Like Radiohead and Joy Division before them, My Pursuit for Truth have a taste for things serious and epic. Take their decision to open their introductory demo with a six minute song- a foolhardy move you may think, but this Newport based four piece laugh in the face of brevity, as Stick to Your Guns' accomplished mastery of the quiet-loud dynamic renders you oblivious to the time elapsed. What begins with hushed drumbeats and ethereal early Verve style guitars slowly builds like a gathering storm, reaching a thrilling peak at five minutes forty seconds when the track finally launches into the all out earlobe assault it's quietly threatened to unleash the whole time. The other highlight, Winter Night, follows a similar formula, as vistas of eerie calm give way to tumultuous outpourings of emotion and sheer volume. The verses bemoan the coming of the most miserable month with a sense of dread which is momentarily relieved by the triumphant chorus declaring "we should drown it out", which they then proceed to do with another huge slab of melancholic noise.

Throughout all four tracks Matt Simon's impressive disembodied howl cuts through the spacious arrangements like a lonely desperate scream on a dark night and, like Interpol's front man Paul Banks, the effect is both creepily disturbing and oddly comforting at the same time. In short, My Pursuit for Truth display a rare subtlety and grace for an unsigned band, and at a time when irritatingly cheery Britpop revivalism is rife, it's good to know that there are still bands like this out there that strive for and succeed in producing something otherworldly and elemental.

Review by Ian Viggars
www.mypursuitfortruth.co.uk
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Once upon a time Idlewild were the first indie band you discovered, you digged pogoing round your bedroom to their post-punk before post-punk was cool styles and shrieks. They had great names like Bob, Rod and Roddie. As time went by, teenagers grew up and Idlewild have lost their edge. Each album has got progressively better produced, but incessantly less interesting. This new single is well polished, neat, radio 2 friendly, REM-touting fodder that could be mapped out on a computer package called "Guitar-Picking-Whoosh-Euphoric-Outro-thankyouvermuch". It will probably please Jonathon Ross no end. Curiously, Idlewild have grown into the band they started out rattling against in the mid 1990s. I'm all for progression but when it's this lacklustre, who's really listening? Indeed, what's to understand?

Review by Chris Field
www.idlewild.co.uk
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Having said that, this single - and Antony & The Johnsons in general I'm sure - will prove to be very divisive. My girlfriend proclaimed it to be "boring...Boy George meets Tracy Chapman", whilst I was already dreaming up a headful of suitable hyperbole.

What is undeniable though, is that right now it is shockingly original - especially when taken in the context of pretty much everything else that is being deemed worthy of attention at the moment. When all one needs to get in the NME is a decent suit and the Joy Division/Gang Of Four* (*delete as appropriate) back catalogue, this is the most daring and dramatic piece of music I've heard for a long time.

It is a soaring, majestic melodrama of yearning and hope. Full of cinematic grandeur it rises to an astonishing crescendo, but is deceptively simple with, for the most part, just the emotive, haunting voice and piano to sustain it. In this, one of the most striking comparisons to be made is to that of an old torch song, as made famous by the likes of Nina Simone or Billie Holliday.

There will be those who hate it and those who fall for this arresting and fascinating, almost sepulchral, song. Either way, I'm glad that this is being released and I'll be damned if Radio One don't deserve a pat on the back.

This is the first release from One Hundred Records, a small London based label. It’s a curious record. I know nothing of the band or singer, even after visiting the website there is no profile of who they are.

The vocals are reminiscent of Muse’s Matt Bellamy. The same intensity put through a vocal decoder which gives the song a fuzzy effect. On repeated listens it grows on you although the intense manner in which he sings does slightly grate as it lacks depth. Interesting with potential.

Review by Sonia Pagliari
www.crashconvention.com
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Aaaargh, now, this lady actually does have some good songs, I recall listening to mixtapes on a dictaphone in the bathtub at christmas, she came on, all was right with the world, the condensation on the mirror was happy with her chirrupy laments to the lost love of older guys called Leonard. But with this single, I can't seem to muster any more interest than listening to it whilst having a noisy thirty second power shower as the builders tune into Anastasia-central Heart FM outside, as they start wolf-whistling, the dog starts barking, and Anastasia starts forgetting to take her testosterone halfway through her middle eight. And even then I'd be running out the bathroom pronto, naked as the day I was born, to go and listen to some Motorhead in another room instead. Unfortunately for the retired gardeners tuned into Saga FM who will hear this song, the b-side, "three", is far better. Joni Mitchell meets Grant Mitchell meets the fictional 60s cartoon soundtrack to a lovelorn Michelin Man. Hooray.

Review by Chris Field
www.kathrynwilliams.net
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With a tune full of crunchy guitars, drum machines and knock-off synths, someone will probably try to tell you that this is some kind of smart, sexed-up cabaret pop gem. They're lying. It is inane, unoriginal indie. The artwork is good. The first 30 seconds of analogue electro squall are even better. The handclaps of the chorus are genius. Everything else is pointless pap.

It's not that Miss Pain don't know a good idea when they see one, it's just that it's someone else's and it's been done to death. Try as they might they can't whip up one of their own, or even manage to artfully half-inch the blueprints laid by so many others with any success.

The main problem though lies in front-man Dominik's dated and tasteless vocals. Wanting to sound like Marc Almond is fine, sounding like Chesney Hawkes is not.

'Heartbreaker' just reminds me of the fated 'Romo' scene, when the music press tried to convince us all that bad hair, blouses and a 'confused' sexual identity were the order of the day. Just like Minty, Nancy Boy and, oh yes, Plastic Fantastic, this song is
cringeworthy and forgettable. And sadly it's not even as slick.

Things improve a little on 'Caught My Eye' with some coquettish female vocals, but once again it's nothing you haven't heard before and taken to a charity shop.

If you've ever wondered what would happen if Erasure started covering Peaches then this is the band for you. As curious as that might sound though, this is best avoided.

Review by Andrew Knight
misspain.sphosting.com
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