The problem most female artists usually have when they enter the music industry is that their image will be used to help promote their sound. Whilst Lady Gaga seems the genuine article, the whole “I’m a strong independent women and can do my own thing” seem to have been done already. Annoyingly for Lady Gaga, it’s come from people whose image has been groomed for them - ala Pink, Fergie and the Pussycat Dolls.

Even worse for Lady Gaga is that this could easily be an album by Gwen Stefani or at a push Rihanna. Whilst it could be seen as a good thing, the failure to establish an individual identity is something that needs to be worked if she wants to stand out from the crowd. There are no cheesy songs that harp on about an ex boyfriend or the loss of a family pet like you’d find from Britney Spears or Christina Aguilera. Instead there is a bit more aggression and fiest, but not enough for a naughty word to be included like boobs or poo.

Title track The Fame is typical of the album’s overall sound. Throughout the song, one of those niggling and addictive melodies penetrates you’re brain and you can’t quite forget about it. In the most unlikely of places, you’ll find yourself whistling along to a song. All to the annoyance of anyone that happens to be around you.

Even if you don’t like the overly camp disco sound of er… Disco Heaven it still has redeeming qualities to it which would no doubt have all sorts of drum and bass DJs desperate to add a few extra beats and chop up the vocals. However, the whole album doesn’t have that nice flowing feeling to it. To me, it just seems that track one Just Dance was completed first followed by the second song Love Game and that’s how the tracklisting came to be.

So who is this album for then? The average skinny indie kid would turn their nose up at it and any metal fan would immediately disown it. However, if you like good quality chart music that isn’t reared from a reality show, this release has the makings to establish Lady Gaga as one of the future heroines of pop with a record that has seen her lay the foundations of taking over the reins from veteran hags like Madonna.

The guitar is also present but it emits a brash and gloriously dusty sound that is suitably paired with Hazel’s smokey and fainting voice; close to a loud whisper. The opener Midwich Sleep On is a prime example of that; it has gritty guitar lines and the banjo in the background.

Many people disdain any sort of pipe used as a musical instrument but Hazel Winter does it in premium experimental and retarded fashion. In Turn The Main Siren On you can find the brash guitars, but here they are topped with sloppy and urgent pan pipes in the background and, at mid-song, bagpipes(!). They work the treat and it will make you wonder why more popular music artists don’t explore this ground.

The Candyman Walks is nearly a lullaby; her voice is shaky here and lines like “deep down the walls are breathing” gives the song the lyrical gloom that matches the sound. The last tracks are quite interesting. Music To Self Harm To has a bizarre title and Christmas Chrysanthemms features more random Celtic sounds. For the distracted listener the tracks in Situation Normal Then will all sound the same, but if you pay a little attention you’ll find endearing beauty and musicianship.

The album opener, All My Friends, quickly and mercifully robbed me of my anxieties, but replaced them with fresh ones. The track consists of rumbling drums, cymbals and piano, but then enters the hotly anticipated choir - it sounds like a drunken rugby team trying to slowly wail “All my friends are here” in unison. The attempt clearly tires them further and results in them merely howling and groaning in an undignified manner as the track slips away. This is the second reason I say I “ended up” liking this record – initially I thought it was going to be truly awful.

However, the second track, Are Animals (its title cunningly following on from the previous track’s), was instantly likeable, and it’s predecessor suddenly makes a lot more sense. A rhythm is established, the tempo increased and the choir sound like they are having a lot more fun. There is whooping and hand-clapping and for some reason I pictured a crowd of bearded hippy types dancing round a Maypole with various percussive instruments. And I really wanted to join them. The carnival atmosphere subsides and a brisk, addictive organ pattern begins - think On The Run by Pink Floyd.

Summerheat takes the tempo right back down again with Wyland clearly now in his element creating a dreamy soundscape with various wind instruments and infrequent guitar notes. It sounds wonderful, suspended in space whilst the vocal draws you in even further with its warmth. rr vs d. sounds as whacky as its title, as you are transported to the fairground, accompanied by delightful piano arpeggios and brass melodies. All Myself, a solemn, bluesy lament, follows. Its climax is astonishing; the drums keep the beat whilst the wind section drones, creating space for Wyland to demonstrate his classically trained piano skills with some wonderful motifs.

