Eyes So Bright

"I think I love you... I FUCKING MIGHT!"

St Vincent only swears the once during her show at Queen Elizabeth Hall but it's enough to tell me that she's having a bloody good time. Marnie Stern, step aside, because this is how it's done. My first seated show in a few years (the last being Eels in this very venue) is welcome because Annie Clark plays for a-a-a-ges and is all the better for it. From the opening swampiness of Surgeon through the twinkling of Save Me From What I Want, this is a perfect blend of old favourites (a few tracks from Marry Me also appear, making this more satisfying than a National show) and new cuts.

It's difficult to distinguish the best performance in an evening full of superlative moments, but Year of the Tiger swallows the atmospheric closer of Strange Mercy and becomes a wall of sound. The occasional suffocating sensation that accompanies a St Vincent listen is absent, replaced by a feeling of wonderment, awe and sheer joy, with only a shotgun of a kick-drum and a blistering head-shrink of a light show that at times seemed to exist only to induce mild trauma.

Live shows of the modern age don't always live up to the experience of the record (what's cooking, Panda Bear?) but Clark and her troupe are on the top of their game. While it never transcends into a religious experience (although, seeing Death Cab for Cutie a week later proves that isn't a bad thing), there is enough, whoa, rock and roll here to satisfy the die-hards and the people who were dragged along by pals who made them watch the video to Cruel once or twice (as if! Who'd need to be dragged?).

Speaking of Cruel, it's the anecdotes and stories between tracks that make this an experience. Clark's deadpan delivery (as is the case with any hardcore Arrested Development fan) makes the off-kilter nature of the video sound almost whimsical, a flight of fancy, something which this show never is.

It's only Chloe In The Afternoon that still seems to jar, with its lyrics that don't sync to the music, but when the encore opens with the most gorgeous version of The Party you'll ever hear, it's hard to pick fault on something so subjective.

"Why can't we go somewhere else?", Clark cries on an aggressive Marrow. Why would we want to.

Invaders Must Die!

Bikes ahoy!

You might know Joe Cornish as part of Adam and Joe. You might not. What's clear when you see Attack the Block is that Cornish is emerging from the shadow of close pal and collaborator Edgar Wright.

Wright acts as one of a cabal of Executive Producers on Block and while there have been comparisons to the films of John Carpenter and Shaun of the Dead this is no cut-and-paste job.

The premise is simple and fantastic. Alien spaceship crashes while kids mug a nurse. Kids kick the crap out of alien. More aliens turn up. Kids and aliens kick the crap out of each other in equal measure. Throw in some astute social commentary, dark humour and a bit of gore and you've got a film, boi!

The trailer made Block look like a laugh-a-minute comedy but the finished work shows an ambitious use of light as the gang of five use their home-turf advantage to take it to the invaders.

The gang, led by a superb John Boyega (who is sure to see his twitter followers multiply), give the film its emotional core. Cornish spent time with a group of teens to make sure he got the slang perfect, to show the boredom that leads to posturing and mugging. The kids love the block, does the block love them? Cornish uses the rare moments when the boys connect outside of their own world to show how they're really disconnected from everything.

There have been a few murmurings about the slang being irritating but while it grates for the first few minutes, it comes to feel right. This is how a lot of teenagers speak today. Seeing as a lot of teens go to the cinema because they can't go to a pub or club, why alienate them from there. You're a bit of a snob if you decide these kids are punks who can't talk properly.

The characters make this film, from Pest with his rudeboi schtick to the smaller kids who want to be part of the gang but can only bring a cap gun and a super-soaker to proceedings - "Water ain't no good against dem tings" - "It ain't water..." Props indeed. Boyega's Moses is the root of the film's appeal as he realises that with great power - or lack of therein - comes great responsibility.

There's your token moron hipster who hangs around in places that would shock his trust-fund parents who eventually proves he's more than a haircut. Jodie Whittaker is quite sweary as the mugging victim who has to help her attackers - "You got a potty mouth love." You understand her attitude to the kids at the beginning and her interpretation of the culture - "So it would have been alright to mug me if I didn't live here?!" - and we soften as she does. If you want a social barometer, you got it.

The use of darkness (or the lack of light) is the key to Block's success, in fact, the monsters resemble something from Abe's Oddysee or Heart of Darkness on the PSone eons ago. The constant on-off of Wyndham Court's lights gives off that Carpenter impression. Hopeless against a superior enemy, the survivors use their knowledge of the territory to their advantage.

