I went to a Beck show and ended up wishing Beck hadn't shown up. That's the main thought after seeing his most recent show at Massey Hall. In a surprising turn for Beck, with the release of his latest album (a decidedly more subtle group of songs than either his last work, Midnite Vultures, or his best-selling breakthrough album, Odelay) the LA singer-songwriter/genre-skipper asked veteran underground visionaries, The Flaming Lips, to join him as both his opening act and back-up band. It was a great move in theory, but in the end, The Lips, and Wayne Coyne specifically, matched and surpassed Beck in several key live elements: stage presence, exuberance and musicality.

The evening began early with The Flaming Lips airing a video interview with Brian Wilson conducted by Coyne before the band performed. Wayne and band then took the stage (unfortunately being forced to occupy only the front of the stage as all opening bands must endure). Their short set was marred by serious technical problems; the seven songs they did perform were enlightening, enthusiastic and entertaining. Joining Lips' band members Wayne Coyne, Steven Drozdand Michael Ivins were a number of people in furry animal suits, including an owl, several cats, some rabbits, a goldfish and several unidentifiable characters all waving flashlights and dancing to a revved up performance. As usual, Wayne played the endearing MC dressed in an off-white suit, while Steven and Michael (and later a new drummer) wore horse and rabbit suits.
A large screen behind the Lips played video clips of Cool Hand Luke, a Japanese teenage slice and dice film and a rebroadcast of a mini-cam located in Wayne's microphone that allowed the whole audience to watch his hand puppet show. In the abbreviated set, the band began with a searing version of "Race For The Prize" from The Soft Bulletin, featuring all of the bands' backing tapes, bells and whistles. After that the band began to move into

material from their recent release, Yoshimi Battles The Pink Robots performing "Fight Test" and Part One of the album's title track. But then things went haywire and all of the backing equipment went into meltdown mode for the last three songs — an impromptu stripped-down version of early '90s song, "Put The Waterbug In The Policeman's Ear" followed by a spot-on version of the Lips' new song, "Do You Realize?" and ending with "Waiting For Superman". And that was that. A whole night of The Flaming Lips would be more enjoyable than what followed: a low-key, at times dour, Beck Hansen.
After a break, Beck took to the full stage surrounded by glowing pink globes and proceeded to perform three songs solo before the Flaming Lips joined him on stage. The solo portion of the evening was well conceived by Beck and well received by the audience.

He mixed an older song as well as "Lost Cause" and" Guess I'm Doing Fine" (which really does sound like a lost Willie P. Bennett song). The full band set began well with renditions of Sea Change's "The Golden Age" and Mutations' "Tropicalia," began to trail off around the middle of the show, rescued only by Beck's solo rendition of Mutations' "Nobody's Fault But My Own" performed on harmonium. Another highlight was the surprise rendition of Beck's earliest hit, "Loser." Supposedly, The Flaming Lips were able to pick the whole set list and I'm not surprised. Throughout Beck's performance with the band, the Lips seemed a hundred times more enthusiastic about playing than he was. Wayne Coyne kept pumping his fist in the air, single-handedly battling Beck's on-stage nonchalance. A better lineup would have been Beck playing solo opening up for The Flaming Lips. They rock!
 
 

With support from rising indie-pop purveyors Athlete setting the tone for the jilted-alt musical-variety, only unfeasibly eclectic offerings from DJs Steve Mackey and Jarvis Cocker from Pulp can further exasperate anticipation for the main-event. And when the lights dim, the crowd roars and the backdrop unravels, the excitement is impenetrable. Out they march, clinging to their designated performance-space with faithful aptitude, and trailing behind arrives DeLaughter, smiling jovially like a school-caretaker that’s just received a good-will Christmas-present from the playground’s biggest trouble-maker. Before any proceedings are set underway, he greets and thanks us for our attendance, and the sound of thousands of hearts melting proves deafening. Almost deafening in fact as the mighty swath of choral-chants and sweeping instruments that douse the opener ‘Have A Day’ in true, gigantically-proportioned Broadway style, the following ‘It’s The Sun’ so unashamedly soaring that you’re either witnessing the sprightly showmanship with a wide-open mouth, or busy fetching the Kleenex to avoid obtaining tearful, red eyes.
The following hour continues like-wise, the ensemble ploughing through almost every composition from their debut-LP ‘The Beginning Stages Of…’, and even showing off a newie that blends Mercury Rev with big-band brass to blurt the defining line, ‘You’ve gotta be good/You’ve gotta be strong/You’ve gotta be 2,000 places at once…’ (Easier for them to say, at least, what with the number of people within their posse). But the highlight comes mid-set – the prior-DJing Jarvis joining the ‘Spree’s choir to sing on rapturously-taken singles ‘Hanging Around’ (designated a top-40 hit just today, incidentally) and ‘Soldier Girl’, with a mighty reprise of ‘… Sun’ prior to an encore of Bowie’s ‘Five Years’ granting standing-ovations in the balconies, and multitudes of waving-arms in the standing-pit.
So, clearly, the disease of enchantment inspired during The Polyphonics’ original appearance on UK-soil all the way back in the summer continues to be the most contagious and wildly received all round. The moment when their joy isn’t so sorely needed as now will be a bleak time for humanity.
 