Four more tracks remain, and collectively they manage to slow the album to a halt with peaceful harmonies and more drones. The final track is called Sleep, and you certainly do feel like sleeping at this point - not from boredom, but because the end of the record gently cushions your ears and makes you feel generally snug.

On the whole, you can’t really dance to it, and you can’t sing along to it, but Verbs is a magical album, capable of exciting and soothing the listener in equal measure.

“Ambient punk” is how Cox best refers to Deerhunter, but the term is misjudged. The themes and sounds of the band recreate post-punk far more aptly, with their intense live shows mirroring Joy Division or Radiohead far more than Patti Smith or the Sex Pistols. Ambient is a fair reflection however but in Microcastle, the band finally pen a few riffs which could allow them to crawl out of the underground.

Their recent tour with Nine Inch Nails also seems strange. Though both Cox and Trent Reznor portray the classic castaways, the similarties stop their and Microcastle should be filed alongside this years great growers with Portishead’s Third and Radiohead’s In Rainbows. Like their UK counterparts Cox can finally express his issues of alienation through good, beautiful melodies, rather than covering up in reverb, drone and negativity. That said, Microcastle is still built on layers of guitar reverb and feeback; but mixed with tape loops and in some cases electronic, drone is an unfair adage. And though Cox’s lyrics still mean little (Cox is off the musical class that view lyrics as another musical instrument), they do reflect the bands more uplifting atmosphere.

Agrophobia is a case in point. As wonderfully pretty as late Mercury Rev, the lyrics finally identify the angst the band are portraying through the repetition of “cover me, come for me, comfort me”, and aren’t sung by Cox but by guitarist Lockett Pundt. Agrophobia is about wanting to be buried alive for the sake of someone else’s pleasure in case you were wondering.

On Never Stops the band finally make feedback beautiful. We can start to see where defining influences Echo and the Bunnymen and Jesus and the Mary Chain are really affect Cox’s song-writing. But it’s 2.30 minutes into the title track that the album takes shape. Bursting into pounding drums, melody breaks out and we can finally relate Deerhunter to their heroes, the Velvet Underground. From then on, Microcastle flourishes. Stand-out track Nothing Ever Happened reinvents the band as serious alternative-rock tour-de-force with an electro addled outro to swoon over, maybe even dance to. Cox finally indulges in his 50’s and 60’s pop inspirations and the results come together to make Microcastle, Deerhunter’s most complete work. Cox has even gone as far to describe the album’s atmospheric closer Twilight By The Lake as “doo-wop, 50s/early 60s, Everly Brothers”.

It looks as if the band have finally found their feet, discovering their place in an already saturated American alternative scene and how best to channel Cox’s obsession with the Velvet Underground, Brian Eno and Echo And The Bunnymen. The demons are still their while the confused, angst-ridden young teenager is still apparent but now we can relate to them, and maybe, god forbid even have a little dance to it.

So it surprised me when the eighties revival gathered pace this year, and, shock horror, wasn’t totally shit. Mystery Jets went all normal and synth-tinged, and created an excellent album in 21. MGMT, though not a band I rate, captured the hearts of NME-readers across the globe by wearing silly trousers and recycling music from twenty-odd years ago. We Are Scientists went all eighties-inspired too, not that anyone noticed. After a couple of listens of Day And Age it becomes clear what decade the Killers have been listening to music from. Indeed, Joy Ride is basically Madonna’s Like a Prayer with different words, but it doesn’t stop it from being toe-tappingly addictive.

Human, despite the atrocity that is the lyric “are we human or are we dancer” is still one of their finest dancefloor-slaying creations, despite the mega-hits that were Mr Brightside, All These Things and When We Were Young. Spaceman is likely to be another massive hit.

Although Sawdust was a collection of b-sides and rarities rather than a proper album, Day And Age feels much more like a follow-up to that collection than Sam’s Town, their last studio album. The mid-section of the album could have slotted straight into Sawdust, which, you would think would represent a lack of a move forward, but is actually the most sensible decision the Las Vegas Mormons could have made. See, while Hot Fuss was way too sickly pop to take seriously, and Sam’s Town far too influenced by Springsteen to properly enjoy, Day And Age feels like the work of a band that (cliché alert) finally feel comfortable in their own skin.