Whether police (or feds, even) getting mauled by gorilla-dog-aliens is more shocking than the initial violence in Carpenter's Assault on Precinct 13 is a moot point. These kids don't have guns or a bike gang swarming around to get them. They are the bike gang. They've got fireworks, kitchen knives and baseball bats against fluorescent blue fangs. They don't stand a chance. But that's what makes Block half the fun it is.

The film even has a more satisfying conclusion than Shaun of the Dead or Precinct, although quite how you expect Shaun and friends to defeat the zombie apocalypse without the army's help is a debate for the pub. The gang solve their own problems because, in this world, who else will do it for them?

The stand-out sequence involves a smoke-filled corridor, light dimmed by the swirling suffocation and the loss of comrades in front. Absolutely bloody terrifying. Cornish shows you don't need naff, jumpy music to cause a scare - the score is superb - it's all achieved through clever cinematography, atmosphere and great acting.

It sounds straight-forward but there are enough schlock-horror films these days it's a wonder films like Block get made at all. Another triumph for the now-departed UK Film Council following The King's Speech and several others - it's abolition is nothing short of a national disgrace - sees Cornish enter the new Brit school of film-makers with Wright and Matthew Vaughn.

So can you finally make Ant-Man now, Joe?

When Life Gives Me Lemons I Make Lemonade by The Boy Least Likely To

Starman

And we're back.

You might have noticed the new series of Doctor Who started this weekend and The Impossible Astronaut compelled me to have a word splurge.

To start a series off with a two-parter is more like the old days of the series and it marked the new direction under Stephen Moffat by starting with creatures that were disturbing and, whoa, scary.

Remember the adipose? They were amusing, sure, but at the ultimate end it was just another episode with an alien disguised as a human and a blinky spaceship and David Tennant making lots of 'ohhhhhhs' and funny faces.

It was almost inevitable that every series of Doctor Who should start with some mild peril gambit of the world being in danger via some silly source that you couldn't quite take seriously (autons, aformentioned adipose, a weird translucent floating snake and some cops made of eyeballs).

Of course, these episodes would hint at what was to come, some bigger whodunit to be solved after a 42 minute yarn of mild peril and toasted teacakes.

There's more danger in this year's opener, it's sinister, creepy and confusing, thanks to all the bizarre time-travel whatishappeningidontunderstand in the first 10 minutes.

There's nothing wrong with having an over-riding story arc throughout a series, the feature working in brilliant fashion in the last series with reappearing cracks in time, but there are still things left over from last year to explore. EXCITING.

Who did the crackly voice on the Tardis belong to? Is it these aliens in Burton menswear that are trying to take over America? Or is it someone else?

Suave and scary as

That River Song came back (again) and this time there was someone in a spacesuit shooting death-rays caused a backward glance to her debut with Tennant and the library/computer/simulation/godonlyknows gizmo. Is there a link to that? Did she say anything about spooky dead things in spacesuits?

I can't remember and I won't be going back to check but the very fact the thought occurred makes the show feel a bit more American in tone, which can only be a good thing.

Revisiting old stories within the Eccleston/Tennant/Smith age makes the canon stronger and more believable (and accessible to the chiddlers who haven't seen Tom Baker. Their loss, of course...) and, again, more like an American show.

Self-contained series can be a little bit boring after a while, it certainly got to that stage when Russell T Davies was running the show.

When Doctor Who returned all those moons ago the effects were still very much of the old show, in a way. You sort of laughed. The BBC might have thought a big, shiny monster stuck to a ceiling and bullying Simon Pegg was impressive, but when kids have been spoiled with Hollywood special effects then Doctor Who just wasn't going to cut it.

The Moffat run has started to change that. The (over) ambitious special effects have been reined in (bar that whale thing) to allow the ambition of the stories themselves to show through.

Nobody wants the Doctor to become Schumacher's Batman, impotent and standing in the wings while you look at the OTT villains, but there is a lot to be said for taking a bit of plastic, putting it in a mould and making something bloody scary, rather than seeing what The Mill can produce.

Matt Smith is still the coolest thing about Moffat's Doctor Who

The biggest compliment you can give the new series so far is that it is classic Moffat with scares, disembodied children's voices (a staple) and, best of all, it's the episode 5 and 6 two parter right at the bloody beginning!

It can only get better, too, right?

What More Can I Say

The clue's in the title; there isn't a lot more anyone can say about Vampire Weekend that you haven't already read or seen elsewhere. Where the first album was a bit of a mess, the band don't sound like they're competing with Mark Mothersbaugh to score a Wes Anderson film on Contra.

