Opener Rollerblades is pure whimsical flimsy as Doolittle’s high raspy vocals do a injustice to what is a decent song. All structure disappears in the middle before a predictable rinse and repeat ending. The whole arrangement has as much substance as Jack Johnson spending a wet weekend in Camden. Moneybox is more catchy but has an even more annoying vocal, and obvious sampling. The mix is all wrong with the tinny music a mess over some smart sassy lyrics: “Do me a favour… don’t jingle your change sir…”. The irony of this is sure to be lost if and when Doolittle becomes a huge star.

Police Car is a sign of hope musically; much more controlled but horribly laboured and a terrible metaphor: “I forget to be cool… I try my best to not get arrested by you…”. Seriously? Halfway through and it’s already starting to grate and even a weak attempt to liven things with some brass is utterly pointless. At least the song is throwing off the shackles of pretence to do something original. Go Home tries the same and ends up stuck between pop and swing, without the voice or the timing. Into the last minute it disintegrates into more of the same. Sweet backing vocals provide a lift but that doesn’t help a complete lack of substance.

The Eliza Doolittle EP tries so much to be liked. Doolittle injects at much of her personally as she can – showing a glimpse of individuality and song writing skills – but the approach is confused, the songs are weak and paper-thin, the delivery is a mess, and there is a complete lack of direction and substance. This is a first effort, OK, but thousands of singers are trying to make it and very few succeed – that’s the harsh reality. To keep things in perspective you need to make a huge impact in these difficult times: you need to make people stand up; you need to be noticed; you need to write smart, interesting and engaging music. On the strengths of this debut, it’s not going to happen.

It is clear from the start of the group’s eponymous debut that Them Crooked Vultures is driven by Homme. His voice and ‘sound’ is all over the record, propped up by Jones and the ever energised Grohl. This sounds incredibly disrespectful to two thirds of the musicianship on show but ultimately one vision has to preside over everything. Someone has to be in control, and in most groups involving Homme it is he. Nine times out of ten, this is never a bad thing. Them Crooked Vultures is three legends creating a new sound, from decades of experience, all learning from one another. It’s like the band has always been making music.

The opener, No One Loves Me And Neither Do I is an immediate highlight; two songs in one, transforming from sleazy garage-blues to metal stomp after two and half minutes. It sets out the stall brilliantly: this is not going to be predictable, dull and uninteresting. Great lyrics in the first half recount a sordid liaison: “I’ve got a beautiful place to put your face, and she was right…”. Into the second half, the guitars and Homme’s vocals becomes heavier and more drawn out. The demand “use me up…” invites a mad last twenty seconds from Grohl and some truly amazing drumming. This reminds us of why Nirvana always wins over Foo Fighters.

The first of two early ‘preview’ singles Mind Eraser, No Chaser is a bit more loose and chaotic and gives Grohl a chance to provide backing vocals. This is setting a dangerous precedent as he never gets a another chance to leave the drum kit and it is a rare moment. Again the guitar work is magnificent and the whole song is peppered with electronics – and the comedic brass at the end shows that the trio are not taking themselves that seriously. New Fang is even better, a solid guitar-driven rock track from the Black Keys catalogue, a great song with Homme shining on vocal duties yet again. Elephants is a torrent of musical proficiency from the start; a blistering guitar riff, bass and drums all blending to create a wall of music, slowing after the first minute to a stabbing arrangement. When Homme comes in he’s like Marilyn Manson should be sounding these days – committed, demonic, possessed, all vocal distortion – the effect is incredible. A melodic interlude with wistful crooning kicks in and the song threatens to transform… before dropping back. This psychedelic moment is repeated again to fill the near seven minute duration.

