Elvis Costello and Allen Toussaint - The River in Reverse

Those of us that admired the younger, shoutier, angrier Elvis Costello have been left dismayed in recent years. We'd rather Alison, Pump It Up and Oliver's Army any day over The Brodsky Quartet nonsense and doodlings with the hilariously christened Anne-Sophie Von Otter. The man's got so strung up on being taken seriously as a muso that he's forgotten how to have fun. Which is where The River in Reverse appears to differ from Costello's work of late - it sounds like he had the complete ride of a lifetime in the company of New Orleans producer and songwriter Allen Toussaint. I can't remember the last time I tapped my feet to a latterday Costello tune but every one of the tracks on this effort gets me moving in one way or the other. That said, Costello has only self-penned one of the tunes here: the bulk of the tracks are Toussaint compositions, while the pair have knocked heads on five of the songs. Still, a return to happier times and a couple of ballads to die for. Just don't expect the Attractions - it's all heavenly blues 'n' boogie-blessed piano.

CrackTown - Charlton Heston and others...

Where did all the humour go? Theory #73 could point towards CrackTown who, with their stylings to "watch dog fights by" appear to have digested all of the humour available in the world, only to spit it out as wonderfully insane songs.

Charlton Heston, for instance, from Songs In The Key of Fuck Off. "I wish that I was Charlton Heston," they sing, rather ironically, given the fucker's real-life gun-toting antics, "he's the king of every genre, from biblical to western".

Glorious stuff, with, as on every track, added Premier League harp antics provided by mad man co-vocalist the Silverfox (who also goes by the name of Dave).

And so it continues. How I Feel Inside, about self indulgent musicians laying it all on the line and not really giving a damn about the audience out front; the heart string-tugging Leaving Las Vegas, in which the twosome, who've apparently married a single waitress following a serious bout of drink-imbibing, are stranded Stateside without passports, money or shoes and, finally, Prisoner 783, about a rather nice escaped prisoner telling how life really is and greeting people in shops politely.

Of course, it's not all laughs - there are a few serious points in here somewhere. But, on the whole, it's like those tracks on Bob Dylan albums that never get mentioned when everyone's creaming their jeans over the importance of Zimmerman. Y'know, the really funny ones.
http://www.myspace.com/hullcracktown2

The Guillemots - From The Cliffs

Suspicious of pan-global music machines? Hmm, me too. The Guillemots hail from all o'er the place but, ahh, that usual anathema ain't such a thing in this case. These are beautiful tunes - part Doves, part The Cure, part Mercury Rev and part dozens of other aural sensations (in short, I guess, it's as original as a Theremin once was but it sounds, well, like a friend whispering sweet nuthins in your ear prior to conducting all kinds of sonic experiments). The ridiculously short opening track Sake gives no clues as to what will follow. Yet a long-term relationship with singer Fyfe Dangerfield - a breathless, pained Robert Smith sort - starts the second Trains To Brazil strikes up and doesn't cease until we've rolled all over the floor with them for eight tracks, culminating with an orgasm or three by My Chosen One. I want their babies.

The Holloways - Two Left Feet / Great Britain / I Should Say Something / Diamonds & Pearls

Two Left Feet meshes together Dexy's Midnight Runners, jingle jangle '60s pop and Chas 'n' Dave. Given that such an aural approach induces happiness, that can only be a good, if tad bizarre, thing. Jolly enough sorts, these ragamuffins from Holloway (now, where did they get that name?). Great Britain, well, I dunno, is it a call to arms or a dumbed-down sarcastic sideswipe? If it's the latter, it's bloody good. I imagine live these tracks come alive in ways that they don't when they're chugging out of PC speakers. Comedy staccato guitars, but not really a million miles away from a million other bands.
http://myspace.com/theholloways

Mando Diao - Bring 'Em In

So, you're just sat there, thinking, what album will get me through the summer when, wonder upon wonders, a little band from Sweden spring to your attention. Poppy, rocky, bluesy, tunesy, riffy, Hivesy, Strokesy and, ahem, on the opening track Sheepdog, Kula Shakery. The vocals are of the distorted Casablancas kind, the songs are uptempo, the lyrics are about girls and the like. If any Swedish music could justifiably be called essential, this be it. It's lovely, it's catchy (oh Lordy Lord, check out Paralyzed!), it's a Scandinavian Is This It? And it will get me through the summer.