A throbbing baseline gives in to a calypso feel on album standout I Can’t Stay, which oddly enough, sounds like it would be more at home in the fields of Avalon at Glastonbury than the uber chart-botherers from their first two albums did when they headlined the festival last year. It’s still very derivative, but the influences are now buried at least slightly below the surface for the most part. And try as you may to hate them, the melodies that the Killers write will wriggle under your skin, lay eggs, and refuse to shift.

It may not be a classic, but it’s another step in the right direction on their path to U2-style hugeness.

A large part of that enjoyment comes from the arrangements, which are full of unexpected touches. Album opener Batten Down The Hatches kicks things off with a jazzy shuffle, but barely twenty seconds have passed before a country-tinged guitar is thrown into the mix, leading up to a chorus that epitomises what “lounge-metal” actually sounds like. Much of the album unfolds in the same spirit, and whether it’s the cowbell/theremin combination that opens This Suit, or the percussive boing that edges the first verse of Kick Me A Little Bit towards its conclusion, there’s plenty here for connoisseurs of unusual instrumentation. Thankfully, no matter how incongruous these ideas may seem on paper, 12 Stone Toddler’s instrumental backings tend to serve the music rather than detracting from it.

The vocals are another matter. One of the joys to be had from listening to this album is gradually getting great chunks of it stuck in your head, and naturally a lot of this has to do with the vocal melodies - several of the songs (Batten Down The Hatches and the title track spring to mind) boast seriously catchy choruses. But there’s something uneasy about the way the band’s various vocal styles sit alongside each other. Sometimes the lead vocalist’s delivery sounds serious (such as in the chorus to Seasick), but elsewhere you wonder how much tongue remains concealed in his cheek, particularly on the first two tracks. To confuse things further, the backing vocals are often anything but po-faced, regardless of whether or not the lead vocals sound sincere. When everyone is in on the joke it works well enough, such as in the cartoony chorus to This Suit. Elsewhere things seem less natural - the raspy “ba ba bas” on Under The Weather are a nice touch, but grate somewhat alongside the straighter sounding lead line.

Still, when 12 Stone Toddler get it right they validate all the contradictions. Death In The Zoo, my favourite track on the album, sums this up. A reggae-tinged ballad about animal captivity (and possibly more?), punctuated by rock guitars and comically eerie horror-movie tones, it probably doesn’t sound like much fun, but in this band’s hands it manages to be entertaining, tuneful, and even quite poignant in places. While I can’t say the same for all of the album, the strike rate is pretty high, which is lucky, because once you’ve heard these songs you’ll be singing them to yourself for a good while yet.

I must say, much as I appreciate the aesthetic value that Mr Malin brings to life, the universe and everything – when I discovered that his album was an 18-track epic, my initial reaction was “Uh-oh!”. Then when I started listening to it and realised that Mercury Retrospective was a live album of an acoustic gig, my heart sank. Live albums are always a bit tricky, and not many artists can do them a great degree of justice. They either come across as an absolutely terrible live act, like an audio car crash – or they’re just mind-numbingly boring. This is especially true of acoustic gig albums. Even when you’re actually in the audience, the majority of acoustic gigs are nothing more than suicide-inducing evenings of self-torture.

This is sounding like a really negative review, isn’t it? Well it’s not all bad news, because actually, it’s pretty dashed good. My notoriously abysmal attention span notwithstanding, Jesse Malin has such an incredible voice that it was only because the audience cheered at the end of each song that I remembered I was listening to a live album.

The album is more than just the songs. As brilliant as tracks like Swingin’ Man and Going Out West are, a large part of the entertainment and experience comes from the wonderfully rambling monologues in between practically every song. Most notable are his impressions of German interviewers, his views on social networking sites and the perils of being a Jewish New Yorker at Christmas time. If ever he decides to give the music thing a rest, he should really consider having his own stand-up comedy show.

Really, then, the album is a winner on several levels. Firstly, should you be lucky enough to ever see Jesse Malin in concert, you’ll know that at least he’s a brilliant musician. Secondly, there’s the comedy value of his witty social commentaries between songs. Thirdly – it’s not an entirely live album. Luckily for us, the UK issue of the album has, not one, but five bonus studio tracks! The real highlight of these tracks, for me, is his cover of the Pogues’ Fairytale Of New York. A lovely macabre and miserable track – my kind of Christmas song – Jesse’s version adds a breath of fresh air to this old classic. Megan Don’t Know is another brilliant rocked-up number that induces involuntary head-bobbing in a cool, Devil-may-care fashion.