The first real slice of retro arrives with the Cream tribute Scumbag Blues, but the falsetto vocals are not the star here – Jones’ 70s keyboards and Grohl’s backing make an otherwise straightforward song much more interesting, enhancing the piercing guitars. Led Zep meets Sparks meets early Bowie for the wonder that is Reptiles, the album veering dangerously close to prog but returning to a more direct agenda after a brief view over the precipice. In it’s calmer moments the song is excellent. The longest track on the album (with the longest title) Warsaw Or The First Breath You Take After You Give Up does suffer from an overlong running time and some glam-esque backing vocals but even this behemoth works thanks to throwing in a number of styles into the mix and the best song writing on the album, including “it’s a lovely disguise, with the wandering eyes… I get high… now you have something to look up to…”, Homme drawls ironically. The mid-section comes to life with a great guitar-break, speeding up slowly and then transforming into an apocalyptic soundscape complete with distant vocals, grinding guitars and clattering cymbals.

Elsewhere there is nothing that drags the album down. Dead End Friends, with its eastern sound and rolling vocals, is the most Homme sounding song, yet there is late Nirvana in there, showing the steering hand of Grohl. An incredible mix. Bandoliers (archaic pocketed belts for holding ammo) is an interesting metaphor that doesn’t go anywhere – but it is a rare, excusable moment of self-indulgence, especially as Grohl provides some of the best drumming on the album approaching the last minute before things settle down. And Interlude With Ludes is the only song that could easily be removed and no value would be lost. The same could be said of Caligulove if it wasn’t for more supreme keyboards from Jones, and the guitars filling the outro.

A late gem is the magnificent Gunman, another superb riff and vocal performance from Homme; a master class in song writing that fills the senses with the juxtaposition of rolling verses and anthemic chorus, before the huge closer Spinning In Daffodils. Jones excels again with the delicate piano intro before Homme, in now familiar gothic tone, delivers one last deliciously evil vocal performance. This is the sound that Bowie would have achieved if he had taken Trent Reznor seriously. As a parting shot, the final couple of minutes brings everything together for a glorious conclusion, assaulting and embracing in equal measure, fading into a bizarrely subdued ending to a wondrous expedition.

There is a lot to be said for not over-thinking a record. Not to say that this was thrown together in a couple of days; the ‘live’ feel and stark production give the songs an illusion that they are ‘made in the studio’ but repeat listens reveal depth and complexity within the spontaneity. At over an hour it is allowed to flow and ultimately, Them Crooked Vultures is perfectly judged. It may not be the best that either musician has been involved in but this does not include Page, Plant, Cobain, or Lanegan. It is something new and different, to evoke something new and different. The music draws from influences of the past and generates a wonderful new present. Grohl and Jones draw out a vocal diversity never before heard from Homme who is on top form throughout, all of the tightness of Queens Of The Stone Age is removed and he is at ease just letting the vocals happen. The same musical liberation fills the entire album. If ever there was a reason why musicians should work together, Them Crooked Vultures is it. And if Josh Homme ever meets up with Jack White, we will have the best band in the world.

It is always interesting to hear what bands do after they release a Best Of compilation, especially if it is only after a few really good albums. This is what Katatonia did next. An odd move, designed mainly to expose the band to a wider audience and showcase later work. The follow-up to Viva Emptiness is The Great Cold Distance, well received in 2006 but not quite pulling in the quality of the previous album. So in 2009, the band still going strong, lead by Jonas Renkse and backed by the dual guitarists of Anders Nystrom and Fredrik Norrman, release an eighth full-length album: Night Is The New Day.

From the outset this is classic Katatonia. Opener Forsaker moves effortlessly from muddy guitars to Renkse’s soft listless vocals and back again in the first two minutes, bringing on a soaring solo at the mid point. Renkse delivers a typical downbeat message with “the dark will rise; abandon your freedom / give up the right to find your true self; forsake your own reason”. Drummer Daniel Liljekvist shines in the outro. Another highlight is the remarkably tuneful Idle Blood – with Renkse in superb from “You there / bringer of my despair” to “…but I am turning my back on you; you know I do” recalling a moment of self-loathing or the hatred of a nemesis. Even the song’s darkest lyrics are delivered with a light touch into a final dream-like minute.