 

If it doesn’t feature one already, The Coral’s tour-bus should have a ‘This Machine Kills Normality’ sticker displayed proudly on the rear windscreen. The Lemon Grove is a long distance from their native Liverpool, but it matters little as their sound is one that doesn’t actually seem to fit any geographical location; just as they are as comfortable slipping from Polka one minute to Gregorian-chanting the next, the sextet act as if they’re right at home, no matter how far away from Merseyside they might be. And, tonight, a sold out Exeter crowd are very hospitable indeed.
One crew who’ve just had first-hand experience of the journey down from the north are the evening’s first act, The Stands. Making the mammoth trip down from Liverpool simply to do this gig might have been time-consuming, but a wasted journey it was not. To look at, they’re an odd mix of indie fringes and Albert Hammond curls and leather jackets. To listen to, it’s a well-received mix of McCartney, Young and Dylan. Collectively, it’s a combination that was never likely to fail, and whilst they haven’t quite added much of their own flair to proceedings so far, it’s not a foolhardy prediction to say this won’t take long... If you’ve got a spare eye, you’d do well to keep one poised on The Stands.
The Hokum Clones, second on tonight’s triple bill of bands from near the ‘Pool, take pride in the fact that nobody seems to know what they’re up to. The twosome spend their entire set lit by only two soft spotlights casting fearsome shadows over their otherwise normal appearances. It’s even all acoustic, occasionally beefed up with the odd harmonica solo, and dark in a kind of Tim Burton, if-he-was-a-blues-musician, way. An exceptional ‘Breaking from a Jailhouse’ markedly showcases their musical and vocal ability flawlessly, and rightly receives the biggest crowd-reaction, the contingent clapping along in some form of comforting, smoke-induced trance; sure, nobody knows quite what game they’re playing, but everyone seems to want to join in. 
The Coral’s hour-long set starts with a search for a girl who looks like Dave Grohl. ‘Has anyone seen her? We want to take her home,’ enquires cherub-faced frontman, James Skelly. They then proceed to have a fight about who gets to keep her before the music (literally) sets sail. A note-perfect ‘Spanish Main’ gets things underway before they sonically assault near-on every track from their extraordinary, self-titled debut album.
And even some of what are, arguably, that long-player’s less inspired moments suddenly make perfect sense in a live setting; ‘Waiting For The Heartaches’ changes from a plodding croon to something you can move to, and ‘Bad Man’ translates with much more twisted energy in this hazy room tonight than it manages on record. For all its meandering, though, none of this is in the least bit freeform, each note, time signature change and burst of other worldly noise choreographed to careful precision. It works best on a brilliantly frenzied ‘Skeleton Key’, when bodies begin to gyrate uncontrollably to the Captain Beefheart-on-speed riffs, hands attacking the air to the mumbling of something about ‘intricate locks’. It all makes no sense whatsoever, but absurdity unquestionably proves to be their virtue.
However, where ‘Skeleton Key’ showcases instrumental-competence, the vocal capabilities on ‘Shadows Fall’ simply blow you away, in a very quiet, sea-shanty-on-a-boat-at-night style. It’s slower than usual, but this just allows for it to saturate your senses even more. Then, just when you’re really starting to believe you’re in some sort of ancient monastery, they throw in some frenzied polka. Crazy fools. When The Coral do write ‘proper’ songs, too, as on the nearly normal current single ‘Dreaming Of You’, it’s by no means a let down. In fact, it’s a highlight of the evening, the crowd splitting into different factions to concentrate on their favourite parts, some bravely taking on the task of the ‘wa-ooh’s and luscious harmonies, the others preferring to skank away to the oompah-ska beats. Which is exactly as it should be.
Despite all the melodic chaos that precedes it, nothing can prepare anyone for the finale. Watching ‘Goodbye’ turn from radio-friendly sing-along to a fifteen-minute long, psychedelic devil-hymn is like the soundtrack to Frankenstein’s monster coming to life and discovering rock and roll. The noise reaches deafening point, things begin to spin, whilst Skelly stands still centre-stage counting his band back in for the main riff. When it kicks in, it’s nothing short of insane brilliance. Magic.
Lest it be remembered, however, that most geniuses go mad after they’ve done their best work. Let’s just hope The Coral never get cured.
 
