, and not many share the same dressing room, know what I mean?

Rest assured, dear listener, this thought will reoccur through this album. This is very classy fare indeed.

For me the absolute shining spear of diamond in this sea of liquid gold is the sublime ‘Still’, a song that moves me almost to tears even after almost 10 years of pretty regular airing. Like all great songs I’m not even sure why this song moves me so, but once that incredibly stirring refrain of “still you’re breathing, surefire something’s here that I can believe in” lands then I’m lost in its esoteric power. As with all mesmerising music explanation is often redundant. It gets ya or it does not get ya. All I can say is that if I ever get drafted I’ll be playing this song when I’m getting ready to jump the bunker.

And as I sit here, the song resounding in the room, yet again, the thrill of first hearing it floods through the channel of memory marked Deckard, timeless, ageless, peerless. ‘Still’ is the sound of perfect synchronicity.

The Radiohead comparisons of ‘Wasted At your Wing’ are purely complimentary. There are moments in The Bends where Radiohead get it so right, and ‘Wasted At Your Wing’ could have been one of those moments. Slow burning and aching with ghost like regret it acts as the perfect bridge between the grand monolith of ‘Still’ and the imminent and resounding pop fireworks of ‘Once There Was A Girl’. Perfect pacing is the basis of every truly great album and Stereodreamscene has a running order that is the definition of charm itself. And as ‘Once There Was A Girl’ throws hook after hook from the speakers it is with an almost false sense of security that the listener is disarmed and left unprepared for the emotional hammering to follow next.

‘Christine II’ shares the same confessional sentiment as Cooper Temple Clause’s ‘Waiting Game’ with its male protagonist painfully telling the girl of the story what she isn’t prepared to hear, that things change and people move on. If you’ve ever been in this most dreadful of situations then this song should speak to you like mother tongue. Cruel and definite, life often has beauty masked in painful experience otherwise how would we grow as an emotional species? Sometimes the only pleasure you can take from certain experiences is that of the songs written from the same page. ‘Christine II’ is one of the better ones ever penned on relationship shift, and that is some recommendation. Still gives me goosebumps to this day.

‘Today Is A New Chapter’ returns to a much more familiar style of bouncy pop/rock, albeit buff with added songwriting savvy, and ‘Sycamore’ revisits the delicate Walker Brother-isms of Radiohead, building and dipping in dramatic masterstrokes. Leaving only ‘Bear’ to round things off nicely with a nursery rhyme and a promise that the next spin of this neat little piece of work will be even more rewarding.

I’ve honestly been playing thios album on heavy rotation for the last eight years and it still stands up to the best of any UK releases of the past 30 years.

People of the UK often exhibit a disturbing tendency to dismiss homegrown talent if it isn’t an instant hit with journalists and DJs alike, but please believe me that the reason you haven’t heard, and already love this album is sheer record company laziness and their ugly desperation to lavishly follow trends. Now the idiocy of those same records companies has been seen to destroy their bloated empire it’s prime time to uncover some of the pearls that ignorant A&R departments had left to die an inglorious death.

The unluckiest band in the world? Without a doubt. Still, on Stereodreamscene they did themselves a great service, and as some bands never manage to actualise their ambitions on record this satisfying collection of songs is something to be truly proud of.

If you are lucky enough to find a copy of this album online then do snap it up, and if you see two then buy the other copy for someone that you love.

It’ll be a purchase that you will not regret making.

The label is dead, long live the artist.

TOADIES
Hell Below/Stars Above
2001 -– Interscope

There’s a theme in the house, ladies and gentlemen.

More than a couple of times I’ve singled out an album as being a classic, only to follow the hyperbole with ‘unfortunately the band split up not long after its release’, or words to that depressing effect.

Well, why break a habit now that it’s simmering nicely in the pan? This week’s choice effort is another in the ‘death knell’ series where a group develops a distinct style based on years of honing their skills the hard way and, once they nail this glorious sound down for magnetised eternity, they go and call it a day, resisting the urge to capitalise on the gruelling dues duly paid.

After Toadies formed in 1989, the Texan quartet would record a debut album, ‘Rubberneck’, in 1994 that would almost hit platinum status based on a pummelling mash-up of Pixies playing grunge highlights. Featuring the possibly TOO awesome ‘Possum Kingdom’ (which The Wildhearts covered as part of our ‘Stop Us If You’ve Heard This One Before Vol. 1’ tribute album) the album was such a success that it almost threw the band, and record label Interscope Records, into confusion as to how to expertly follow it.

And four years later they attempted to do so with an album tentatively entitled ‘Feeler’.

After proposed recordings were rejected by Interscope the band took the unwanted tracks, re-recorded a bunch of them, added some new shards of sonic propulsion and, in 2001, a full SEVEN years after the release of their debut, Toadies gave the world their second album proper, ‘Hell Below/Stars Above’, an album so colossal, so audacious and so downright cool that the band decided that the correct mode of conduct would be to pack their bags and get out of a business that would leave a band hanging for this long. And believe me when I say I fully sympathise and empathise.

And although the classic quote by Charlie Watts commenting on the Stones’ first 25 years of service (“Yeah, 5 years working and 20 years hanging around”) carries genuine comedy weight, the reality of being stood in creative quicksand bore down on the band to the point that bass player, Lisa Umbarger, ultimately left the group, resulting in the disbandment of this fine US powerhouse four-piece.

Charging from the stables with ‘Plane Crash’, complete with ‘woah… yeah’ choruses, there is no confusion as to the sheer weight that the collective Toadies force intend to deliver on this album. Singer Vaden Todd Lewis (then just plain old Todd Lewis) has the ultimate rock growl stirred up with enough punk spirit and indie cred to suggest possession of THE ultimate voice. ‘Plane Crash’ is little over two minutes of goosebump fury with no regard for speed limits.