It’s a curious mish-mash of an album, but both the live and studio aspects of the album work together on some really odd level. An entire 18-tracker of an album by anyone may admittedly be quite a stretch for anyone to have time to sit and listen to the whole way through. However, in this instance it’s really worth making the whole world stop around you for a while so you can devote yourself entirely to wallowing in the gorgeous dulcet tones of this fabulous album.

The depth of the percussion in the opening track My Town offers an insight into the range of musicianship that is to come. Gareth Eaton seems to employ the sombreness and sparseness of the tabla to enhance the melody, the musical body of contrasts is accentuated with the interspersed appearances of the electro-synthesisers that come to a crescendo in the bridge where they spiralling sound effects ignite the transition in tempo. The paradoxical nature of the album is established quickly with the heavy guitar riffs and raging vocals of the next track Cum With Me, which could easily be mistaken for another band altogether considering the minimalist approach on the opener. Vocalist Lee McMahon also breaks from the shackles and delivers an impassioned and rip-roaring vocal performance which reaches its peak during the final few renditions of the chorus.

The album’s lack of fluency is perpetuated by tracks such as Pawns On The Fence and debut single Drop Me Off In Rotherham. Both hold their own in terms hooks and infectious tunes, though seem worlds apart in lyrical content and approach. Rather than giving the impression of a multi-faceted band who are willing to take risks, the album instead seems like the culmination of a collection of haphazard tracks by a band dipping their toe in each rock sub-category sound instead of making any one their own. The guitar play of Damian Baughan comes across as confused despite at times producing some level of innovation and leading the melodies which are altogether effective. However, the cheesy and unimaginative opening riff to Ballad Of The Beauty Queen as well as the bland and predictable nature of the guitar in Spirit Of Tennessee are examples of the duplicity of each aspect of the Tivoli’s sound - at times working against them.

Lee McMahon’s lyrics are at times as insipid as his vocals sound forced, lacking any real imagination and seemingly forgettable. Though the vocals seem to lack authenticity throughout, the lyrics do have their saving graces in tracks like Common Foot Soldier and Cheer Up Sunshine where some form of relativity and interest is established. Overall the lyrics perhaps do not live up to the musicianship as they appear stale and banal in comparison to the expansive rhythms, though a few tracks in particular do seem to capture some genuineness and free thought. However, National Service does see the Sheffield foursome set down foundations for their future work as many aspects of the genre have been dabbled with though none of which expanded on leaving the album out in the musical wilderness somewhat.

It seems the Tivoli have found themselves with multiple sore thumbs as their debut album perhaps offers more than what it ultimately gives.

As you might expect Royals is all over the place. At times it is impossible to conceive that anyone has actually written most of the music. Some of the arrangements are so random that they could only be created using a stopwatch. But most of the time it all feels like a stream of consciousness unhindered by the usual rules. The album opens with the drawn-out wavering vocals of All Of Us and from the first lines it is clear that Bischoff has not been blessed with a great voice. There is a connection between despair and beauty but melancholy does not always work as a creative artistic force. What starts off compelling quickly becomes annoying and half way through a huge string arrangement tries to rescue the listener from the eerie apocalyptic trance. All We Know takes a similar approach but without the inevitable search party. The vocals are operatic, the soundscape is David Gilmore meets Vangelis with electronic percussion, lush guitars and fragments of piano. The soft vocal outro is spoiled by the drums. If Bischoff is such a good producer of minimalism, how could he get the mix so wrong? The third of this unsteady trilogy is the spooky instrumental Automatism, a piece played out in negative by a very small orchestra playing tiny instruments.

The best song on the album, undoubtedly, is The Last And Least Likely. From the big Bond-themed string arrangement into the buzzing electronics, a complete change of direction in the mid-section and then an ambient outro - it glides through the five minutes. Children’s Song could be described as pop: annoyingly catchy and familiar making way for some very cool guitars to finish. But this is a brief highlight. The second half of the album is plagued with more pitfalls. Miu Miu is just too weird, random and directionless. The introduction of an Eastern feel is at first interesting but then goes nowhere and the end is a noisy mess. Silver Locket is very slow folk accompanied by ghostly backing vocals and blasts of ’sound’. But it is not all bad news. Tongue Tied is the first glimpse of structure and a pleasant duet with added female vocals. It suffers from persistent soulless electronica and staccato leading to crashing drums and more big strings. For something so challenging, it is all too predictable.

