The Datsuns are back! With a highly sexed album a bit different from their rift/scream driven debut. The rifts are slightly more downplayed (only slightly mind) and under the entire throat busting screams, Dolf De Datsun has a simple yet distinctive and seductive singing voice. They’ve revived 70’s stadium rock for a second time round, only this time it’s a little more grown up with a punk twist. There’s more diversity on this album musically and lyrically than the first. The few stand out tracks are ‘Cherry Lane’ and ‘Hong Kong Fury’, not only for the spectacular guitars and vocals, but the lyrics are so damn infectious, and ‘Girls Best Friend’ (purely for the sleaze factor).
The stories are the same, but there are more girls, they’re in love, they’re outta love, they’re getting it on with their girl’s best friend and ‘taking walks down cherry lane’ whatever that may mean (ahem).
Produced By John Paul Jones of Led Zeppelin fame it’s hard not to lie back to this album during the opening rifts of ‘Hong Kong Fury' and not think of the thousands of people in a psychedelic haze that was Woodstock ’69 swaying away to Jimmi Hendrix.
The opening bars of 'Cherry Lane' are stripped down White Stripes style with a little blues added for good measure, still in keeping with the Datsuns' traditional rock. While many bands of the moment are taking inspiration from 80’s pop and rock music, why shouldn’t The Datsuns follow suit with ‘Don’t Come Knocking’? It sounds like its been plucked straight from the Back to the Future soundtrack, and suprisingly it doesn’t sound all bad.
Altogether the album holds you till the very end, although it wavers slightly in the middle with a couple of the tracks sounding a bit similar. The Led Zeppelin influence is there in force but they pull it off with flying colours and they’ll have you singing along in skintight denim faster than you can say ‘mother fucker from hell’
Review by CM
Disappointingly, 40 Piece Choir only have five members and there's not an actual choir in sight, so those expecting new contenders to the Polyphonic Spree's symphonic sound should look elsewhere. Hailing from Chicago where they apparently already have a strong following, 40 Piece Choir are a back-woodsy alt. country style outfit. This is their third album of melancholic meanderings and despite the misleading name there is a lot to enjoy here, that is if you can put up with some serious muso tendencies creeping through occasionally.
The languid title track 'Tennessee' opens proceedings, veering from lilting pedal steel flourishes to annoyingly virtuoso guitar solos. It's pleasant enough, but the drifting nature of the track makes you think of the dreaded words "prog rock". Unfortunately this image of 'good ol' boys' losing themselves in extended space-rock jams rears it's ugly head on a few other tracks. 'Whistler' is seriously middle of the road, the fast drumming and over produced guitars summoning the dreaded spirit of 80's stadium rock, and 'Heart of Love' is as slushy as the title suggests, plodding along in an MOR fashion that even encapsulates an awful sax solo. However when the tendency to noodle deserts them, 40 Piece Choir manage to produce some truly brilliant moments. Lead vocals throughout are shared between the 'bloke in a pub band' style gruntings of Dana Okon and the sweet female vocals of Kelly Kruse - the best tracks being the ones where the two harmonise or Kelly takes lead. 'Body to Soul' is built on swooning descending chords and the keening harmonies of the two singers blend perfectly. This eventually give way to yet another guitar wig-out, but for once it's more melodic than rambling, making for an almost flawless three minutes of country tinged psychedelia. 'New One Eyes' follows this format to the next extreme, opening with rolling organ chords and stupidly loved-up lyrics ("I can see everything looking straight into your eyes") before drifting off into a five minute long spaced-out country blues coda that just about avoids becoming annoying.
The best track by far though is 'Think Fast'; at just under three minutes with Kelly on lead vocals it skips along like a lost late-era Beach Boys track mixed with Belle and Sebastian at their most twee, and is all the better for it. What these songs prove is that for 40 Piece Choir to stand a chance of escaping their California home town following and join the true heavyweights of alt. country (such as My Morning Jacket and Lambchop) they need to drop the muso showmanship and give Kelly Kruse the lead vocal placing her beautiful vocals deserve.
Review by Ian Viggars
The genius of The Catheters lies in one simple understanding: that the greatest band ever to spring forth from their native Seattle is not Nirvana, but Mudhoney; and 'The Howling...' is positively drenched in the same fuzzed up heaviosity that made Mark Arm & co great.