Throughout the album Katatonia sticks to a now well-established plan. The Longest Year is quiet, delicate and reflective verses bringing a heavier anthemic chorus only twice in the four and half minute running time. Liberation follows the same format, albeit more pronounced and with an excellent added guitar, bass and drum interlude, before the final word from Renkse. The wonderfully gothic Nephilim arrives in a torrent of wicked grinding chords – the dual vocals lift an otherwise arduous trudge through familiar territory. Inheritance is probably the most ambient song Katatonia has produced, flowing into a fragile drifting minimalism. Late on, first (and probably only) single Day And Then The Shade should be the most hard-hitting track, in spite of lacking a memorable chorus but ultimately the whole arrangement is flat and lifeless. This leads to closer Departer, the album’s longest song. It is also the most beguiling with breathless ghostly vocals, no obvious riffs, and a very subdued elongated ending to an unsurprising album.

Renkse has described Night Is The New Day as Katatonia’s most varied and diverse material on the same album. This is not entirely evident even after repeat listens, and even after that it is debatable. The band’s distinct sound and a tendency to create songs within a restricted formula does create a predictability and a safeness, even if they are played with skill and imagination. You know what you are getting and there are few surprises. Within this, musically Katatonia has never sounded more controlled and focused. It is elegant and delicate, full of open spaces and deep breaths, but few really outstanding moments. The big problem is for three albums now Katatonia has not moved on. It is very much the case of not messing with a safe thing.

Crazy Love gets off to an unsteady and explosive start before settling down for a fantastic and thoroughly enjoyable second half. The first couple of songs sound like they are taken from a bad Bond theme tribute album. The dramatic take on Cry Me A River is way too over the top at times and All Of Me goes from intimate bar room to noisy orchestra in a way that would make Dean Martin cringe. Even Georgia On My Mind features a few bars of Monty Norman’s classic theme within the more sedate arrangement. The title track is given a more respectful and soulful treatment with sweet backing vocals and cool guitar. It does Van’s original justice. But things are still a bit shaky with the first of the two self-penned songs, Haven’t Met You Yet. It is ominous perky-pop and features the oddest trumpet solo. And so ends the messy first half.

Thankfully, Crazy Love shows why Bublé is both relevant and unique. All I Do Is Dream Of You is an classic old-school big band number that adds elements of Martin, Ella Fitzgerald and Perry Como. The second original song Hold On is instantly brilliant and filled with huge epic strings. The first real surprise is Heartache Tonight, a take on the Eagles’ 70s rock anthem given the full brass treatment. It works superbly. Dean is back for You’re Nobody ‘Til Somebody Love You and is more proper swing (Robbie, Jamie and Leon take note) and a perfect rendition. OK it does nothing particularly new, but it’s polished – and the vocal timing is exquisite. Baby (You’ve Got What It Takes) with Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings moves unsteadily into dangerous 60s R&B only to emerge unscathed.

Into the final trio – At This Moment is an odd choice and fairly anonymous. Bublé lets his voice get away from him. But the cheesy tones of Stardust, although nowhere near as good as the late, great Mel Tormé, is another solid move away from ‘typical’ copycat covers. The Ron Sexsmith duet and new version of Whatever It Takes is a sublime closer and completes a fine fourth collection from a musician who is truly untouchable. It’s just a shame that Crazy Love doesn’t start with the poise and control shown in the second half.

With only two original songs on the album (and both are co-written) it would be easy to dismiss Crazy Love as just another collection of the usual fare repackaged conveniently for the Christmas market. This is the sort of thing you would expect from fading musicians lacking inspiration, or reality TV stars trying to market a quick debut or salvage a thin career when their management has ‘moved on to this year’s winner’. All cynicism put aside for a moment, Bublé is none of these things. He has a genuine passion for breathing new life into timeless classics and is keeping them alive for generations to come. And he adds personality, depth and quality to everything he does.

But there is more to Dead By Sunrise than just a side project formed by musical differences. It was clear that Bennington was steering his band in a more accessible direction and on the face of it Dead By Sunrise seems like a convenient place to be creative and diverse. This is important therapy for Bennington, as the name of the album would suggest – a bit disrespectful to draw this analogy toward the band that made his name but more likely directed at the man himself – and musically this appears to make sense. Much of Out Of Ashes is calm and serene, so much so that the harder, more edgy tracks are lukewarm imitations and at times out of place.