‘Push The Hand’ eases off the gas enough to establish a heavy swing that increases in intensity until the chorus pounds the earth like an angry colossus. Once again Lewis’s vocals leaving every hair on the arms standing to attention and he breaks into almost Steve Whiteman (Kix) territory. This is the single most thrilling aspect to the Toadies’ sound: while it has enough crazy Pixies rhythmic twists to please fans of far cooler fare the brutal truth is that Toadies simply fucking ROCK with almost heavy metal zeal. The result is well played, perfectly tuned, expertly produced hard rock with a Kurt Cobain-sized streak of aggression. In fact comparisons with Nirvana are as inevitable as they are tedious, and while I’ll still make them it’s fairer to say that with their previous album the Pixies tag stuck fast, here they branch out into a more imaginative Frank Black ‘Teenager Of The Year’ play park, albeit gained by impish forced entry.

While ‘Little Sin’ serves up a classic staccato riff that complements the perfectly double-tracked vocal, this would be a good time to introduce guitar whizzkid Clark Vogeler. Effortlessly playing with graceful economy he is as likely to break off into a jazz grunge tangent while all the time fully aware of the track he’s playing to. Tasty and inventive. And no one controls feedback like this guy. Not Hendrix, not no one, y’hear?

‘Motivational’ starts with as odd a set of chords as you’ll hear in a post-rock pop song, surging with menace until its own intensity breaks its restrictions and off it charges in pissed-off spiral flight. Lewis’s insane vocal stylings, recalling Frank Black on steroids, hold the madness together while sneering in deranged enjoyment at the carnage. ‘Heel’ begins as a Django strum that contains the ever-present Toadies threat of imminent eruption, and erupt it does. By GOD it does. And as Todd Lewis stands at the precipice, bellowing like a Christian fundamentalist, Vogeler belches in filthy whammy bar swoops into the very depths of Hades. Awesome stuff. Truly.

‘You’ll Come Down’ comes as a blessed relief, then, after such a battery of energy, allowing its walking-bass dominant Pixies verse legs with which to survey the carnage. Satisfied with the album’s justified damage it rewards the listener with a Urge Overkill-meets-Doughboys style chorus before lifting itself back on to its fearsome steed, gently cantering between the flames and debris as ‘Pressed Against The Sky’ plays in the background, to superb cinematic effect

‘What We Have We Steal’ lurches like the unholy alliance of Tad and Jack Endino, breaking into a melodic chorus with just enough menace to hold it back from Cheap Trick territory but allowing it to wallow in Nirvana. This makes Toadies such an easy band to like. What they do is so inherently cool while staying loyal to traditions of melody and structure like no one has managed to straddle with quite such elegance. And they almost give the game away with the sublime songwriting skills that are written all the way through ‘Jigsaw Girl’. At once open and confident, the ghosts of John Lennon and Jeff Buckley are heard to sweep through the corridors of its cavernous, loping melody.

Toadies are fundamentally an amazing band making very loud music. This is the secret.

The new wave pop of ‘Sweetness’ is an impossible lure to resist, and with a chorus straight out of ‘Bleach’, this is a song that Cobain would have greatly approved of. In fact Toadies are probably what Nirvana would have developed into once their tortured singer had accepted his love for straight-up rock and grew out of the tortured artist trap.

‘Hell Below, Stars Above’ is the album’s highlight, probably, with its choppy intro threatening some awful ska/punk diversion until the verse kicks in with pure, undiluted pop that pulls the track into the place that Toadies have threatened to take us for the entire album. A place where humour and tradition enjoy a smirk-heavy tryst as they turn up the guitars beyond what is accepted as appropriate. Sheer noisy joyous bliss. It’s a difficult song not to grin inanely throughout, especially during the hilariously brief guitar-that-shouldn’t-be, that is until the final payoff where this incredible band twist the entire song around to reveal a melody of Brian Wilson-sized ambition which, naturally, builds with almost unbearable poignancy.

Where else could this beautiful album possibly have left on the emotional map to explore?

The answer is ‘Dollskin’, the album’s other highlight. A simply breathtaking vocal performance guides this hauntingly familiar chord progression to its final resting place within in a shimmering foam of blistering guitar-fuzz headed skyward. This is the place where perfect music resides. Where a performer is united with the song he was born to sing. Where musicians fuse like planets aligning. Where sense is made of every misguided musical purchase you have ever made.

The Toadies understand your dissatisfaction and are here to offer solace.

An amazing band, an amazing album and an amazing shame that they would split up soon after the release of this, their greatest hour.

I’d like to stop saying that. It’s kinda depressing. Still, thank God these people at least have the decency to leave us their music.

‘Hell Below, Stars Above’? Here, somewhere located in the middle, Toadies make it a pretty damned beautiful place to be.

Stop press: Toadies returned for a reunion show in March 2006, and have played a number of gigs since. They played their first ever British shows this past June. Their mini-album, ‘Made In Texas’ (Maybe Music), is out now.

GRANDADDY
Just Like The Fambly Cat
2006 – V2

Of the many traditional reasons for bands splitting up – musical differences (read: cocaine-based ego problems), drainage of inspiration (read: too much money) and being dropped from a major label/management (read: the timely and welcome cull of useless posers acting at being in a band) – no reason could be as gallant and, ultimately, as frustrating as a band forced to split due to a staunchly independent stance against major label consumerism. Starved of funds and stunted through lack of exposure, the bands that you SHOULD be keeping in a living have often been run into the ground before they’ve had a chance to dance with a new audience. When music is more important than money history would indicate that music always suffers.

Time and time again your favourite new band will be discovered years after their demise. Still, what is infuriating, in extreme, is when the band in question leave us with their best album to date, and in Grandaddy’s case, one of the eeriest, most melancholy pieces of indie pop that ever graced the lucky ears of anyone fortunate enough to have heard it.