The opening salvo of 'No Natural law' and 'Reaction', with its Stones pilfering lyrics give you a pretty darned clear indication of what's in store for you over the following half an hour - huge guitars, breakneck drumming and Brian Standeforde's wonderful throaty growl.
True, there's not a massive amount of diversity here, but to be honest can you really imagine a band going by the name of The Catheters belting out a string smothered ode to lost love? Hell no! It's sex, blood and revolution all the way here and I wouldn't have it any other way; The Catheters shit on The Datsuns, The Darkness, Jet and every other pretend rock band out there at the moment from a great height. The Seattle torch is safe once more in their sweaty hands.
Review by Paul Madden
The Atlantic Manor is the project of Miami resident Rick Sell, a multi-instrumentalist specialising in angsty tales of lo-fi Americana, who plays everything on the album aside from the drums. It's entirely home-recorded and unrehearsed, and as admirable as the DIY ethic is, frankly, it shows. You suspect that Sell would quite like to emulate the likes of My Morning Jacket and Blanche, but doesn't really know how to go about it aside from adding a few atmospheric touches and a bit of reverb. For the most part it's uneventful stuff, meandering along without ever really going anywhere or saying anything in particular, trying to capture that widescreen, windswept smoke-and-whisky feel, but rarely managing to get out of first gear. Sell seems to be under the impression that drowning everything out with incessant and pointless feedback makes you experimental, avant garde and interesting - but it doesn't, it makes you annoying and unnecessary, like a trip to the dentist for a gummy 80-year-old gurning champion. On the plus side, the Lynyrd Skynyrdesque vocals are distinctive and intriguing with their thick Southern US drawl, but they can quickly become irritating.
The album generally shuffles from one half-finished maudlin strum to another, but things do pick up with sixth track Suicide Jockey, doing a passable job of sounding like Sparklehorse when they turn their amps up - only without the style or wit. In fact, it's soon after that we have the album's highlight in Broken Bones Heal, which somehow seems to pull it all together for once - it's solid, with a proper tune and everything, but then here comes that needless feedback again to spoil things. Shame. Closing track Jack's Death Scene starts promisingly in its jangly alt.country way, and the vocals don't grate as much as usual, but lyrically it's as hackneyed and exasperatingly sixth form as everything else. Even so, it begs the question, why were these three tracks stuck at the end of the album? Because the opening sequence of songs are enough to make sure they're never even heard. Because you've turned it off.
You almost hate to say bad things about The Atlantic Manor, it feels like kicking a lame panda, but somebody, please - stick Sell in a proper studio with a producer who knows what he's doing next time, and maybe he won't come up with something that's so much like pulling teeth.
Review by Chris Bell
I never thought I'd be saying this, but GO AND BUY THIS ALBUM NOW!!!!!!
My first encounter with My Red Cell had left me decidedly unimpressed, the highlight of the set being the uber posing frontman attempting to swing his guitar over his shoulder, only for his strap to come loose and smack him in the back of the head. Six months on, their debut album plops onto my doormat. I stick it in the cd player ready to knock up an 'it's ok but nothing special' review only to be instantly floored by the vitriolic madman warbling of recent single 'In a Cage (On Prozac)', which appears to centre around said frontman's dreams of brutally stabbing people to death; maybe I'll think before laughing next time he drops his guitar.
A few tracks further down the line & it's clear that this isn't a one off - the songs here are equipped with nuclear strength choruses, each geared to trigger that switch in your brain marked 'Jump up and down like a mentalist'. Guitars are turned to 11, vocals are strained to heroic levels, making Jack White's most insanely yelped moments seem downright sane, and still the choruses keep coming: 'Whisper The Fear's escapist plane jacking fantasies (and more stabbing), 'Bullet's screwed up romanticism (in which the weapon of choice switches to guns) and 'Knock Me Down's more traditional 'just been dumped' cathartic howling.
It's not just about the big shoutalong bits though, My Red Cell have managed the rare feat of making the quiet bits equally intriguing, drawing influence from the likes of The White Stripes & Pixies to create a perfect contrast, lending a jerky, schizophrenic quality befitting the vocal ticks and violent undertones which preside throughout this album.