Too Late is an excellent example of why Out Of Ashes was made. Echoing the direction Minutes To Midnight took Linkin Park, this is a bold soft ballad. And by rights the album should be full of them. Let Down is another attempt at this packed with wonderful backing vocals and a simple no nonsense arrangement. For the same reason, Give Me Your Name has a great Pink Floyd vibe and is proof that Bennington can actually sing, even with the hapless lyrics. The production is drenched in sweet sticky syrup and at five minutes it is about two minutes too long. Into You should work but could be that song from any of Linkin Park’s albums, starting soft and building. This has been done many times before. Ultimately there is no point being slightly similar to the band you are trying to get away from. For this reason, parallels are always going to be drawn.

The quality of the harder material is questionable. Fire is a hard hitting opener and at least attempts to deliver some vocal melody through the car alarm guitars but after getting heavy ends up wallowing in self-pity. Not a bad thing, but the momentum evaporates in the last thirty seconds. My Suffering is the only ‘fast’ song that shows any vibrant creativity. Excellent drums and spiky guitar work hold together the hardcore.

Of the rest, many of the songs on Out Of Ashes find an impressively high level of anonymity. Crawl Back In and Condemned are dull Nirvana impressions, both with decent – if short – guitar solos. Odd then that the former was chosen as a promotional single for an album that finds strength in the ‘softer’ songs. Inside Of Me is fast, messy and hits that middle ground that plagues most of the album – somewhere between old and new. End Of The World tries to be a bit different, like a bluesy Green Day political statement that is less a march on the Capitol, and more a rain soaked leaflet slapped into a cold hand. Walking In Circles is the right feel but truly forgettable. Out Of Ashes does to try to end on a high with In The Darkness but the opening lyrics of the descent into self harm is as obvious as Dido. Things pick up in a spirited chorus but Bennington just goes through the motions. And it’s more old ground.

Out Of Ashes may be catharsis and a necessary channel for the sort of creative purge that cannot be satisfied with Linkin Park, but as an album it fails to divorce itself from the sound Bennington is best known for. It’s like someone has chucked in a bucket of cold water and left the sound diluted and soulless. As the driving force, Bennington is superb and you can’t fault his commitment, but the end result doesn’t always hit the mark. The moments of brilliance are spread out amongst dullness, obvious arrangements and incredibly banal lyrics (see “lost and can’t be found”, “diving into oceans”, “feeling pain”, “happiness from misery”, “learning how to live” etc. Such a shame that a good songwriter and some great musicians fail to come up with anything new. A personal rehabilitation has produced a lack of cutting edge and inspiration. Whether it has worked for Bennington, only he knows.

Back in 1992, Alice In Chains were just another Seattle band. Not quite Pearl Jam or Nirvana, not quite metal and a bit too goth for grunge, the band filled a hole but never stood out from the crowd. Dirt is a great album, followed by the acoustic Jar of Flies, but nothing like this. Black Gives Way To Blue is the album Queens Of The Stone Age can only dream about. Now, in the same year that Pearl Jam released a short, punchy, resurgent ninth album, Alice In Chains has opted for a completely different approach. Black Gives Way To Blue is massive. With an average song length of five minutes and two around seven, this collection of dark-edged, gloom-rock, guitar anthems is a challenge, but an absorbing and rewarding one.

“A new beginning / time to start living, like just before we died…”. The opening lyrics of All Secrets Known pull no punches. This is a band being up-front and honest about where they are. The single Check My Brain is a glorious distorted guitar-grind with a soaring upbeat chorus about moving to Los Angeles: “California’s alright / somebody check my brain”. Last Of My Kind is Alice In Chains of old, blending churning guitars with dark vocal melodies and an old-school Metallica-esque hook. At nearly four minutes, the guitar-work intensifies for the last two minutes. The first sign of the band’s acoustic side is the majestic Your Decision – again more brilliance from Cantrell and bassist Inez. An impressive first half ends with the seven minute epic, and first single, A Looking In View. This is the band at its darkest, all muddy grinding multi-layered guitars, demonic vocals through clenched teeth and strained muscles. Powerful stuff. The DuVall and Cantrell combination is intense and harmonic in equal measures and another great outro sees out the final minute.