Just Like The Fambly Cat lives in a space designed by David Lynch and Brian Wilson as they attempt to reassemble the components of ELO using bearded, baseball-capped, trailer-park weirdos. Employing harmony-laden pop music as a magic carpet with which to visit dark landscapes while copping a slipstream of extreme sadness, Grandaddy have a sound so unique, so otherworldly, so fascinating, that to describe it in mere words would be like attempting to describe the effect of chocolate using hand signals.

The fourth and final offering by this Californian five-piece, the brainchild of the awesomely talented Jason Lytle, follows a trio of devastatingly moving albums, beginning with 1997’s Under The Western Freeway, a delicious blend of Pavement and Weezer, featuring the absolutely classic ‘Laughing Stock’.

In 2000 The Sophtware Slump saw the band gain a foothold in the UK indie community, the band’s base weirdness creating an aura of mystery irresistible to bottom-feeding NME journos largely deaf to the album’s twisted greatness. And while the sadly defunct XFM made a healthy meal of the dreamlike ‘He’s Simple, He’s Dumb, He’s The Pilot’ this album’s Jeff Lynne-sized ambitions were lost in a world of stripped-down garage fodder.

Third album, Sumday, 2003, made for lazy journalistic comparisons to Radiohead who all but blithely ignored its Flaming Lips-go-country zest, showcased no better than by the incredible opening track ‘Now It’s On’.

It would be with depressing irony, then, that by 2006 the band would call it a day at the very point where their sound became solidified as a bona fide American classic, and Just Like The Fambly Cat would usher out one of the most inventive and wonderful bands in US rock history.

Lifting off with the simultaneously joyous and heartbreaking ‘What Happened…’, which features a little girl repeating the line ‘what happened to the family cat?’, to devastating effect, in front of a clicking, whirring, piano track straight out of Eraserhead. As simple as it is heart-rending, this wondrous little oddity acts as the perfect introduction to the stunning ‘Jeez Louise’, which sees the controls handed to robots on psychedelics. Lytle’s voice sighs in sweet concert with the raging and raw guitars, building to an astonishing crescendo that suggests every cool noise in the world is gathered here for your enjoyment.

‘Summer…It’s Gone’ begins as almost pedestrian by comparison until it hits a groove deserving of The Cars and eventually blisses out on its own wave of warm Beach Boys harmony. Huge and lush, this is atmospheric music plugged directly into a 70s pop/rock circuit board and then given the keys to the medicine cabinet.

‘Oxygen/Aux Send’ is a minute long orchestral segue spliced to the cool and sumptuous ‘Rear View Mirror’, a harmony strewn, laid back swinger that explodes into an awesomely uplifting chorus.

‘Animal World’, its refrain sounding creepily like ‘end of the world’, is the sound of isolation made sonic. Sound effects pile up with crystal-meth obsessiveness in a track that takes its own sweet time in establishing its ghostly presence before giving up to the sprightly instrumental ‘Skateboarding Saves Me Twice’ that shares as much a Flaming Lips style title as their disregard for convention, mashing up crazy noises with smooth instrumentation.

The delightful lyrical twists of ‘Where I’m Anymore’, mixed with the precise but mellow drive of the backing track recall early REM circa Reckoning, lulling the listener into a very false sense of security until the skatecore punk meets Sonic Youth of ‘50%’ makes for a confusing minute of highly inappropriate noise. Normal service is eventually resumed in the celestial ‘Guide Down Denied’ which takes us, once more, to the beach, albeit a beach on Mars.

The mood is kept light with a shot of whimsy on the joyous ‘Elevate Myself’, probably the album’s most up-beat moment. Spiky guitars are side stepped by panoramic choral sections, and then back again, all the time held down by Jason Lytle’s beautifully haunting vocals.

Equally ‘Campershell Dreams’ has an undeniable charm that owes a large debt to Lytle’s voice creating an almost unbearably poignant world-weariness.

80s new-wave pop is paid a welcome revisit in the melodic perfection that is ‘Disconnecty’, a slinky gem with a Devo meets Sparks rhythm that quickly reveals Lytle to be an expert songwriter, as well as a keen musical aficionado, so subtle and unassuming is the attack.

‘This Is How It Always Starts’ has a classic feel which gives way to a 60s sensibility that evokes the best moments of Radiohead’s The Bends mixed with an almost Cocteau Twins airiness.

And then, all too soon, ‘Shangri-La (Outro)’ signals the end of this sensational album in typically Cecil B Demille sized cinematic brilliance. Operatic and orchestral, it’s captivating refrain of ‘I never will return’ suggesting the albums protagonist, namely Lytle, has left the comfortable family environment to embark on a journey of discovery to pastures unknown, only to find themselves lost like an astronaut separated from his ship.

And so the final chorus acts as an awful prophecy to the disbanding of this particular family, and Grandaddy are all but seen walking a dusty road into the sunset, surely an image of deliberate creation by Jason Lytle himself, knowing that the life of this beautifully peculiar band was hanging by a ragged string that was eroding systematically by the weight of their own commercial conscience.

What might have come from subsequent releases is, sadly, for fantasy only. The unlikely yet wildly accessible soundscapes that this band create could have seen Grandaddy acquaint themselves with an audience every bit as large as, say, Radiohead. The difference is that Grandaddy would have undoubtedly continued to make albums of consistently enjoyable majesty, power and sheer head scratching weirdness as opposed to the bleepy, self absorbed art house fluff that everyone knows Messrs. Yorke and Co irregularly churn out.

Am I just being an uber-geek by missing Grandaddy so much? Or is this music really as meaningful as I suspect it to be?

Answers in comment section below please.

KIX: KIX
1981 – Atlantic Records

Every trend and popular style, while breaking fresh new talent, will, inevitably, drag established artists into the public eye. The good news is that truly great bands and artists will survive the lifespan of a trend, be it Elvis Costello outliving punk, David Bowie maintaining legs way beyond 70s glam, or even Slipknot eclipsing their nu-metal restrictions.