 

Just when you thought that the genre ‘hard-edged indie’ seemed to have had its ideas evaporated via the precocious likes of those present scene-jumpers, along come X Is Loaded to prove us all wrong. Simply, a Bath five-piece so dynamically enthralling, competent and assured in the live-arena that, as frontman Jake X launches himself into the drumkit during their aptly-titled finale of ‘Mass Exit’, you wouldn’t have anticipated it to end any other way.

Just what planet Oceansize have landed from will be one of music’s most closely-guarded secrets.
Despite currently possessing a reputation only known to those that caught The Cooper Temple Clause’s mammoth UK tour earlier this year when the ‘Size acted as support to the monstrous haircut-bearers, let alone such UK-notables as Haven and Elbow – two acts that have publicly revealed their support of the Manchester quintet – things, unlike the band’s sound, are still relatively low-key surrounding their growth. But, if the group’s upcoming EP, ‘Relapse’, is anything to suggest, especially when coupled with the prospect of a further month of shows in Britain, then the secrecy on this act’s stark uniqueness will be dismissed for once and for all. 
Tonight, incidentally, is the first night of the five-piece’s UK-jaunt. Assembling amongst around 400 keen students are former touring-buddies and locals to the area, TCTC – who proceed to heckle their friends on-stage throughout the performance – and the venue is awash with cheap, scatty ska and rock-anthems that should be hidden in a cupboard marked ‘shame’. Resultantly, the ambiance created prior to tonight’s headline performers is hardly that of thoughtful introspection and anticipation, so much as a drunken expectation to dance around to some live-music. Fortunately, the onlookers are provided with more than a mere, cheap thrill.
Appearing in view with the same cocksure stance of the musical-legends prior to them, a keyboard-dominated instrumental opens proceedings, a blissful serenity and ample elegance swarming the speakers – yet this is hardly accountable of what’s to follow, with the mighty instrument-crashing and crushing intro of ‘Catalyst’ striking and bellowing out enough grinding thunders and intricate instrumentation to enforce all members to physically crouch and hover across the stage as if they’re caught within a hurricane. Visually and musically, we all are compelled a sight and sound so dextrously loaded with vivid motion and ideas that its rhythmic-shadows of Rage Against The Machine fuse obscenely well with abstract concepts employed by Mogwai.
A welcome bout of irony from singer/guitarist Michael of the ‘beautiful’ location within which we’re housed this evening breaks the mould of intensity temporarily, and it’s not long before the hypnotic, churning surges of ‘Amputee’ pulverise full-speed-ahead into yet another symphony of twists and turns akin to the reverberations echoed outwards after a train crashes into an atomic bomb.
But, to ensure their potential wide-spread appeal, amidst the wild eruptions of sheer volume-defying massiveness, there are killer-choruses and songs, god-dammit, a specific new composition so implausibly clever that its oriental undertones inform the memory of similar effects expressed on-screen during James Bond movies every time Odd Job appeared in sight, whilst its horror-show theme eeriness evokes what could form the personal nightmare of Freddy Kruger. 
'And, so, for our last trick,’ announces our frontman, prior to the compelling seizure of ‘Saturday Morning Breakfast Show’, ‘This is the obligatory crowd-pleaser.’ He couldn’t be more right, with the gently swaying first few minutes inducing nodding heads and its exasperatingly gross thicket of textures and noise which form its crescendo inspiring moshing and mouths open, people visibly and righteously aghast at what’s just been witnessed.
For times in music where scenes can often prove predictable, Oceansize are the hugely original and devastatingly perfect ensemble to come along and prove that your wildest dreams are possible. An act seemingly from the future, let’s just be pleased they’re with us now.
 
