The latest releases reviewed
THERAPY? One Cure Fits All Spitfire/Eagle Rock ***
There was a period when it seemed as if Therapy? were taking a long time in going nowhere. Certainly, their excellent, truculent early 1990s records (Babyteeth, Pleasure Death, Nurse) were very much a fond memory. Fast forward to 2003 (High Anxiety) and 2004 (Never Apologise Never Explain), and it seemed as if the band were imploding from lack of direction and melody. Good metal needs more than muscle (ask Metallica) and with One Cure Fits All it seems that Andy Cairns and colleagues have gone back to the drawing board and drafted in the kind of tunesmithery that has already proven an amenable addition to the likes of Queens of the Stone Age. Hence songs as strong as Deluded Son, Rain Hits Concrete, Private Nobody and Dopamine, Seratonin, Adrenaline (which has surefire anthem written all over its skinny, tattooed frame). Therapy? in good album shock? About time. Tony Clayton-Lea
TAPES 'N TAPES The Loon Ibid ***
Coming out of Minneapolis and weighing in with the entire back-catalogue of Pavement, Pixies and Wire by their side, Tapes 'N Tapes are so near the current indie/mainstream tipping point that you fear they may impale themselves on the damn thing. While they're sometimes a little too Clap Your Hands Say Tape for comfort, there nothing wrong with the old-fashioned indie awkwardness that the four-strong Tapes display in spades. Indeed, there are some very bright moments to behold here, especially when the jumpy grooves and off-the-shoulder frills dove-tail with an infectious melody. What makes the wide-eyed Manitoba and the strutting Insistor such winners on this outing is that the band have the presence of mind to cut off their sometimes overwhelming bluster and meandering fill-ins to simply let the tune strut its stuff. The best will come when the cassette completely unspools. www.tapesntapes.com Jim Carroll
VARIOUS They'll Have to Catch Us First Domino ****
Ah Domino, you canny seductress. It's not enough that you've plied us with a Glasgow foursome who just want to make girls dance, string vest hero Will Oldham and the blissful noodlings of Fourtet. Now you go and give us THTCUF - less a selection box of standards than a tempting sampler of acts on the horizon who we'll probably end up embracing to our collective bosom. Adem and Archie Bronson Outfit have never sounded better, The Kills we can live without when we have The Television Personalities, and there's a Bacharach epic shimmy to Clearlake's fantastic It's Getting Light Outside. It's also bookended by two breath-taking finds: Psapp and Juana Molina, the latter a former comedienne who sounds like Astrud Gilberto tinkering with electronic folk. For the penurious sum of around the price of a CD single, you ought to be ashamed of yourself if you don't buy this. www.dominorecordco.com Sinéad Gleeson
FINK Biscuits for Breakfast Ninja Tune **
Deciding, perhaps, that electronica has become an insular, staid and over-crowded arena for his sensitive artistic ambitions, erstwhile Bristol producer Fink has now become a singer-songwriter. Only at Ninja Tune, the committed dance label, could anyone miss this dreadful irony, where the discovery of a Jamie Cullum-wannabe in their ranks must have seemed positively radical. John Martyn is clearly the marker for Fink's wandering folk style, which brushes hopefully up against blues, jazz, soul, whatever. But, with a producer's disregard for melody, Fink is at a loss, assembling a series of pleasantly shuffling rhythms, forgettable guitar licks, and an array of adolescent sentiments which runs the gamut from disappointment to disillusionment, all delivered in an unremarkable slurring croon. Coming to a dorm room near you, then, if its inhabitants find Amy Winehouse just too tough for their liking. www.finkworld.co.uk Peter Crawley
GER WOLFE The Velvet Earth RMG Chart ***
His accent is unmistakeable and his taste for pastoral themes unflinching. With a touch more lyrical honing, Ger Wolfe might risk occasionally touching that elusive void that Nick Drake and Leonard Cohen have managed to mine so effortlessly. The Velvet Earth is his fourth album outing, and it thrives on some sublime string arrangements, particularly on the opener, Scattered Crumbs, and The Golden Boy. At times Wolfe's wilfully childlike observations grate, though, forcing the listener to suspend all measure of reality in deference to maudlin, salutory tales such as Prodigal Child. Thing is, Wolfe is a musically intrepid forager of a subterranean world which could comfortably keep company with Tolkien at his most creatively lucid. Pity, then, that he tends to languish in some school-day anteroom where naivety masquerades as innocence. www.gerwolfe.com Siobhán Long
THE TYDE Three's Co Rough Trade **
Darren Rademaker lives and breathes surfing, but before you run away screaming "aargh, Jack Johnson!", please note that Three's Co is no collection of twee campfire ditties, but a short, sharp selection of melodic power pop tunes, closer in spirit to Spinto Band or Fountains of Wayne than to the surfin' folkie. The songs ride on waves of watery, distorted Wurlitzers, sun-drenched guitar lines and squinting vocals, soundtracking an easy life of surfing, driving to the beach, watching bad TV and just hanging out. There's nothing deep and meaningful in the lyrics of Do it Again Again, Separate Cars, Glassbottom Lights and Aloha Breeze, but the smartly observed satire of Too Many Kims, The Lamest Shows and Ltd Appeal prove that Rademaker is no airhead surf dude. Brock Landers tackles the thorny subject of getting bad reviews for your album, and features guest vocals from wannabe California Thrills man Conor Deasy. www.thetyde.com Kevin Courtney
LEYA Watch You Don't Take Off Rubyworks **
Strap yourself in for the debut album by this Northern Irish band. You might not take off, but you will be dragged along on an emotional rollercoaster - and may have to resist the temptation to jump off in mid-angst. Leya are led by singer/guitarist Ciaran Gribbin, and he can do the range of feelings from lonely to rejected to completely broken down, bringing his voice from a disconsolate whisper to a devastated scream in the space of a five-minute epic tune. Leya may be an indie band, but it's plain that they want to sell records to the same people who bought Coldplay's X+Y and Radiohead's The Bends. Songs start off almost torturously slowly, then build up into big, overwrought anthems, the pianos, guitars, drums and string section piling on the layers of feeling and Gribbin's voice rising to operatic crescendos. While the execution is startling on songs such as Lets Pretend, In Our Hands, On All My Sundays, Prove and All on the Black, it seems as if the songs themselves are nothing more than packhorses to carry the emotional baggage to the next plateau. Kevin Courtney