In the case of Kix, unfairly promoted, amongst a flotilla of tuneless waste, within the hair metal stable, this would sadly backfire, leaving another classic American band to languish as a footnote to the merciless excess of the 80s.

Shame, then, that in a predominantly humourless genre Kix had more zip, pow, whiz, chutzpah and pizzazz than 90 per cent of their genre mates combined.

A creative outlet for huge songwriting talent and uber-manic bass madman Donnie Purnell, Kix came about organically, first with ultra stylish guitar player Ronnie ‘10/10′ Younkins, then followed by helium-larynxed frontman Steve Whiteman, charisma-soaked guitarist Brian ‘Damage’ Forsythe and golden-voiced, powerhouse drummer Jimmy ‘Chocolate’ Chalfant. This winning formula of musicians played in and around their home base of Maryland, blissfully unaware that they were already heads and shoulders in front of their Californian counterparts. In fact it would be later noted that Poison copied their entire shtick from Kix, and merely added women’s clothing, poor musicianship and lame songs. The simple truth is that Kix had a special ’something’ that, at the time, was so unique in rock music that the world remained in wholesale confusion.

Could a band, looking like a clash of of Aerosmith, Ramones and Hanoi Rocks and sounding like a mash up of AC/DC, The Cars and 70s bubblegum pop, actually be cool? Regardless of their obvious charms Kix confounded an audience that would have been happier had they simply chosen one style and stuck with it. Once again, having the bravery to mix styles, and this time to awesome effect, another great party-tape band distanced themselves from fans of each genre successfully being spliced.

I still remember thrilling to the sound of this unique record while visually digesting the cover shot of the band, and loving the paradox of a raggy-haired group dressed in bike jackets, ripped jeans and sneakers sounding like Angus & Co playing My Sharona. All elements which I dearly loved already, I just hadn’t seen them so lovingly put together.

Rendered rather sonically flat due to a workmanlike production, courtesy of UK heavy metal producer Tom Allom, this unflattering handling of the band’s debut actually works in Kix’s favour, showcasing more of the tightness of the band and the sheer ingenuity of the guitar work that maybe a more lush mix could have painted over.

Great songs played by a great band and sang by a great singer will shine through any production niggles, every single time.

‘Atomic Bombs’, apparently the first song that Kix ever wrote, suffers most of all nine songs with the band fighting against a mix that would benefit a run of the mill heavy metal band yet does the subtleties here very little in the way of favours. Still, it’s impossible not to be sucked into the joyous delivery of a band so obviously loving who they are. Whiteman’s voice honours enough Bon Scott-isms to be instantly endearing but there is a bratty charm present that is all his own. In fact one of the many lasting impressions from this album that has stayed with me since first hearing it is the youthful mob element to the vocals where choruses come loaded with flick combs instead of knives.

‘Love At First Sight’ changes direction slightly, steering the drive into more pop/cartoon backstreets with almost XTC-style jerky guitars creating an unlikely backdrop for Steve Whiteman’s comically high-pitched vocals, uniting in an implausibly cool interface that acts as the paradox on which the whole album works.

‘Heartache’ is pure early 80s pop before the tanks came in flattening everything with keyboards and electronic drum kits. Slick melody rubs shoulders with The Knack style staccato guitar riffing with amazing restraint and awesome effect. Tongue-in-cheek and unfiltered, this is pure joy – it is Alfred E Newman wearing a smiley face badge.

And if that makes sense I think you’ll love this album.

‘Poison’ has a more speedy but no less full-colour, 3D character, carrying with it an American pop badge of honour. Punchy and driving it still engages you like that song you occasionally hear played on the radio while you’re driving, the one that takes you back to THAT party, THAT girl/guy and the way music used to make you feel before time cast responsibility into your story.

‘The Itch’ follows a similar path, only this time with more dynamics as a broody and temperate verse builds into a snappy, bratty chorus complete with handclaps and harmonies. This is the sound of a party where there are 3 girls for every boy and the parents are away for the weekend.

Side two kicks off in delirious fashion with the unhinged ‘Kix Are For Kids’. Try to listen to this one and not imagine Angus duck walking across the stage. Donnie Purnell (surely the second most erratic stage presence next to Mr Young?) wears his ‘Let There Be Rock’ flag with pride as the band tear it up in grand style, Whiteman screaming like the studios on fire and coming off like the bridge between Fist’s Keith Satchfield and Axl Rose.

Oh yes, Axl definitely has this album in the box marked ‘personal’.

Just listen to ‘Kix Are For Kids’ and try to tell me you don’t want to leave the house. I dare you. See? Can’t be done. This is the song I urge you to listen before passing on this awesome band. Just listen to those guitars! Who on earth has two lead guitar players with such incredible rhythm guitar abilities? No one, that’s who. And on ‘Kix Are For Kids’ Ronnie Younkins and Brian Forsythe tear it up like starving pit bulls let off the leash in an abattoir. Exhilarating stuff, even after all these years.

‘Contrary Mary’, with its cheeky variation on the ‘Day Tripper’ riff, is wonderful pop rock set to the, now, familiar AC/DC backbone of four-on-the-floor drums and choppy guitars, with their trademark backing vocals carrying this most simple of catchy stompers.This is Kix hitting their stride and it’s a beautiful thing.

Next is ‘The Kid’ and, okay, confession time. I’ve tried to copy the riff of ‘The Kid’ more times than probably any song since Cheap Trick’s ‘Dream Police’. It is, admittedly, in itself, The Kinks ‘Where Have All The Good Times Gone’, another band that Kix share a distinct sense of style and dry humour with. In fact I wouldn’t be surprised if The Kinks were one of the main original influences of this classic band.

Hey, I was conceived after a Kinks gig, I love Kix, if Kix love The Kinks then the circle is complete!

I digress.