When The Sun Rose Again has excellent melancholic vocals from the outset. This is another dark acoustic ballad with a brief blast of electric at the central point. This leads to Acid Bubble, heavy with evil chords on each verse lifting for a lighter chorus. It is one of the only times the album begins to drag, every note is protracted and drawn out. But then it changes, completely. This wouldn’t be a great rock album without some ‘prog’ injected into the rock. After the brief interlude, the song settles down again for more of the same, only to return in the final minute. Lessons Learned is much more interesting with purposeful vocals, driving guitars, and another lifting hook/chorus: “…know when to find it / in your darkest hour, you strike gold…” just about sums up the nature of Black Gives Way To Blue. Take Her Out tries the same thing but feels overdone given all that has come before. More excellent guitars try to liven things but this could easily be removed and the album wouldn’t suffer.

Into the final two tracks and Private Hell is exactly what is claims to be. One of the times the obvious references to Layne Staley are revealed, this is a heartfelt and honest tribute. One of the best songs musically. But the tribute is in two parts. The title track brings the album to a close. Featuring piano from Elton John (yes, really), Black Gives Way To Blue is the only way to finish this album. “Tomorrow’s haunted by your ghost” becomes “tomorrow’s forcing a goodbye” and the album ends with the words: “I’ll remember you”. What could have been a depressing moody ten minute grind-fest ends in delicate controlled lightness and hope.

The decision to replace Staley with DuVall, a singer who has an uncanny likeness to Staley, is both brave and logical. The vocalist in a band is just another instrument, equally as important as every other member of the band pulling equal weight. You wouldn’t substitute a cello for a banjo, or add a Gibson Les Paul to a string quartet. It makes no sense to break the sound that defines what you are. Alice In Chains retains its sound thanks to DuVall, but for the most part due to Cantrell, still the core of the band (all but two songs are written exclusively by him). The trademark dark harmonies are ever present thanks to further contributions from Inez. No singer is replaceable. Queen is a perfect example of this – if you have to change the sound, change the band and move on. So, it’s hard not to accept this album without some emotion but it is easy to accept it musically. With masterful production from Nick Raskulinecz, and excellent musicianship throughout, Black Gives Way To Blue is a painful grieving process manifesting as a huge triumphant behemoth of a rock album.

One of the only problems with Backspacer is a difficult early obstacle to overcome. At the core of Pearl Jam is Eddie Vedder. His voice is described as a rough baritone, equally at home screaming out as it is delicately crooning. He does both very well. Or he did. Here, however, and not always, Vedder is either making bad choices or straining to get his voice where he wants it. It is hard to believe that in search of something more honest and open, the band’s singer is compromising a key sound. The first half of the album suffers slightly from ‘screechy’ vocals. Thankfully this isn’t a huge distraction. Johnny Guitar is a real problem and that’s only because it’s just not very good. The only fault.

Backspacer manages to balance the gritty with the melodic without getting too anthemic. Much of this is down to the reintroduction of producer Brendan O’Brien. There was a time when songs like this would be subjected to layers of production, swathes of guitars and plenty of gloss. Not anymore. The album is tightly edited and has a refreshingly short running time of just over thirty five minutes. It is very much a case of what was taken out over what was left in. The punchy stary-eyed Supersonic is just about right, as is opener Gonna See My Friend, a song seemingly about finding your dealer when things get tough and inevitably finding help. This leads neatly to Get Some, and a similar subject: “I got some if you need it…” but with Vedder ultimately finding music. And a sublime, if short, guitar solo…