 

It’s only fitting that 300 of us are huddled remotely closely in London’s intrinsically trendy ICA; not about to witness music of a merely ‘alternative’ stature, we’re also present to truly absorb sounds that would seem out of place anywhere outside such artistically-inclined surroundings. With 2002 officially the year that garage-rock dominated, any questions as to where we’re heading next should be pointed towards two of this evening’s players, Erase Errata and Ill Ease, both at hand to play support to enigmatic boy-girl duo, and rockfeedback favourites, The Kills. 
Despite appearing first-on, it’s the latter of the two which poses threats to truly show signs of where the future of the avant-garde is heading, having already let loose an EP – ‘Greatest Tits’ – so underground and diverse that its name-checks to anyone else currently purveying such a trade are presently limited to say the least. Yet, obscure arrangements and unexpected musical twists and turns don’t appear to transcend beyond the imaginations of some of those here in attendance; ‘I can see some heads nodding,’ states front-woman and main-composer Elizabeth Sharpe, staring at us all with a welcoming glare as if we can be free to exert some signs of enjoyment should we choose to… So we do, and although we’re informed ‘it’s only 9 O’ clock’ begin to join in a muso-y, head-arm movement that seems to make sense at the time.
And why such bizarre physical-jerks? Because it fits to the eccentricity of Sharpe and co’s soundtrack, where noisy combustions of art-guitar, head-bruising bass, innocent fairground keyboards and hectically tight drumming accompany the dulcet repetitiveness of such Elizabeth shout-outs as ‘F**k everyone’ in a ragged unity that seems as if it could voyage over the cliff-edge any moment to produce a startling wall of feedback. As if it couldn’t get more impeccably experimental, we get the obligatory instrument-swap where the set takes a fittingly aggressive change, though even when the lyrical-sentiments continue their head-scratching and twisted themes, Sharpe still maintains an untouchable charm throughout. A grinding, sick groove in here that sounds severely unlike anything/anyone else, we can think of far worse ways to spend the first part of our Friday night.
The aforementioned can be uttered for Erase Errata, too, a female-group so intensely peculiar that their nurse-a-like uniforms appear to act as the sole reference-point of what’s existed and made sense before them. Their frightfully frantic and fast-paced singer even displays signs of deep psychosis, parping on a trumpet in between dashes of trashed-up, fuzzy guitar, soon parading up and down the performance-platform and not-so-insightfully informing us, ‘This is a big stage…’
Even when the jittery jerks of high-notes bass and thundering drums succeed to compel within the likes of ‘Tongue-Tied’, mirroring either Elastica during a heart-attack or The Hives given a makeover by such San Francisco dress-up-dolls, then given the moment they storm off-stage with an attitude that’s both inherently feminine yet rivetingly demonic, you’re assured of their compellingly irreverent, off-the-wall appeal.
But quite where and how all this all fits into the general scheme of all things 2002, the fact remains a mystery. But you could say that Ill Ease and Erase Errata aren’t complying with a consensus of what’s gone on before – and that’s just why either act should be lovingly admired.
 
 