As ‘The Kid’ steamrolls its way towards the end of the album it’s hard to ignore a definite influence on ‘Appetite For Destruction’, the constantly diverting arrangements, the intermeshed guitar work and, most significantly the vocal tones and inflections, and the offbeat throwaway remarks, seemingly ad-libbed at random intervals. Guns N’ Roses, I suspect, owe a substantial debt to this band, and, more particularly, to this song.

Closing track ‘Yeah, Yeah, Yeah’ comes in sounding like a sure inspiration for R.E.M’s ‘Pretty Persuasion’ until it sheds such refinement and lays down the proverbial Kix template with guitars chugging, drums driving and gang backing vocals spinning in and out of Steve Whitemans howling inflections. Culminating in the semi-legendary live rap towards the songs climax Whiteman tells the tale of the young female object of his dubious desires who, after imbibing the requisite amount of booze and pills to get her in the mood she responds to said advances by throwing up all over the floor of his van. True story or not this is exactly why Kix are streets ahead of the make up and posturing bands that they have undoubtedly inspired. Kix are aware that nothing is sexier than just being damned funny.

Their second album, ‘Cool Kids’ (1983), is every bit as infectious as this one, albeit with a far clearer leaning towards straight up pop. That isn’t to say that ‘Cool Kids’ doesn’t rock, it does (check out ‘Cool Kids’ and ‘Mighty Mouth’), the only difference is that their second album sounds like it was made with the charts in mind. Their debut sounds like it was made with the party in mind.

By their third album, the frequently amazing ‘Midnite Dynamite’ (1985), they had tired of the melodic overtones that infused their first two albums and were already heading into a straight AC/DC tribute sound that would dominate their remaining three albums ‘Blow My Fuse’ (1988), ‘Hot Wire’ (1991) and ‘Show Business’ (1995), bringing in scant chart success and increasingly less character impact. They still managed to inject a healthy amount of melody in every album, but none as willfully as their debut, where the sound was created from a natural drive to simply make music.

Kix can still be seen playing shows and various festivals around US, sadly minus Donnie Purnell their bass playing dynamo, who apparently still allows the band 100% freedom to play his songs (how refreshingly un-metal).

They still put on a great, energetic show, laced with some of the finest songs you’ll ever hear.

But for the real story listen to where it all started from.

Every now an again a near perfect band is formed somewhere deep in the United States, and every now and again they make albums that capture their true essence. This is one of those moments.

Believe.

After forming in Los Angeles in 1970, as Halfnelson, the brothers Mael (Ron and Russell – keys and vocals respectively) have notched up a heady 21 albums, yet are still as vibrant today as they were on their debut album.

Initially I had intended to choose just one album in order to further delve into the working of this compelling band/partnership, but with talent as mind blowing as theirs merely picking one album would be as easy as choosing which one of your 21 children gets to celebrate Xmas this year.

So it is with stern resolve and joyous gait that I intend to review every single album here.

Hell, they played all 21 albums in 21 days of UK concerts earlier this year, it’s the least I can do to pay lip service to possibly the most under appreciated musical force in the history of popular music.

Recorded in 1971 on Bearsville Records (and re-released by Warner Bros in 1972 in a double album package along with their 2nd album) their debut album was made as Halfnelson, a name they would change to Sparks soon after its initial release. Blending art house experimentation and almost Germanic music hall influences with a very dark take on The Kinks (via Captain Beefheart), this Todd Rungren produced debut sold modestly. Shame then that the album itself is a twisted classic with styles ranging from Alice Cooper sized rockers, ‘(No More) Mr. Nice Guys’, and brooding pop noir oddities, ‘Fletcher Honorama’. ‘Slow Boat’ is an absolute gem of a ballad, while ‘Biology 2′ (written by guitarist Earle Mankey) is as warped and bizarre as its title would suggest. A definite addition to the collection of anyone who likes their pop colourful and weird. Imagine Tom Waits and They Might Be Giants jamming with The Danielson Family, by way of Dan Deacon, and you’re almost there.

Second offering, ‘A Woofer In Tweeter’s Clothing’, stayed with the same line up of drummer Harley Feinstein, and brothers Earle Mankey on guitar, and James Mankey (who would later play guitar in the awesome Concrete Blonde) on bass, and marshalled the eccentric musical experimentation of the debut, this time to greater mainstream effect, if not sales. Featuring the wonderfully snappy  ‘Girl From Germany’, the heavy rock of ‘Whippings And Apologies’ and the ghostly ‘Moon Over Kentucky’ (as haunting a song as the Maels have ever recorded) the subject matter would remain consistently esoteric while the lyrics would maintain their witty and literate edge, something that would never let Sparks down in their 29 year career. The album also includes a cover version (a rarity for Sparks considering the outstanding songwriting prowess of Ron Mael) of ‘Do Re Mi’ (from the movie The Sound Of Music) which absolutely must be heard to be believed. Incredible.

After gaining considerably more success in UK than in their home country, presumably due to the very English-ness of the humour in their lyrics, the Brothers Mael would relocate to London and recruit an entirely British band to record their 3rd album, 1974’s bona fide classic ‘Kimono My House’, this time for Island records, where they would stay for the next four releases. Featuring smash hit ‘This Town Ain’t Big Enough For Both Of Us’ the album is stacked to the heights with amazing songs, astounding musicianship and unique arrangements, while cementing Ron Mael as probably the greatest lyricist in popular music. From the suicide lament of ‘Here In Heaven’, where a lover pines for the girl who bailed out of a suicide pact and the very last second, to ‘Amateur Hour’ which talks of having to endure being crap in bed before you get any good (“It’s a lot like playing the violin, you can not start out and be Yehudi Menuhin”) Sparks songs pack as much literary value as they do musical, which is a hefty promise.