But the biggest disappointment is the final song All I Was. Given the blatant self-indulgence on display, a fifteen minute sprawling epic of twists and turns, highs and lows, and a wealth of ideas would be appropriate - even if it did not work. At least it would be embracing the spirit of the album. What we get is the dreadful All I Was, one of the worst songs on any album this year. Bischoff tries to sing with clarity which falls flat, a delicate arrangement is interrupted by the sound of frogs being hit with big hammers and then just to top it all off, he adds in some whistling. Put in some handclaps and it would have everything. The last minute sounds revisited and uninspired.

Ground-breaking, innovative, different and challenging - these words all have one synonym: Crap. Even if the songs are non-existent, the music is not that great and there is very little talent on offer, the end result can be compelling. This generates a compulsion to listen and to keep listening, so that every note is explored, every word is understood, and every beat is felt. Royals does not pull you in as much as it wants to, mainly due to the improvised feel and the vocals delivering incomprehensible lyrics. What should be free-flowing and natural is more like trying to swim in Marmite.

So what of the Radiohead comparison? It still stands. The approach is the same, but as Ribbons has no core sound to rely on, the songs lack coherence and focus. At least Radiohead are still interesting. The constant use of string arrangements to desperately get things moving, the tendency to fill voids with empty wailing vocals and the creation of atmosphere over genuine substance - all these things make Royals a very frustrating listen which does not improve over time. Some really great ideas are ruined by a lack of discipline and structure. This is obviously the effect Bischoff is going for but the music always suffers when you don’t have a plan. Pure production with very little to produce.

Although they’re classified in some areas as a “man band”, this isn’t the 1990s anymore. Take That have realised that and, although their stage shows pay homage to those initial roots, they’ve definitely navigated through the tricky waters of change. Unlike the classics such as Could It Be Magic, Pray, and Never Forget with their over-the-top dance routines and stage shows, newer material along the lines of Patience, I’d Wait For Life, and recent single Greatest Day have seen the band mellow with age and settle into something vaguely resembling a comfort zone. The dancers may still be there, but the band are now fully honed musicians, rather than just being straight-up singers.

Right from the off this point is drilled home, with the dreamlike The Garden. Laced with reverb and some soothing background noise, Mark Owen kicks off proceedings in an impressive fashion before being overtaken by Gary Barlow for the song’s initial chorus and remaining verses. The theme appears to be redemption, and a sense of a successful return for one of the world’s most successful acts. “This is the life we’ve been given, so open your heart and start loving” is the triumphant exclamation, in a not dissimilar manner to the following song, the album’s taster track Greatest Day - a catchier than expected effort. Greatest Day doesn’t really go anywhere, and never progresses beyond the same few lines repeated throughout, but builds up to a fascinating finale that serves to highlight the band’s incredible return.

Hello starts off sounding like last year’s Morrison-approved Shine, with Owen again kicking off the lead vocals - the rest of the band relegated to the role of bearded barbershop quartet. It’s songs such as these and Julie, the album’s halfway point, that he comes into his own. Owen may not possess a ballad voice like that of Barlow, but when the pace is upped he’s the preferred voice.

Barlow gets plenty of chances to showcase his own particular skill though - that of singing slower songs in the most sincere fashion. The highlight of the album is his rendition of the title track, a similar sounding song to I’d Wait For Life but with far more emotion and falsetto. His refrain of “‘I love you’ was too many words to say” and the haunting combination of piano and what sounds like a badly out of tune circus showtune sets the track apart.

How Did It Come To This brings yet more upbeat pop shenanigans to the party, before Up All Night kicks in. Again led by Owen, it’s the high point for him as soft-rock guitars join the show and the band do their cheesy-background-vocals bit for added effect. However, like Hello earlier on, there’s more than a hint of Shine present in its subtle change of direction.