Embrace - This New Day

Ain't it a lovely cover? Why, the boys can afford that after the success of the Chris Martin sponsored Out Of Nothing, eh? And don't they look mean and moody in silhouette? See that, it's Scarborough beach. Anyway, the music. It's Embrace. The Embrace we know and tolerate and, occasionally, like. Before that Martin bloke got involved and started writing songs for them (how dare he?!).

Something obviously got into the minds of the McNamara brothers around the time of the Martin connection. Here's a chance to seal our fate in music history by going all bombastic, anthemic and U2 circa The Joshua Tree. Trouble is, the best McNamara is the stripped down, broken heart thrown wide open ballads to be found on If You've Never Been, not their efforts to get stadium crowds hopping on one foot, joining in by singing as equally out of tune as their morose lead singer.

I Can't Come Down - monophonic piano and strings 'n' all - at least shows that Embrace can still do what they do best but, that track aside, This New Day is an acceptable effort and a workmanlike re-tred of Out Of Nothing. I guess they need the money/have contractual obligations to fulfil.

*This CD will be available in Music Zone for £2.97 early 2007.

Thom Yorke - The Eraser

He of Radiohead, he of the Roald Dahl school of name spelling, he of the lazy eye. Thom Yorke branches out, much to the relief of his 'head colleagues, says he, to muck about with electronic stuff and mumble his groany moany lyrics o'er the top of 'em. It's like a kid in a bedroom with a Bontempi and a rhyming dictionary, only it's a bit better cos it's Thom Yorke, of Radiohead. The melodies, such as they are, are from the school of 'head. So, it's like Paranoid Android straddled to a Casio drumbeat. Which is, of course, Trio doing Da Da Da Da. Only, it's a bit better than that, cos it's Thom Yorke, of Radiohead. Well, he's got it out of his system, so we can now look forward to the 'head's new CD with a sense of relief that they use guitars and proper drum kits and none of this new-fangled bleepy dancey sequencing bullshit equipment that ruins modern music. Blimey, whatever next? A handbag house remix of Creep with samples of ferret barking? Or Erasure releasing an album called Thomyorke? Actually, I jest, this is pretty pretty pretty good.

The Automatic - Not Accepted Anywhere

Stop it, stop it, you're blurring lines, you're crossing musical boundaries. Do you know no fear? Do you know that those black clad miserable emo tots are listening to you as well as those indie-lovin' Maximo Parkers? And this is only your debut. How dare you come out of Wales with this attitude? Spawning catchy singles Monster, Raoul and Recover on us, delivering a CD of consistent quality with a cover that could belong to Good Charlotte and then just standing back and watching our confusion. What is this? Why are children and parents both able to take something away from this glorious first effort? Who the blinkety flip does you think you are? Yours, baffled.

The Futureheads - News & Tributes

The highlight of the eponymous Futureheads debut was their cover of Kate Bush's daft Hounds of Love. We shoulda known, at that point, that here was a band destined to, well, leave us wanting just a bit more substance.

They have traits of "mod" and lots of promise, those Futureheads, they sprung upon us at more or less the same time as Dead 60s and that bloke off of Big Brother's Ordinary Boys, they like a choppy guitar, a rhythm-driving punchy vocal and they implore us to Worry About It Later and ponder whether the answer's Yes/No.

Like Weller, like The Who, like Secret Affair (hah!) in their respective eras, Futurheads talk directly to us, they empathise with our 21st century plight. Well, I say ours, I mean the plight of those that wear polo shirts, tight pants and pointy shoes.

Their approach is quite nice, their aural doodlings listenable. But the difficult second album is a bit of a letdown and, without a Kate Bush track, there ain't no highlights of which to speak. Which is sad, really, cos they could have brightened up a lot of people's worlds.

Ironically, there's a track on News & Tributes called Skip To The End, which sort of says it all. Sort of, in a disappointing, lacklustre way. You've let me down, you Futureheads!

Jim Noir - Tower of Love

Apparently, Jim Noir lives across the road from Badly Drawn Boy. He's obviously been nipping over to borrow a cup of sugar and, while he's there, been listening to Pet Sounds, Simon & Garfunkel, the Divine Comedy, the Super Furrys, the Beta Band and watching Sesame Street.

God bless these beautiful melodies, these kiddy-tinged anthems (The Key of C! Eany Meanie! Turn Your Frown Into A Smile!), these multi-tracked choirs of Noirs, the head-on collision of the twee, the drum machine and the well-picked acoustic.