This is a breathtakingly accomplished and slightly unsettling debut; as I said before, go and buy it now - the idea of a man with this many songs about stabbing being let out into normal society doesn't bear thinking about.
Review by Paul Madden
www.myredcell.com
or read My Red Cell's Alternative Rock Idol
profile
Step aside all rock queens, yes, that means you PJ Harvey and Ms Love. The Godmother of them all is back and what a return!
After spending years releasing albums to great critical acclaim but failing to capture any commercial success Kristin’s band The Throwing Muses finally decided to disband in 1997 after releasing Limbo for financial reasons. Kristin carried on releasing solo albums, and then to her fans great delight they reformed for a one off album in 2003 together with step-sister Tanya Donelly. Again this was released to great critical acclaim and quite rightly so. It was back to basics music, loud, fierce and raw. Now a year on she has formed a new band with original Throwing Muses member Bernard Georges plus new drummer Rob Ahlers.
You’d think that after a few acoustic solo projects and becoming a mother a few times over would have softened her core but this mini-album carries on the theme to their eponymous album of last year. The songs are hard, fast and intense. From Bug (so called as her son thought it would be a cool name for a song) to Dog Days, Kristin is not scared of making noise. She sings like her life depends on it and each song is energetic with intelligent sparky lyrics.
She has promised lots of touring and a mini album every 9 or so months, I’m in no doubt that she will maintain the ferocity of songs let’s hope the standard will just be as high.
Review by Sonia Pagliari
After releasing an NME single of the week with the EP “Playing in the Distance” back in 2001, Grand National are finally ready to release their debut. It’s full of wonderful tunes and some big sounds which makes you think that there must be at least a few people in the band but in fact Grand National are a duo; London based Rupert Lyddon and Lawrence “La” Rudd. Not seeing a need for more than two in the band, the duo say that the most successful songwriters come in pairs. No need to guess who they are thinking of and while it is to early to compare them to Lennon and McCartney, they have come up with a quirky album full of catchy hooks.
There are lots of influences on this album, sounds of New Order and The Police are the most obvious. The opener “Drinking to Move On” tells us to “settle down my friend” and so we should. Settle down and soak up these superb sounds. Their last single “Talk Amongst Yourselves” is so catchy that you will be singing it for days. “Cherry Tree” is a funky song, which takes you back to New Order at their best. If there is any justice in this world they should have a massive hit it’s released as a single in July. If you needed any more persuading that this could be your summer soundtrack “Daylight Goes” comes complete with the glorious sounds of steel drums.
So why don’t you kick the national habit and start enjoying this genuine British talent!
Review by Sonia Pagliari
Hooray! The men from the ministry of ridiculously long and abstract song titles are back with such titular titbits as 'Without MSG I am Nothing', 'KKKitchens, What Were You Thinking?' and 'Falco vs. the Young Canoeist'. I've been a huge fan of Mclusky since their debut 'My Pain and Sadness is More Sad and Painful Than Yours' (which still ranks as my favourite album title ever, and whose opening track named this very website), and it's been a rollercoaster ride of ear bludgeoning bass, razorwire riffage and hoarse throated witticisms ever since.
Their latest offering sticks pretty much to the original blueprint, with 'Mclusky Do Dallas' producer Steve Albini returning to twiddle the knobs and covering it with his customary layer of sludge. Opener 'Without MSG I'm Nothing' is the standout track, a buzzing, eastern influenced guitar riff staggers across the length of the song knocking into people and spilling its pint everywhere while head screecher Andrew Falcous spits out 'Everywhere I look is a a darkness' in a twisting vocal round. Elsewhere, current single 'That Man Will Not Hang' is old school Mclusky in its most perfect and distilled form, and 'KKKitchens...' blusters past at 300mph of vitriolic fury.
There are a few attempts to break up the fierce velocity 'Forget About Him, I'm Mint' is charmingly ramshackle, while 'Slay!' gets so quiet it almost disappears before suddenly rising from the silence with an eruption of ear splitting volume, but other attempts are less successful, with 'Your Children Are Waiting For You To Die' amongst the poorest tracks they've recorded to date.