Going back a track though, How Did It Come To This is a track by one of the other members of the band. Frequently overshadowed by their other two companions, Howard Donald and Jason Orange have made a surprise re-appearance as songwriters on the last two albums. This one is Jason’s though, and he holds the fort admirably. It’s the shortest song on record, but presents one of the album’s more average moments. His fellow former-background-singer Howard also gives it a go on the moving What Is Love? Containing some of the album’s deeper moments - some achievement when it’s at least 60% ballad - he sings “if love it truth then let it break my heart / if love is light then lead me to the dark / if love is a game then I’m playing all my cards”, and there’s real emotion there.

Overall, another sterling effort from one of the only bands to actually make a decent fist of this whole reunion thing. They’ve even went down the hidden track route and included a real gem - She Said - at the end of Hold Up A Light. Featuring a stripped down approach, it’s a close challenger for highlight of the album. This attempt may not be as good as 2006’s comeback record, but it’s certainly destined to be one of the most popular and successful albums of 2008 - and with good reason.

But could this be the rare case? The raucous side to their playing is apparent throughout, as is the synth driven underlay, but it relies on neither of these attributes to see the album through to a distinguished enough end result.

Opener London’s Burning is the shining example of this dilemma. At the start its guitar driven side holds your intrigue and pleases, but with a chorus sweet to the tooth change in tact is announced and the split is made. This motif is consistent throughout but Haunts have enough quality to see it through. Breaking Up holds its core with a heartfelt sentiment and is epic enough for the group without straying away from their comfort zone. Other highlights held here come further on in the album and closer Low Slung City Skyline rounds off a joyous if stagnant album that feeds off equal parts pop and rock.

If nothing else Haunts have produced something to build on. Different enough from similar ilk (Rifles, Paddingtons et al) they do however lack the real bite that has seen acts like Nine Black Alps steal shows. The parts are here, now it is time to refine and come back with something that can really stand out but this will do for now.

With a third eponymous album, the Bronx are either trying to make a big point statement or are just lazy arseholes. Either way they gain points for the fact it’ll piss off iPod owners. They admit it in opener Knifeman when they state “everything is digital and the formulas are falling apart”. It’s a raucous opener, thrashing it’s way across a landscape of pummelling guitars. “We’re spoonfed our desire” cries Matt Caughttran orchestrating the chaos. Inveigh is a very listenable glam-punk (my most oxymoronic made-up genre to date), sounding like Kasabian’s Shoot The Runner on steroids, humping anything that moves into submission. “We are impossibly strong” The Bronx scream at us.

And at this point they are - it all seems very relevant, there is something to be angry about at the moment. That’s why it’s a bit annoying when we’re dealt with the all-too-jolly sounding Past Lives which bears a resemblance to Oasis musically. Bollocks! Punk just momentarily died on its arse! Enemy Minds is a rampage of a track, with Caughttran adopting a Jagger-esque swagger before volleying a screaming vocal over the cacophonous chorus. It’s immense. Enemy Minds is followed by the extremely Hivesy number Pleasure Seekers, an angry, spewing assault layered with a sheer don’t-give-a-fuck attitude but with soaring undertones, but one that is lyrically sharp - “desperation is more inspiration” Caughttran announces - and it’s this lyric which sums up why this album works so well - it has a context. There is something real and sincere behind the anger - this isn’t mindless punk angst, but a venomous, scathing assault on a society which is attempting to crush punk ethics, but by doing so spurring these ideas on all the more. Either way it makes for some bloody good rock songs.

Six Days A Week is next, a whizzing, swirling barricade of bass-drum thumping and thrashing bass - it’s epic, the galloping drum beat of the end, over an incredible yell from Caughttran taking the album to new heights. Seventh track, Voung Bloods is a bit of a dud in all honesty, which is a shame as it diverts the unrelenting stream of fury which has preceded it - just rather bland, whistling over the head of the listener without discernible impact. Ship High In Transit is an atmospheric zombie-rampage, hitting everything within a five-yard radius in the face with a fucking massive guitar. It’s a surf-punk, garage cataclysm of noise. This is followed by the couplet of colossal anthems - Minutes In Night a furious orgasm of headbanging- Caughttran’s magnetic voice still refusing to be overshadowed by the colossal wall of sound that is being generated by his band, and Spanish Handshake with a catchy riff embellished by pirate-esque chants of creeping up on the onslaught of animalism. The Bronx refuse to fall into the trap of winding down slowly with album closer Digital Leash, savouring every last moment of the record, every second of quietness a second that could be spent screaming, shouting and kicking out at anyone who refuses to listen to them. It starts and stops abruptly, but feels completely, well, complete. It’s mesmeric, epic and absolutely awesome.