If it ended with the final strains of Giving Up the Gun, then Contra would be an early contender for album of the year (not that this will actually stop it...) but Diplomat's Son is just too long and I Think Ur A Contra sounds like the start of Chores by Animal Collective without becoming anything like the madcap bounce of anything by the Baltimore four-piece.

The rest of Contra is solid, with lead single Cousins providing a spark akin to A-Punk and the debatable 'afrobeat' stuff that always accompanies any review of any Vampire Weekend album is really good this time instead of a distraction, as the opening salvo from Horchata through to Holiday is a freewheeling ode to the ghost of summer future. The autotune makes sporadic appearances and isn't as bad as it sounds. They still sound like they're fumbling with the keys to open the front door, but once Vampire Weekend get in to the house, they'll throw a good party.

***


They should use a pic like this for the front of Marina and the Diamonds' album instead of those weird popart things, they just make her look a bit plastic. There's a lot of girls in the 'pop' market today, they've managed to keep it just on the right side of over-saturation but things always get overplayed in music these days so rather than mill through them all, I'll settle with Marina. She reminds me of Ladyhawke but with more than one good song and there's a cattiness that isn't quite as grating as Lily Allen. GLOVES OFF!

Lady Divine

Ordered!

The Ego's Last Stand

Kevin can't hide his disgust.














Those clever-dicks at the Premier League have decided that Wolves can have a suspended fine of £25,000 dished out because they thought they'd have more chance of beating Burnley than Manyoo, so kept their first-team spare, put the reserves out and got smashed 3-0. Fair enough, you might think, after all, they should try to win every game, but what's the difference in losing 1-0 with your first team and 3-0 with the reserves? Especially if the first-team lose the subsequent (winnable) match as they're knackered from chasing shadows at the theatre of ritual humiliation/disembowelment? The loss to Wolves' goal difference was fixed by beating Burnley 2-0, so who really loses? Not even Burnley, because they don't win away games.

The big issue (and the controversy. Hi!) stems from the fact that some teams (Liverpool) rotate all the time but just seem to avoid this punishment... Correct me if I'm wrong but didn't Rafa Benitez rotate his team at Craven Cottage in a match towards the end of the 07/08 season to save his key players for a Champions League game? Fulham won. Without those three points, they wouldn't have stayed up, and Reading would have. Perhaps Reading should write to the Premier League; kicking up a fuss worked for Sheffield United. Sort of.

People harp on about the fans getting little return for their money on a trip but maybe they should take their beef up with the Premier League too. Such a sour taste would be considerably lessened if the ticket prices weren't obscene. As a Newcastle fan, this sort of piss-taking is par for the course, which the Premier League seem to delight in.

Best league in the world? I take it you don't watch La Liga.

They Always Knew

All I can say is that I hope my Steve Rogers is the new Iron Man prediction works out.

The Snow That Melts The Soonest

27.6 x 19.7 inches, Vicky.

Wicked Game

I finally bought this album. Its sparse and crushing. Wonderful.

Die Slow

Infinity

RIP Jay Reatard.

I hope he is doing something similar to the video on this page in whatever afterlife he ended up in.

A Lot Of The Things You Don't Isn't

I have been on spotify a lot in the last few days. That Local Natives ad is rubbish. They sound like ANOTHER Fleet Foxes. One is more than enough.

That Book of Eli garbage. What? 'Hi, I'm Denzel Washington; I can't be bothered to act'. It makes me mad. Why do people just stop trying when they win an oscar (hyper-generalisation, thanks) Why are people so fucking dumb?

Gah.

Roulette Dares (The Haunt Of)

A rough guide to what I'll be subbing to True Faith this week...

Fans far and wide seem caught in a mighty head-spin about whether they can stomach boycotting merch, let alone the match itself. It can work, though…

You might have seen that Southampton FC almost went to the wall in summer ’09. The mirage of Matt Le Tissier and some bongo consortium fell through and all seemed lost until Markus Liebherr rolled in with his swiss (chocolate) coins to save the club from liquidation. So what? What does this have to do with the mental asylum on Barrack Road? It’s that word which has caused a bit of a stir ever since Special K left; boycott. It began with an FA Cup match against Franchise FC (MK Dons, not Manyoo) on Jan 7 2005 when a small group, coordinated by Nick Illingsworth, refused to attend the match as a protest against the running of the club by one of football’s favourite deluded dickheads, Rupert Lowe.