Quickly jumping to capitalise on their new found success Sparks would rush record the follow up to Kimono My House in the same year, delivering the brilliantly off the wall, and devastatingly bass guitar heavy, Propaganda. While not featuring any hit singles the album is every bit the equal to the slightly more commercial Kimono…, with power pop, ‘Something For The Girl With Everything’, rock baroque, ‘Reinforcements’, and giant lush ballads, ‘Never Turn Your Back On Mother Earth’ while all the time keeping the exceptionally unorthodox subject matter a fascinating diversion form the masterful compositions. This album would demonstrate the Mael tradition of hit and miss singles appeal, the albums minus hits often being their most interesting. Ron Mael’s unique take on classic songwriting and Russel Mael’s inhuman vocal range, often operatic and occasionally shrill and effeminate, are hardly prize ingredients to a life of commercial acceptance. Thank God.

1975 would see the release of the brilliantly slow burning ‘Indiscreet’. Housing hit single ‘Get In The Swing’ the album revealed hidden depths that seemingly contradicted the spring and bounce of the single it spawned. Almost revisiting the diversity of styles featured on the first two albums, but this time with the production values of recent commercial successes Kimono… and Propaganda, it is, at first, an uncomfortable listen that unfolds with every play to reveal greater delights. With Queen-like grandeur, the album comes off as the brother of A Day At The Races, albeit the brother with attention-deficit disorder. ‘Tits’ sees a man complaining about the fact that his wife’s breasts are no longer for his own pleasure after the birth of their first child, ‘It Ain’t 1918′ has the titular characters forced to join the present world against their will, while ‘The Lady Is Lingering’ sings of gold digging romantic interests, and features lyrics so amazing that they beg the question why isn’t Ron Mael a major novelist. How about, for example, “every sip is of the smallest quantity which still denotes apparent thirst”. This is not a Bon Jovi album.

If Indiscreet was their Day At The Races then 1976’s Big Beat was their Sheer Heart Attack. Stripped down and raw this is undoubtedly their ‘rock’ album. You may remember the song ‘Big Boy’ being featured in the disaster flick Rollercoaster, a cracking tune with almost Cheap Trick bombast. Although there are hints of Sparks audacity, ‘I Like Girls’ (originally written for their first album), and pop chops, ‘I Want To Be Like Everybody Else’, the band’s choice to record in New York City and tap into its rich punk vein that was being mined at the time leaves the album feeling slightly under whelming and flat. Although a hugely enjoyable collection of songs the overall effect pales when compared to Sparks’ offerings up until this date.

I was never able to find a vinyl version of Introducing Sparks, (1977, Columbia) and instead played the cassette until it was chewed up by a cassette player presumably sick and tired of hearing one solitary cassette for over 12 months. Now available on CD, Introducing Sparks is a return to form of spectacular sorts, after the slightly one dimensional Big Beat. With the Beach Boys swing of ‘Over The Summer’, the majestic sweeping arrangement of ‘Those Mysteries’ and the cool pop of ‘A Big Surprise’ and ‘Forever Young’ (a song about a guy who stays eternally trapped inside his young body, featuring the awesome line “I sit and watch the history books get thicker”) the Maels would discover a love of throwaway pop music that they would revisit in a few albums time, and with the winning formula of intricate musical arrangement and stunning lyricism this would be arguably Sparks most potent, if comparatively unambitious direction so far. Introducing Sparks, along with Kimono My House, is Sparks at their most accessible, and the best place to start if arriving to this band cold.

And possibly the worst place to discover Sparks would be their next album, No. 1 In Heaven, (1979, Virgin) which, unfortunately, is where most people actually did discover the band. Featuring only 6 songs but producing two hit singles Sparks would grace Top Of The Pops with ‘Number One Song In Heaven’ and ‘Beat The Clock’, cementing their image of ‘weird guy with Hitler moustache’ on keyboards, and ‘cute guy with child like energy’ on vocals. In their search for the latest styles currently hip in the world of music 1979 would unfortunately drag them into Studio 54 and the world of disco. And while the songs themselves are still biting commentaries on the kind of subjects no one even mentions let alone sings about, the approach is lackluster and trite, with the only truly essential moment being the secret track from the ‘Number One Song In Heaven’ picture disc, which featured the late, great Peter Cook ranting in fine random fashion to the backing track of the single.

Next album, Terminal Jive (1980, also on Virgin records) would tread the same disco-infused path of the previous release, only this time with a much more song-orientated approach. ‘Noisy Boys’ retains a pure rock ‘n roll heart, while ‘Stereo’ and ‘Young Girls’ explore swoonsome pop with a celestial bent, and ‘When I’m With You’ is simply beautiful pop. So beautiful, in fact, that the bros Mael include an instrumental of this song at the end of side one, making 7 complete songs in all, clocking up a measly 13 tracks over the last two albums. Some might think that the Mael brothers were enjoying the disco heyday a little too much to retain their traditionally superhuman work ethic.

1981’s Whomp That Sucker (Virgin) would readdress the balance with gusto, reverting to the winning formula of bizarre subject matter and awesomely catchy songs, albeit with a more traditional keyboard edge, Ron favouring a less classically-based compositional style. This is no bad thing, however, with songs of such a high standard. ‘Wacky Women’ could be The Tubes at their most explosive, ‘Tips For Teens’ maintains the same, drum heavy drive (this was the early 80s after all) to their sound, while ‘Don’t Shoot Me’ enjoys a dinosaur stomp and ‘That’s Not Nastassia’ and ‘Funny Face’ enjoy the lighter side of Sparks humour while keeping things sweet and catchy. All in all, Whomp That Sucker a very enjoyable preview of the Mael brothers re-discovering the fun in music once again.