First single The Fixer, with its disjointed slow-then-fast verse structure and empty chorus is an odd choice to ‘promote’ Backspacer but an elegant simplicity results in a decent middle-of-the-road rock track. It covers just about every style Pearl Jam can cope with. This is the best of the first half before a massive mood change. Just Breathe is one of two gorgeous soft acoustic heart-breaking love songs. Again, Vedder’s voice is cracking with emotion but the change of pace and direction is startling. Time after time Pearl Jam move between dirty rock and mushy ballad, each time retaining just enough credibility. The sudden ending adds to the heartbreak. But the best is just around the corner. Amongst The Waves is exceptional, up there with the band’s best. It’s a soaring epic that feels like an outtake from Binaural or Yield given a modern take. A brilliant chorus: “Riding high amongst the waves / I can feel like I have a soul that has been saved / I can feel like I put away my early grave…” of a man being given a second chance lifts the album just when it needs it. More great guitar work pins the centre before Vedder is back, as passionate and committed as ever. If this isn’t enough Unthought Known is almost as good, lacking the predictable structure but avoiding the big anthemic stadium moments.

Into the last three songs and Speed Of Sound is another beautifully crafted song, framed with some more excellent guitars and piano. Yes it’s bordering on soft rock but most bands who only have this never sound this good. Force of Nature threatens a return to the gritty start of the album but a great vocal melody from Vedder transforms it into another classic. More intimate storytelling about holding a relationship together: “One man stands along, awaiting for her to come home / eyes are closed, you cannot know but his heart don’t seem to roam”. Closing with The End, predictability becomes a last surprise. Following on from Just Breathe, The End has Vedder serving up even more emotion for part two: “slide on next to me, I’m just a human being / I will take the blame, bust just the same / this is not me you see / believe I’m better than this”. More proof that Vedder’s song writing is maturing with time. The final words form a sudden finale: “my dear the end comes near / I’m here / but not much longer”.

A new Pearl Jam album will always come with certain expectations. Ten was such a great debut, an anti-grunge masterpiece that challenged Nirvana’s Nevermind but lost every time. Fans will always want the next album to capture the wide-eyed intensity of the first few albums. From Ten, through the trials and troubles of Vs. and into the dark menacing Vitalogy (the band’s finest hour) and the wonderfully diverse No Code, Pearl Jam always deliver something special. Backspacer has that something, and it has the intensity and the passion but the band is always held to a higher standard because of the early heights. This is the reason no one wants to trawl through a new U2 album. Nothing will be as good as The Joshua Tree and then Achtung Baby. When you go to a Radiohead gig you don’t want to hear In Rainbows. You want High & Dry and Fake Plastic Trees and you don’t care if the band aren’t into that anymore. Every new REM album is treated with the same level of stomach churning anticipation. Long gone are the days of Life’s Rich Pageant, Green and New Adventures In Hi-Fi. What we now get is Reveal and Accelerate even when we would settle for another Automatic For The People…

So back to Pearl Jam. Success does change bands. They don’t become lazy and complacent. They don’t stop trying. But they do move on, trying something different and challenging each other. So why shouldn’t the same challenges be levelled at the listener? With liberation from a record label, the freedom to do what you want, and the knowledge that fans will still buy your music is what band’s like Pearl Jam now have. The industry is not what it used to be. Pearl Jam will not make another Ten, or a Vitalogy and its taken three albums, but this is further proof that the band is still a potent force. Backspacer is vibrant, uplifting, emotional and honest. Not bad for a band on the verge of a tenth album.

Hypnagogues is a weird and wonderful experience that threatens early on to deliver something different on each track. Singer and guitarist Tom Mayne is a sublime mix of Ian Brown, Jason Pierce and Frank Sidebottom. Opener Sweden is a brilliant torrent of monologue John Cooper Clarke lyrics eventually gliding into a dance-induced chorus. Mayne namedrops Ideal Homes, Annabel Croft, talks about downing pints of fish oils and feeling crap but living until he’s a hundred and twenty four. That is just a taster of a wondrous trip through a frantic mind. On first listen, it seems like an entire album like this would be a huge breath of fresh air but what transpires turns out to be a smart move. Never holding on to a single idea for too long, David Cronenberg’s Wife swiftly move on.