A close relation of They Might Be Giants' Here Come The ABCs, Noir's three-eps become one full-length CD is just the kind of feelgood, poptastic wackery to see us all through a long, hot summer of lurv. Go and borrow some more sugar, Jim, please, and come back soon.

The Streets - The Hardest Way to Make an Easy Living

Can't see the trees for the glare coming off the Reebok Classics, Mike. Testing the Mike, one two. Is it me or, with each subsequent release, does Mr Skinner try and squeeze more and more of his council flat lyrical gangsterism into less and less space? Of course, this time around he's a huge success, so it's all self-reflexive pondering and whittering and whining about a fancy life in Reebok Classics, limos and green rooms. And clumsy rhymes. Without the through-line narrative of A Grand Don't Come For Free, Skinner and Co's juvenile delinquency shows through. It's a war of the sexes? Indeed it is. You never went to church and you lost your dad's book of dreams? Aww. It's easier to get girls when you're famous? So what. I know it's all ironic. But it's also, well, a bit dull. You know the score - that dude joins him on the slow gospel-tinged numbers, the drum machine has trouble keeping up with Mike on the faster tunes. Oh, we're so over that Brit/Cockerney rappery, aren't we?
But, in answer to your question The Streets, no, I never knew that cigarette lighters were invented before matches. So thanks for that, Mikey boy. Please try harder next time.

Ludes - Dark Art of Happiness

Ludes are a lanky bunch of lads, eh? That's what strikes you when you first see 'em. They just look soooo rock 'n' roll. They even wear cravats, that essential piece of rawk star regalia.

Which is why I fell in love with them in February. I'd had a chat with one of them just hours after buying Dark Art of Happiness from iTunes (natch, my first legal download) and he was such a nice gent that I didn't worry one bit about my lack of knowledge of the band, even given that I was, at that time, a know-it-all, fully paid up member of the journalists' club.

Then, I went to see these urchins. My, I thought, they're a lanky bunch of lads. Lads that probably lived in a squat with Doherty, Borrell and Barat. And surely lads that tall, I pondered, in a Peter Crouch can't spin on a sixpence-style mental comparison, where music is a nice new lightweight Adidas ball, can't perform decent material that will make me happy. But, bugger me, off they went. And off I went, jumping about like I had an aneurism. I mean, have you heard Traffic Lights? Not moving is impossible.

Post-gig, I quickly wanted to re-evalute Dark Art... or, rather, listen to it properly. And here we are in June, the CDs now in the shops and it's still a well-played favourite of mine. Top tunes are Traffic Lights and Deadman's Music, and, for sheer quirkiness, Mr Benson - battered out on a Bontempi organ, no less.

Ludes have been accused of pilfering The Clash but, although I can hear that on a couple of tracks, I also hear a damn funky groove that makes me want to shake my booty. And not many CDs of late have had the power to do that. Oh yes, it might have been three years in the making, but these fuckers are fresh.

Primal Scream - Riot City Blues

Is Bobby Gillespie under the impression that the rest of us have never heard of The Rolling Stones? That we don't already possess a copy of Beggars Banquet? That we've never skinned up atop the cover of our tatty vinyl version of Exile On Main Street? But here we go again. Oh yes, Primal Scream have returned to their fake Stones stylings.

To some, to those that love Give Out But Don't Give Up and those that have been getting their rocks off ever since they heard Bob's mob running through Jailbird, this will be good news. But here's a band that just can't make up their mind who they bloody want to be.

Y'see, homage to Keef and Mick aside, Give Out... and Screamadelica were majestic pieces of work. And then they decided to spurn all the riffery in favour of some good old fashioned tuneless electronica and god awful dross, starting with Vanishing Point and heading on a downward spiral that resulted in less melodies, more knob twiddling and, eventually, a band too painful to even bother to download at nada expense.

But now they're right back where they started. I want to hate Riot City Blues, because it's exactly what I thought Primal Scream should always be doing: Ballsy, in your face, fuck you little sister rock 'n' roll. Oh, yes, Gillespie, you've led us on a right old merry dance and I must remember to hit you if your scrawny ass ever crosses my path.

Trouble is, I fucking love Riot City Blues. It's the best thing I've heard in months. My feet just won't stop tapping. Excuse the wholesale theft of all things Stones, and from Country Girl to Sometimes I Feel Lonely, every one's a winner. Please, Bobby, stick to being this much fun in future, or I'll be forced to XTRMNT you.