Quite why such strange things happen in life, no-one knows; the possibility of extra-terrestrial beings, an after-life: these are just two issues that have plagued mankind for centuries as to the truth of their origination. But, something even more mysterious has come along… Just why on Earth are one of the UK’s best-loved, rising alternative acts The Electric Soft Parade gracing the location of Britain’s answer to hell – our home-town, High Wycombe?
‘Is it formed from a crater,’ inquisitively asks Matt, the innocent-seeming bassist of tonight’s main attraction, when discussing the geographical landmarks of the town in question during a dressing-room, warm-up drink. There are laughs ensuing, but, technically, the place is built around a valley instead – though full points to the man for detecting the sheer evilness of the boys’ present locality. 
What’s especially surreal about witnessing the Brighton-based four-piece in the specific location this evening is that they’re far above, beyond all this. Having spawned one of the year’s most praised and genuinely infectious, experimental-pop albums in the shape of ‘Holes In The Wall’, not to mention sell-out tours and well-received overseas dates within the likes of Japan and Europe, ESP are continually proving themselves to be the natural successors to the crowns possessed by the elder contemporaries amongst them; young, driven, focussed and steaming with energy, their musical-product is the stuff of vivid ideas competently put into musical-form, and conjuring a rare sound that’s able to cross over into fans of varying genres. 
Tonight, 350 students are justifiably excited by the presence of such characters into their humble campus-building. Indeed, this evening marks the launch of a new venue for Wycombers that will see a lot more alternative-music talent winging its way across the motorway to be present for the notably drunken attendees – though, it’s possibly fair to say that they’re spoilt with what’s to come before them at 10:30pm.
Taking to the stage with a braveness that shall no doubt earn them increasing plaudits as their career progresses, the quartet kick into traditional opener ‘Start Again’, and – immediately – a string breaks on singer Alex White’s guitar. Eek. Redeeming themselves via a quick instrumental-swap, the number is opened again, the charging bass and drums lurching in after the unashamedly-indie six-string chug, the inviting vocals washing over the spectators in a notable allure. Yet, certainly within comparisons of the band’s additional appearances, the reaction is still peculiarly sterile, onlookers visibly enjoying the provided entertainment but far too indulgent in trying to chat up the ugly person next to them than to unveil their true approval. 
Still, for the attentive amongst us, a pleasure is in store ‘til the fiery close; with cocky run-throughs of former singles ‘There’s A Silence’ and the ever-ebullient ‘Empty At The End’ provoking break-outs of choral chanting and naïve, shambolic dancing, it’s by the time brother of Alex, drummer and co-singer Tom takes to the front for a predictably sumptuous ‘Red Balloon For Me’ that you’re captivated and sure of their potential for enduring greatness, the constant build-ups, forceful, driving hooks and watchful, chipper presence offered from start to finish acting as vehemently attention-thieving. 
Though, aside from all the fervent display of talent, it’s mostly quiet. Only a few comments are blurted from the unusually deafening PA – including references to this, quote, ‘shit’ area, and a certain, possibly mythical, Tom Sunderland having the entire performance dedicated to him – and there’s also the aforementioned lack of student oomph. However, with the arrival of a show-ending and defining ‘Silent To The Dark’, all the restrictive response, the almost-anxieties… they’re affirmatively dispelled, subjected to the bin marked ‘F**k Off’, with the towering inferno, choruses and multiple crescendos of ‘Silent…’ serving to dumbfound and captivate all locked within the daze of its melodic charm and challenging sound-wizardry. The effect lasts for a nigh-on, dazzling 20 minutes. The band march off and the crowd finally applauds with true signs of appreciation for the feat they’ve just been fortunate to behold.
Post-show, understandably, the necessity to flee as soon as possible becomes increasingly a priority, save for Tom, who dares to risk staying over for the evening. Yet, despite the uncertainties, evidently, even in the most pedestrian and restrained of atmospheres, it seems that The Electric Soft Parade are able to break through the barrier and offer a winning performance – and that’s testament to their sonic, stirring ability which will hold them in good stead for future years…
Yeah, watch 'em shine over and over again – no matter the whereabouts.
 
 

It seems somewhat fitting that such a happening as The Music playing on a Friday night to a sell-out crowd occurs in Oxford of all places. After all, with a clutch of songs (and haircuts) that evoke freaky dancin’ of the most dangerous variety – and, believe us, such body-movements are unveiled this evening on multiple occasions – this town’s predominantly student-orientated population is the perfect audience, all Stone Roses T-shirts and drunken swaggers. But, despite the impact of the past, what heralds the dreams of tonight’s pair of relative newcomers is the untainted, unsullied vision of the future for British guitar-music. 
Opening for tonight’s headliners are Manchester’s The Rain Band. A group not content with the mere drums-bass-vocalist set-up, they indulge within a shimmering set of DAT-samples, pre-sequenced keyboard-loops and top it off with a classic Ian Brown-esque attitude, singer Richard Nancollis strutting on the spot with the same prowess, vocal-distinction and energy as King Monkey himself, circa 1989.
Yet, once again, this isn’t then – this is all very much now, such deeply engaging numbers as the opening thump of ‘Island’ and naggingly infectious closer ‘Into The Light’ embedding themselves into skulls with the same ease and subtlety needed to stick a pin into even the fluffiest of cotton-wool. With titles such as ‘Fist Of Fury’, ‘Eye 4 An Eye’ and ‘The World Is Ours’, too, evidently, these boys won’t stop ‘til we become their humbled, devoted, loyal subjects. Which ain’t a bad thing.
So on to tonight’s main attraction – a group that have already announced plans to play an almost-arena tour for the start of 2003 in the UK, and a band with a tour-schedule that should see such locales as the US, Japan and Europe falling over in excitement at the quartet’s arrival in their shores before the end of the year. Yes, all this can be achieved so soon, because, quite simply, The Music are 2002 all over: rich in ideas, youthful in attitude and age, naturally talented, and bold enough to inspire wide-spread musical-evolution.