Put it all together and it's a loose ball of energy and passion, with a couple of duds, and one too many heads down rock outs, which comes close to their earlier efforts without quite standing up to them, but despite these minor niggles, it's still unmistakably Mclusky.
Review by Paul Madden
First things first, it's hard for a true Morrissey fan like me to review Manchester's most miserable resident without being slightly subjective, despite his last few offerings being disappointing to say the least. However with just one listen to You Are The Quarry, his first full length release in seven years, it's clear that my obsession with this once great man may for once be justified.
Having finally been signed to Sanctuary's rejuvenated Attack imprint, Morrissey must have known that something truly special was needed- to appease all of the devoutly faithful old fans and to back up and build upon the recent acclaim he's been receiving from the currently fashionable likes of Franz Ferdinand and the Libertines. Indeed, with resolutely English intelligent guitar pop back in vogue, Morrissey has a perfectly timed comeback on his hands. What's needed is an album good enough to make us fanatics breath a sigh of relief and at a push, to bring some new fans into the fold.
Luckily, the signs are good from the start. Opening ballad America Is Not The World takes the lead with some Bush baiting lyrics ("steely blue eyes, with no love in them, scan the world") which frankly is never a bad thing. Morrissey is half in love with his newly chosen home but is as willing to point out it's faults as much as the next man- the fast food industry and it's resulting wave of obesity also get it in the neck. Next is Irish Blood, English Heart, a fiercely patriotic blast of spiky guitar pop, and a brave choice of first single considering the racism allegations that proved his downfall throughout the nineties.
Only two tracks in and one things clear- this is an angry, deeply personal album. Seven years in the shadows hasn't mellowed Morrissey one bit, if anything he's even more insular and spiteful than ever before, giving him the audacity to name the third track I Have Forgiven Jesus. Yes, the subject of Mozzer's bile here is the son of God himself, as he pleadingly questions "how could you stick me in self deprecating bones and skin?". To the untrained ear this may seem like the epitome of annoying bed-sit misanthropy committed to vinyl, but to people in the know, it's one of the greatest ever lyricists at his belligerent best. The World Is Full Of Crashing Bores continues the attack this time on more realistic targets like taxmen, pop idol muppets, and the police (more charmingly referred to as "uniformed whores" and "educated criminals who work within the law").
On previous albums Morrissey would devote his writing not only to morbid self reflection but to character based songs and state-of-the-nation addresses, of which there's only one example on You Are the Quarry. Continuing Moz's rather curious interest in petty criminals, First of the Gang to Die falls into the former camp. It tells the tale of Hector, the first member of the "pretty petty thieves" to take a bullet, but as you'd expect from the author the language used to describe street crime is rather quaint and charming- it's hard to imagine real gangs using phrases like "such a silly boy". However amongst a leisurely paced album this song stands out as a rousing anthemic rocker.
The true album highlight for me though is Come Back to Camden, a sweeping show-stopper of a ballad, and another twisted love/hate song this time concerning his old haunt, the Goth capital of London. The lyrics are pure romantic English poetry, lamenting the decay of Camden with it's "slate grey Victorian skies" and "taxi drivers who never stop talking", in a warm almost crooner like voice that suit's the ageing singer nicely as he approaches his mid forties.
Naturally, the album has it's flaws, particularly in I'm Not Sorry. 'Tasteful' (meaning bland) beats underpin a half-heartedly strummed acoustic, until the end when a horrendous flute solo enters the mix. It sounds almost (whisper it) Dido-ish, and in such pedestrian surroundings the lyrics feel directionless and uninspiring. The same can be said of How Could Anyone Possibly Know How I Feel, where the self pity actually becomes slightly cloying amongst the maudlin backing arrangement.
However on the whole, his usually rather anonymous band sound more focused than ever here, probably due to the MTV-friendly producer Jerry Finn being on board. Happily though, the album's success is all Morrissey's- he's produced something that not only eclipses his lacklustre late nineties output, but that could also easily stand up against his new contemporaries who have as good a reason now more than ever to worship him anew. As do the fans, who know that when he's on such rare form as he is on You Are The Quarry, it's only right to embrace him again.
Review by Ian Viggars