“All we really want is someone to ignore us, cos all we ever get is people to control us” Caughttran asserts on Pleasure Seekers. Punk music only works when there is a context for it - today there genuinely is one, a very tangible sense of disillusionment and boredom in rock’n'roll. With this album, the Bronx have dared to do something different, lashing out with real energy and rancour, and in doing so, amidst the chaos, have created a punk rock gem.

In case you aren’t aware, the Fireman is McCartney’s side project, that has him paired up with Youth, formerly of Killing Joke, a guy whose resume is pretty damn near flawless. And in case you aren’t aware, Paul McCartney used to play in the popular musical group, the Beatles.

I wish that last sentence was a necessary one, as if it was a mandatory explanation, it would indicate that the majority of people were not acutely alert to his musical past, and thus would make it easier to dissect his recent efforts without the rosy glow of melancholy setting in the second his name is mentioned. So I’m going to assume you don’t know this guy from a hole in the ground, which will allow me to explain his new effort more objectively and fairly. It also will permit me to not use that ridiculous knight prefix. Gotta stay in character, right?

Here’s the good news: I have listened to Electric Arguments through several times over now, and my fondness for the album hasn’t decreased one iota, not only that but I continue to find new elements to the record that went previously unheard, which really isn’t my fault, as there is a fair amount of reverb and layers present throughout. It also incorporates a vast number of musical styles that for the most part flows together seamlessly. I always hated when I heard musicians say “this record isn’t really about songs, it’s more about the full album”. Like I know what they’re getting at, but not sounding hopelessly pretentious when you utter that phrase, or any variation of it, is an exercise in futility. However, in the case of Electric Arguments, it’s not a huge stretch, as most of these tracks strike me as having the potential to be effective in their own right when placed alone, but would still most likely sound a bit lost without the rest. The bad news however, is it’s no masterpiece, and I would love to hear anybody’s justification for placing it among the best albums of 2008.

Like I said, Electric Arguments is quite difficult to classify, but it can still be divided into two acts. The first half of the album is more conventionally structured, despite borrowing from a hefty amount of genres. The first four tracks alone are the highlight of Fireman’s entire catalogue, as the garage-blues stomper Nothing Too Much Just Out Of Sight is one of the best openers I have heard in a long time, and that I can place among the year’s best album introductions. Two Magpies, the track that follows, might be the quintessential relaxing on the front porch with a cold beer tune. It is free of Electric Argument’s usual blips and roaming wash of electronic (though strangely organic) noise that permeates so much of the rest of the album, as does Sing The Changes, the best U2 song they have never written. The fourth track, and my personal favourite, is Travelling Light, a brilliantly executed mid-tempo number that recalls the best of Terry Reid’s mid-seventies output. The song seems to have a life of its own, and over five minutes, it grows, evolves, morphs, and eventually disappears into the night, leaving us with doom in our hearts and blood in the eyes.

The following eight songs aren’t exactly a giant leap in the wrong direction after that tremendously promising start, but I can say that there is nothing among the remaining songs that come close to matching Travelling Light. It didn’t take long for me to notice the second act of Electric Arguments bears strong resemblances to David Gilmour’s On An Island release except you know, actually worthwhile. Like his release, the sound doesn’t so much arrive, as it does float around aimlessly, but here none of it seems artificial or carefully processed, instead the free-wandering resonance becomes the album’s defiant strength. Yes there are verses and choruses, but you have to be willing to be a bit flexible if you’re a traditionalist when it comes to those terms, as McCartney allows them to come and go as they please.

It’s tougher to pick standouts for the second half, because its function is more of a cohesive whole then go for home runs, and I think that might be the biggest testament to the album’s linear yet relaxed path that never loess it’s way or falls off-course. McCartney never rushes anything, picks his spots, and lets the execution speak for itself. The seventh track, Sun Is Shining could have been a lame stab at a modern Beatles single, but instead it evokes some of Jane’s Addiction‘s stripped down, unrefined acoustic material that definitely shares the same “throw open the window and let the summer breeze come in” approach that doesn’t try to do a lot, but does indeed meet the listener halfway.