If Whomp That Sucker was the sound of Ron and Russell finding their sense of humour again then 1982’s Angst In My Pants (Atlantic Records) was the soundtrack to the party they would subsequently hold in celebration. Funny, light, witty, tuneful and ambitious, this is my probably my favourite Sparks album. The subject matter is as panoramic as that of the average library, ranging from wishing to be more like Sherlock Holmes, falling in love with a cigarette or the joys of having a moustache (“one hundred hairs make a man”) this is a joy from start to finish, and while the production may be guilty of suffering from sell-by-date syndrome the quality of the music blows such minor quibbles clean away. ‘Eaten By The Monster Of Love’ is a fantastically catchy slice of whimsy, as are ‘Mickey Mouse’ and ‘Moustache’, while ‘Sherlock Holmes’, the album’s dreamy ballad, is simply stunning.

Tapping into the source of their original inspiration 1983 would see Sparks deliver another classic slice of twisted pop in the shape of In Outer Space (Atlantic), the sister album to Angst In My Pants. Featuring the Jane Wiedlin (The Go Go’s) duet ‘Cool Places’, which became a big hit in USA, the album is literally teeming with beautiful melodies. ‘Praying For A Party’ is a celebratory anthem with gospel undertones, ‘A Fun Bunch Of Guys From Outer Space’ is pop for the sweet of tooth and ‘Lucky Me, Lucky You’ (again featuring the child like vocals of Jane Wiedlin) is as endearing as it is infectious. Almost revelling in its absurdity and joyous hooks, this would, ironically be Sparks last wilfully melodic album for some time.

Pulling Rabbits Out Of A Hat (1984, Atlantic), Music That You Can Dance To (1986, Curb Records) and Interior Design (1988, Underdog Records) would all follow a sadly depressingly low-fi, guitar-free blueprint with minimal musical emotion and almost melody-free expression (although ‘The Toughest Girl In Town’, from Interior Design, is an awesomely catchy track), and while Gratuitous Sax & Senseless Violins (1994, Logic records) admittedly possesses one of the greatest album titles ever, the actual album sounds anything but. With their style employing a progressively minimalist approach, the Sparks vehicle would soon come perilously close to running out of juice. By their seventeenth album they were forced to rely on Faith No More and Erasure to bail them out of their self-made creative black hole in the shape of a Sparks tribute album, performed by Sparks, called Plagiarism (1997). Presumably the brainchild of their current label, this time Roadrunner Records, it would signify the apparent death knell of this fascinating outfit, until 2000’s Balls (Recognition Records), seemed intent on hammering in the nails (although featuring the wonderful ‘The Angels’). Things, it would appear, were in a very distressing state.

In 2002 Sparks would re-enter the world’s musical radar with such a shocking return to form that it’s difficult to believe that the same two guys who made so many uncharacteristically dull albums between 1984 and 2000 could still possess such force. Lil’ Beethoven was the sound of classical music, chamber music, musical theatre and pop all meshed together by someone like, say, Sparks. Finally they were back at the peak of their abilities, with such a truly modern take on their own traditional sound that it sounds simultaneously old fashioned and like the future of modern music. The overall effect of this collection of songs is that of a lucid dream in which the Mael brothers use every instrument known to man in order to transport the listener to a world where rhythm is king and melody rides its slipstream like dolphins in black water. It also contains one of the greatest lines ever, “How do I get to Carnegie Hall?” “Practice, son, practice”. Here Sparks are back to their usual lyrical standard and the album is a delight because of it. Record Collector called it “one of the best albums ever made” and it really is difficult to argue with this statement. Dreams come true, and for Sparks fans, who had all but given up on the band throughout the late 80s/90s, having difficulty imagining that they would ever again scale the dizzying heights of creativity that they enjoyed in 70s, this dream-come-true comes with its own firework display. Lil’ Beethoven is simply a career defining masterpiece.

Hello Young Lovers ( 2006, Gut Records) carries on the incredible quality from Lil’ Beethoven, only this time Sparks bring in Dean Menta (Faith No More) and Steve McDonald (Red Kross) and crank up the volume. Opening track ‘Dick Around’ is possibly Sparks most ambitious track to date, and definitely the most unhinged. 6:35 of shifting rhythms, crunching guitars and classic Sparks inventiveness. It makes a mockery of most guitar-based competition. ‘(Baby Baby) Can I Invade Your Country’, Rock, Rock, Rock’ and ‘Waterproof’ all carry the trademark Ron Mael lyrical genius while re-inventing the band as a powerhouse pop movement who seem to have discovered the secret of eternal creativity.

It is with great relief, then, that Exotic Creatures Of The Deep (2008, Lil’ Beethoven Records) sees the brothers complete the circle in fine, movie-ending style, a seamlessly inventive affair that spotlights Sparks as being in complete control of their own musical destiny. With their own label in place surely the future is one of the Mael’s own design?

No band deserve long-lasting success and huge respect more than Sparks. Ours is a much more colourful planet with them inhabiting it and always has been. They represent everything that is uncommon and individual in this industry.

One day someone will write the book on Sparks, and until that day they will remain a unique and fascinating enigma. A mystery in an accessible world, an established career band in a spit-em-out business and a genuine talent is these garageband/myspace times.

There are very few bands/artists whose contribution to the world of music is without any doubt and yet they still continue to enthral and entertain. And with a work ethic that would make bands of a third of their age tremble, Sparks show no signs of using age as an excuse to rest on their glories.

Ron and Russell Mael are an inspiration to anyone hoping for a lifetime of making music and experiencing the myriad of ups and downs that this entails. Their lesson is one of passion and commitment through sheer talent.

Is there any other way to do it? No, not properly.

Sparks, I salute you.

Drugs have obviously been known to topple many more careers than they have enhanced. This is not news.

Where Keith Richards would strut with the gait of a dandy the piratical stance would fell many a Johnny Thunders or Sid Vicious, and where The Beatles would experiment with sonic landscapes a band like, for instance, Urge Overkill would crumble from the weight of balancing talent upon addiction. Each a lifestyle within itself, and neither keen on taking the backseat to the party.