From the outset, the scattering, aloof guitar shudder of ‘The Dance’ promises what the following sixty-five minutes provide: earth-shatteringly large arrangements of groove-heavy bass and thundering drums. It’s perfectly complemented by frontman Rob Harvey, a man now unafraid to let go in public and hop around the stage in the same vein as a hopelessly intoxicated hippie, pulling peace-symbols with his two fingers to a room that mimics his every motion. Alongside this, magically, he’s able to sing and chant in a dazed confidence that harks back to the greats before them, his monsieurs Nutter, Coleman and Jordan perplexingly hitting the spots and reaching for the notes their contemporaries cannot and never will attain.
Thus, with the whirlwind of noise, rush of enthusiasm that greets the ‘Shaft’-esque intro of finest moment ‘The People’, and a room so focussed on enjoyment that you’re certain this stuff could settle conflicts of all proportions, even all this proves to be just half of the event. For, oh yes, this is not even taking into account the trippy wizardry of ‘Human’, up-tempo ‘Let Love Be The Healer’, funked-up ‘Disco’ and riotously rousing ‘The Truth Is No Words’. Or the deafening instrumentals, which crush the centre of the set into a towering ‘Take The Long Road & Walk it’ and ease out the evening in a blaze of blinding lights. As a complete experience, the sensations encountered are unheard of.
The future of music, then. Well, if it’s to be what was witnessed here tonight – and, hopefully, it will be – then it’s the classiness of the past, slapped together with the fresh ideas and abilities of today. And, boy, that means we will be the lucky ones.
 
 

Far from the maddening ‘cunian crowd, London’s two-thousand capacity Astoria is a distant cry from the rolling grounds of last week’s cricket-ground Oasis shows. Gone is the sprawling millionaire cloak he stalked stages with on his last tour. Richard, it would seem, is back to his roots.
Lifting the two year London hiatus with ‘Sonnet’, a second glance towards the keyboard-player reveals that it is Kate Radley; (his wife and former Spiritualized keyboardist). Along with Pete Salisbury on drums, she remains the only familiar face of a backing band which includes a saxophonist and another guitarist who is, of course, heard but not seen. 
Richard himself looks timeless - as thin as he is tall, adorning dark combat overalls, the same shades, the same smile and the same belief, a warm sincerity in his semi-shaven, eternally sunken cheeks.
‘Nature Is The Law’ is the first of the new songs: a slow-burner, and a bit of a test this early on. ‘Lord I’ve Been Trying’ does lift off beautifully though, again, displaying that ever-familiar chuggy manner that Ashcroft can only get away with because of his infinitely emotive song-craft. ‘Song For The Lovers’ becomes a huge anthemic singalong, before ‘Buy It In Bottles’ unfolds into a warm, blissfully beautiful acoustic ballad in league with ‘Sonnet’ itself.
Ashcroft’s wondrous talent for the pure and simple has consistently borne some of the great songs of the last decade, thus, when he chooses to properly indulge in a huge extended version of ‘New York’, we oblige accordingly. Donning a T-shirt thrown on-stage, the song attains monstrous new heights, though these are not regions previous untapped by Ashcroft, and you even begin to wonder whether he really is looking round the stage for Nick McCabe amidst the extended outro. To get the message home then, a trio of acoustic Verve numbers follow. During ‘The Drugs Don’t Work’ he breaks a string, during ‘History’ he forgets the words and during ‘See You In The Next One’ there’s a sea of open-mouthed splendour which melds ecstatic silence with choral hysteria. This is the way these songs were meant to be played.
New single ‘Check The Meaning’, like old favourite, ‘Lucky Man’, is met with the kind of euphoric reaction normally reserved for World Cup victories, with set-closer ‘Bright Lights’ sharing some of the same psychedelic bassy underlay as the prior-played ‘New York’, his mercurial talent for the tragically perfect chord-changes remaining well intact.
He who says Ashcroft will never evolve is proved mistaken, when, at the end of a short two-song encore, he unveils the new incarnation of ‘Bitter Sweet Symphony’. Sounding not unlike ‘This Is Music’ and replacing the famous strings with saxophone solos, it is nothing if not different.
Fittingly, he’s all smiles, he has nothing to prove, and everything to indulge. Early listens to new LP ‘Human Conditions’ show it being a joyful step forward from ‘Alone With Everybody’ into the realms of a deeper, darker beauty attained by some of his previous work with The Verve. Indeed, we love the way it was, but certainly like the way it is now.

LAST UPDATED MONDAY 04 November 2002