To be honest, from listening to McCartney’s recent solo outings, not to mention his previous Fireman efforts, I’m not sure he has a masterpiece in him anymore. That’s not to say he hasn’t been trying, he certainly has repeatedly over the years, and I just haven’t even seen flashes of brilliance that last long enough to that indicate he’s capable of another magnum opus. A lot of people might find that sad to hear, but with Electric Arguments, he has appeared to have accepted his limitations and delivered a record long on tranquil sanguinity and short on Hail Mary’s at past greatness. Not only that, but he tries a few new tricks along the way. I don’t know about you, but that’s all I’m going to ask from Sir Fireman.

For example: The first three tracks (Chinese Democracy, Shackler’s Revenge and Better) are three of the most perfect slices of head noddingly melodic rock you are likely to hear all year. It also strikes you quite quickly just how well crafted the album is. These first handful tracks alone showcase an understated yet epic guitar battle behind the chorus’s of Chinese Democracy and Better, whilst Shackler’s Revenge features a truly savage multi-structured chorus over an almost club-style drumbeat.

And then, just as you think you’ve gotten into the album’s groove, it all changes for a while, this time to more of a ballad vibe. Track five is the rather clumsily titled Street Of Dreams, which, although it sounds like a bad Patricia Scanlan book, is actually a rather old school GNR power ballad that would easily find a place on either Use Your Illusion albums. There Was A Time is in a similar vein, albeit on a larger scale, as a large orchestral score sweeps in behind Rose’s anguished howling (think November Rain for the modern day).

The overall idea behind Chinese Democracy seems to be experimentation: “what would it sound like if we put a crazy guitar solo here, or if we used an r’n’b style drumbeat here?” Whilst this serves to make a lot of the album sound fresh, unique and not just a retread of past G’N’R offerings, it means that some of the most experimental songs fall flat on their faces. Prime examples of this are If The World, which tries to marry a Spanish guitar line and a hip-hop drumbeat (the latter of course should be no-where near a hard rock record such as this), Madagascar similarly tries to throw too many ingredients together in the hope of a cohesive end result and fails due to its pure self indulgence, and Riad N’ The Bedouins just sounds too much like a messy Led Zeppelin tribute, not helped by the fact Rose’s vocal performance is all over the shop. The album closes on a high with the sinister, angry piano led This I Love, and some immense guitar work on Prostitute, some of the songs in between pass by without much impact but only the three already mentioned are inherently bad.

The real beauty of Chinese Democracy is that no matter how dauntingly long the personnel list seems on each song and no matter how many guitars seem to be playing at the same time, it always feels right. Every note has its place and sounds immense, especially when played by guitarists Buckethead or Bumblefoot, and considering the amount going on in each song its amazing the majority of them feel cohesive. Chinese democracy isn’t an album that’s just been written and recorded, it’s been expertly crafted to give the listener something different, something odd and something that is definitely a classic rock record in every sense of the words, and for that we should applaud GNR.

With such thought provoking titles as The Truth Hurts So This Should Be Painless and The Year In Review’, there is the initial worry that the album may be a little overblown for its own good, however, it manages the difficult task of being evocative without feeling preachy. There are singularly peculiar tracks such as Four Tapping Shoes And A Kiss, outwardly a harmonic filled, foot-tap driven, thinly veiled ode to tap dancing (!). Vocally and lyrically there are moments where comparison could be drawn to Isaac Brock (of Modest Mouse) but musically Her Space Holiday are an entirely different beast, with jangles and handclaps smattered throughout. Tracks such as the aforementioned slip towards the borrowing of muffled production techniques from 1960’s institutions such as the Beatles - Sergeant Peppers. My only qualm with the album is its sheer mass – as noted by the expansive catalogue, things are never done by halves, and at 14 tracks this offering is a little lumpen. However, the flow of tracks is ceaseless, with themes and lyrical revivals echoing throughout the album, the imagery transported through to the attenuated beauty of closing track One For My Soul (Good Night), bringing back in to play the earlier refrain “new kid revival / turn up the sound of the song” established in the opening track.

It is tempting to draw slack comparisons and say that this album will be loved by fans of contemporary sound-alikes such as Conor Oberst, but to be quite honest, Her Space Holiday were there first in many respects, pioneers of the genre in their own right. The New Kid Revival is a significant work, retaining an earthy core of experimentalism, but pandering to a less vernacular audience.