In fact Urge Overkill’s final album, 1995’s Exit The Dragon, was, in essence, the sound of a band suffering the crushing comedown of a heavy binge. Sluggish and confused, it signalled the end of this strange, exotic and often wonderful band.

Shame, then, that in 1993 they released what is considered, in many a circle of learned musical aficionados, one of the greatest pop/rock albums ever recorded.

‘Saturation’ is the sound of the honeymoon period of the drug experience: the rush, the steely glare, the focus and the intent. Gleaming and stately, this album is a brand new silver Rolls Royce floating in silent serenity from the showroom, unmistakably of a time and a place, and no less magnificent for it.

Formed in Chicago in ‘86, Urge Overkill would spend 5 years on the Touch & Go label, fighting against the classic Chicago pop sound that filtered through everything from Cheap Trick to Smashing Pumpkins, and releasing various material, produced by such names as Butch Vig and Steve Albini (Albini’s Big Black were also T&G label mates), while strictly adhering to a noise manifesto which sat directly at odds with what was to become the classic Urge Overkill sound.

Opening up with the instantly hooky ‘Sister Havana’, it’s plain from the opening few bars that the production values lend an air of supremacy to this awesomely consistent album and, within a couple of minutes it has you sat upright and paying full attention. The rich voice of Nash Kato, reminiscent of molasses and glass being mixed in an ice cream churn, is the main force in Urge Overkill’s effortlessly warming sound. Without the songs acting as back up, however, a voice is merely an ingredient. And it’s here that UO deliver with such rapid force that the listener is in undoubtedly in the capable hands of melody masterchefs.

Darker than its West Coast counterparts Chicago pop has always offered a healthily sinister side to its breezy foundations (see Wilco and Veruca Salt, and later Alkaline Trio) and it’s in this world that second song, ‘Tequila Sundae’, exists.

Threatening and subversive without losing the melodic edge, the track twists in on itself with a grinding riff and eerie vocal approach that occasionally reaches almost psychedelic heights until ‘Positive Bleeding’ bursts through the hallucinogenic haze armed with pure pop brilliance and a “c’mon c’mon” chorus (maybe only Cheap Trick fans will understand this last statement?), with Kato’s voice once again taking on classic rock proportions.

As the song ends in a sway of narcotic induced sound waves the Tom Petty-isms of ‘Back On Me’ restore proceedings to a more normal setting with beautifully delivered sunshine driven pop, only to have ‘Woman 2 Woman’ hit third gear with its ‘He’s A Whore’ guitar riff (sorry, another reference for Cheap Trick fans only) and crazed, bug eyed arrangement. Believe me, fair listener, this is the sound of positive drug use!

And yes, of course, there is such a thing.

‘Bottle Of Fur’ seeps in, almost uninvited amid such hedonistic delights, with its own heightened sense of awareness. The languid pace and breath taking beauty of this most sweetest of song is both a bold and smart move when placed, cunningly smack (sic) in the middle of the album. If you need to download any song from this album in order to sample its salacious delights then please let it be ‘Bottle Of Fur’. Classic American rock rubbing shoulders with bristling Walker Brothers sincerity and producing alarmingly emotive results, all finely capped with one of the most moving choruses ever written. I honestly can’t recommend this track highly enough.

‘Crackbabies’, next, makes for slightly uncomfortable listening, as the title would suggest. With the rhythm driving, the band experiment with unexpected burst of noise, only to fall into three part harmony at the drop of a hat. And therein is the secret of urge Overkill’s sound, all at once familiar yet otherworldly, comforting yet dread-filled, theirs is an amalgamation of influences, not all of which entirely healthy, that result in a slightly disorientating-yet-delightful listen quite unlike anything you’ve experienced before.

And as ‘Crackbabies’ segues disturbingly into ‘The Stalker’ the mood is taken down into sub-Lennon depths. Resembling a modern version of the darker moments of The Beatles White Album, and like a private window into someone’s public breakdown, this duo’s distinctly unpleasant jab-and-cross sets up the sublime ‘Dropout’ with magical effect. A starry and spaced-out oddity, ‘Dropout’ marries Marc Bolan vocals with the most simple-yet-effective songwriting structure and paints a picture of intense melancholy.

‘Erica Kane’ dismisses the brief respite and steers the album directly into the mayhem with breakneck intensity, only to fold, midway through, and settle into a beach-party groove before diving back into manic, choppy waters again.

In fact it’s exactly these imaginative twists that successfully bring together the band’s severe light and dark nature in such entertaining fashion.  And with another Tarantino-esque segue, the 70s bar-funk of ‘Nite And Grey’ provides another classic Nash Kato chorus, this time very reminiscent of his stunning solo album ‘Debutante’ (another very highly recommended purchase), before a brief musical mash-up offers up the lights-go-dim parting shot of ‘Heaven 90210′, an engaging send off and a glorious showcase for the soothing resonance of Kato’s vocals.

As previously mentioned, the band’s next album ‘Exit The Dragon’ would be far less joyful affair, parading the inner turmoil and dark side of drug use becoming abuse, that would act as a cheerless swan song of a truly unique talent, but Saturation is an entirely more agreeable beast.

Be warned, this pop rock isn’t of the frivolous variety. The subject matter is often of far more ominous and tragic origin than pop/rock traditionally tackles (e.g. boy meets girl) and the very attack suggests a world where The Beach Boys had never existed.

Drug based music often isn’t pretty, but then neither is the society whose conduct it challenges the established laws of. Sometimes this stance can be one of great strength to the music world of that same society, but – more often than not – is a fleeting insight into the workings of gifted musicians yet to reach imminent burn-out.

In ‘Saturation’ the party was still going strong, the sun hadn’t yet come tearing through the blinds like razor-sharp shards of reality and the times were still vital. And in this album we can relive the supernova without the hangover.

Ah, but it was a great party!