Can’t Keep Doing What You Do is less talking and more ‘singing’, a clanking, stomping, uneasy pop song that’s not sure if it wants to let anyone know what it is. The first real highlight on Hypnagogues is the majestic The Lou Reed Song, so unashamedly an homage disguised as a rip-off it finds that sweet-spot both musically and ironically before unfolding beautifully into a blatant finale. It is also home to the best line on the album: “So you’re in a good mood, but the party it brings you down / ff you don’t want to go home barking, then stop acting like such a hound…”.

As with all music that tries to do something new and unique, not all of Hypnagogues works. Fight Song is like a bad journey through a budget ghost train ride at a seedy faire. It lacks any form of melody. Likewise In The Limo is a drunken attempt at a Pogues cover – a mean feat but Mayne and the band execute it perfectly. After a minute it gets truly irritating. Even the guitars and the big ‘sing-a-long’ ending does little to improve things. You Should’ve Closed The Curtains brings back the style in spectacular form. Playing out like The Stranglers at their most eclectic, this tale of voyeurism brings together sultry vocals, swathes of strings and harpsichord. The racy Body To Sleep With continues the oscillation, a quick blast of disjointed punk-pop.

Desperate Little Man could be Mark Everett at his best, a bitter-sweet slice of storytelling with lost love, stark imagary and honest reflection. The arrangement is exquisite. Make Me A Channel Of Your Peace is dark, creepy guitar-based indie with distant nasal vocals. The instrumentation just before the three minute point is breathtakingly delicate and controlled against the edgy vocal delivery. In contrast Jailbird is too obvious, packed full of tongue-in-cheek metaphor: “I was roughly fingerprinted, there was no chance of bail / She even took my shirt, I had to be strip-searched…”. Back to a high for the closer Drawn Again, a slow mesmerising trawl from the depths, again full of wonderful imagery and observations. In spite of Mayne’s prosaic tone, he has an oddly tuneful voice. The tumbling guitars and violin dance away into the last minute.

Hypnagogues is twisted, direct, melancholy, uplifting, dark and light. Tom Mayne’s vocals are responsible for the unique approach of David Cronenberg’s Wife but the band play a big part. The six musicians combine through interesting and brave arrangements to compliment the words of the front man which rarely falter. Mayne’s unwavering attempts to ignore structure and convention (if the words don’t fit, just say them quicker so they do) is refreshing and compelling. Hypnagogues is far from great. But like all great art it has plenty of delicious faults.

Sweetheart Rodeo is the follow-up to the brilliant Fireproof. Easily the best song from this album is the astonishing Bodyguard. Nothing on Sweetheart Rodeo comes close but as a complete body of work it is better than the spiky and often dark nature of Fireproof. Landes is much more light-hearted and reflective here. This is the general vibe of the new album and with her sultry vocals, somewhere between the hard directness of Suzanne Vega and the floating softness of Laura Veirs, Sweetheart Rodeo is a pure joy.

Opener Young Girl has a 60s feel, very reminiscent of the Raveonettes – shimmering and dancing through three minutes of slightly uneasy dark overtones. An excellent introduction. Romeo takes a whimsical turn, weaving a nursery rhyme melody through a basic percussion and piano backing. Into the last minute and the lyrical structure descends into a brilliant section of backing vocals and day-dreamy musing. Money In the Bank kicks off with “money in the bank / the night before you die / what are you gonna buy?” starting the bitter-sweet tale of anti-capitalism. The use of brass and the delicate two-part chorus is simply wonderful.

Love is an odd experimental fusion of sparkling psychedelia and pumping bass, disintegrating into a squeaky mass of sounds and howling vocals. An interesting diversion from the formula. Sweetheart Of The Rodeo is the unofficial title track, a full-on rock song swathed in acoustic instruments and startling harmonica with one of the best string-picking ‘guitar solos’. Clown is another slice of fun, underpinned with a bontempi ‘demo track’. This leads into Wandering Eye, a great example of how vocal melody can augment a simple idea. More harmonica fills the spaces between Landes listing American landmarks and more: “…to Atlanta and Texarkana, Alabama and Texaco, Mexico and al-fresco…”.

Little Miss Holiday is gorgeous story telling of female companionship. “If I’d have known her better / I’d have wrote her name in a little letter / tied some hundred dollar bills together / sugar and spice don’t stick together / like girls, working girls, two working girls…”. The pace-change in the chorus is a sudden attraction and there is more subtle use of exquisite bass. Dance Area is just over two minutes of vocal perfection and Brighton soars with understatement. The album closes with the short and sweet All Dressed In White, again mixing artificial backing with traditional melodies and wordless vocals.

Sweetheart Rodeo is not as much of a country album as the name would suggest. The misconception also come from the labels provided by the popular press, branding Landes as one of “the grand old dames of country” which is yet more pigeon-holing for the masses. Sweetheart Rodeo is American through and through but it escapes tags and labels used to explain it’s roots thanks to a wonderful modern interpretation of an old-fashioned world. Dawn Landes is a constant revelation and has made another masterpiece of theatre, landscape and storytelling.

The biggest let down is the lyrics. Unintelligent and obvious clichés mix with trite pseudo-rhyming and truly horrible scansion on every track. This is beautifully demonstrated on big opener K.I.A (subtitled Killed In Action just in case you don’t know what the acronym means): “I live in the middle of a combat zone / I’m too scared to pick up the phone / I went to the market to fill up my heart / now I’m in a coma / state of the art”. As an opening line it’s pretty terrible and things don’t get much better. Musically it’s not bad and the chorus packs a punch even if Chester is singing about supermarkets, 4x4s and ditches full of VCRs.

When Shaka Rock is bad, it’s really bad. Beat On Repeat is the Clash taking the piss out of LCD Soundsystem. Black Hearts (On Fire) goes from limp-wrist to disjointed hopeless mess. Seventeen doesn’t know what it is, a mixed up fusion of laboured guitars, lame chorus and relentless pounding piano. But La Di Da sums up the approach perfectly. It starts OK, all spiky guitars and spitting lyrics, until we get the line: “I don’t know anymore what I need and what for / all I know is there must be something more”. Stop wondering and find it!

Onward, Walk is astonishingly awful, blending the stylised swagger of Kasabian with the vacuous nonsense of PJ And Duncan. Times Like This reworks the Doobie Brothers and has the most bizarre shouty chorus. “From the Hollywood Hills to Ecuador / everyone’s the same when they hit the floor”. Again, another apt line. “Times like this / you need your rock’n'roll” will have you reaching for the latest Dance Anthems compilation. If there is a better Bryan Adams rip-off this century than Let Me Out then it’s not worth hearing.

Shaka Rock has its moments. She’s A Genius kicks off like the Black Keys. Fantastic! But the cool muddy guitar riff is the only redeeming feature. Chester’s over-the-top vocals vomit over everything and leave your pounding hangover aching for something stronger than codeine. The final minute is a master class of simple, full-on, in-yer-face pop-rock. Goodbye Hollywood tries so hard to be good but ends up a bad Counting Crows imitation. Even when the band escape the shackles of the past, they just move a bit further into the recent past. The song concludes with another decent last minute; free flowing and genuinely good. Start The Show will be the new gig opener – it’s that obvious. All but the last minute (that’s three decent minutes!) is horrible before a massive guitar ending kicks in. You can almost picture the accompanying light-show.

Shaka Rock ends well but it’s too little too late. She Holds A Grudge is an honest open-hearted love song and the best writing on the album. Within the pseudo-country backing is a proper song trying to escape a band that are painfully out of ideas.

But one thing remains the biggest dividing line: lead singer Nic Chester. He is both the driving force of the band and the constant irritation bellowing the vocals when a more subtle approach is required. Even in the quieter moments, Jet’s vocalist turns it up to eleven and then finds one more notch on the amp. Chester’s voice is a constant and nagging problem. So is the band’s reluctance to move forward and stop recycling the past. Retro is great if you turn it into something new and interesting. It’s a shame then that Shaka Rock tries so hard and does too much. Call it irony, call it having fun, call it retro-rock-chic (actually, probably not), it doesn’t work unless the songs are good. Sadly, predictably and ultimately, they are not.