Previously dismissed as a “vocal minority” by the board, the fans shouldered arms by going to watch Eastleigh instead. This was supposed to be a one off gesture, said Illingsworth; “it’s about time that [they] realised that the fans matter and we won’t keep turning up whatever. [They’ve] had a soft ride and we want to make it a little bit bumpier”. Sound like anyone in particular? Illingsworth is editor of Saints fanzine The Ugly Inside but didn’t receive unanimous backing, others wanted “to support the new manager and the players […] it’s up to others what they do”. Again, we’ve seen this before. Even with the home match against Bolton last season, when most hacks pointed out the dwindling numbers as emblematic of a demise in the fanbase, its much clearer now that a combination of Ashley, the ‘competitive’ nature of the PL and relegation have focussed minds that match-by-match is the way forward. Would Ashley stop acting the fool if there were only 35,000 in the stadium every week, with 5-10,000 of those not buying owt? The attendances this season have been eye-watering and a reason for all exiles (hurrah!) to puff their chests out when discussing the weekend’s events on a Monday morning but, when you look at the example set by these Saints fans, staying away could be something.

Of course, this argument devolves considering the stature of the club in the city and what it means. You don’t need me to tell you what the club is to people far and wide. People don’t want to give up the match. I wouldn’t. I don’t think, in all honesty, it’s a decision anyone who loves their club, regardless of which one it is (Franchise FC exempted), might take. If Ashley sticks around past the summer, would you entertain the idea of stumping up your hard-earned for, well, what? Where does it even go? When Southampton entered administration, Lowe tried to blame the misfortunes of the club on Barclays for ‘irresponsible lending’. Sounds about right in the economic climate in 2008; it also sounds like that shite last summer about Moat being unable to guarantee the overdraft against his purchase of the club. Michael Wilde ousted Rupert Lowe from Southampton in 2006 then welcomed him back with open arms. Who says Moat wouldn’t have done the same with the FCB? We know now that Moat is a crock of shit but at the time he almost got away with it; only his gaffes since the collapse of the sale have brought the chickens home to roost.

The financial troubles at Southampton were augmented by the boycott of around 5000 fans as things lurched from bad to worse to deep shit. A couple of colleagues boycotted and feared for the club, but ‘it was the only way to get the cancer out of the club’. Southampton Independent Supporter’s Association member, Richard Chorley, was evicted from the club AGM in December ’08 for launching thirty pieces of silver at Lowe and Wilde. Something for NUST to think about if they ever prise the keys to SJP out of the FCB’s sweaty mitts… Boycotting might seem like nonsense to some, nufc.com have said before that they won’t endorse anything they wouldn’t do themselves and fair play to them. The key to the message is that this sort of thing can work. Of course, administration is what almost took the club out of existence and allowed it to shed the numbskulls who had steered the ship on to the rocks but without the diminished crowds it would have only allowed the club and its taskmasters to tread water for even longer and to gorge the £24m owed to Norwich Union beyond any possible recoverable amount. The small scale (in stupid modern football terms) of the debt allowed Liebherr to guarantee the club’s future. What if they’d been £10m worse off?

A boycott might never become a reality but that doesn’t mean that you should rule it out, heavy heart or not.

Fucking with Pillheads

I have returned from ATP. It was pretty good, not as good as The Fans Strike Back in May (which I never wrote up on), possibly because there was a bit too much drone and I didn't go to bed on the saturday night which led to me being in splashworld at 10am, knackered, confused and wondering if I would make it through to 1230am to see Lightning Bolt in tiny, tiny Reds. I didn't; fell asleep watching Blade Runner in the chalet. So, I did manage to see the following:

Friday
Bardo Pond
Growing
Stephen Malkmus & The Jicks
J. Mascis & The Fog (an entire guitar solo, then I gave up)
Yeah Yeah Yeahs
Jim Sclavunos DJ set (drummer in Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds)
Múm
Fuck Buttons
Edan Dee Jay Set

Saturday
Afrirampo
Dirty Three
Battles
Melvins
Modest Mouse
Sunn O))) (about 3 minutes worth, all one note, the vibrations went through me, so I went next door)
Belle & Sebastian DJs
Justin Spear

Sunday
Josh T. Pearson
Deerhoof
Mudhoney
Explosions in the Sky
The Mars Volta (playing Inertiatic esp; can't stand them so literally saw this in passing)

Some of these clashed with each other plus weird timetabling meant I didn't see The Breeders (exact sane time as Modest Mouse) and some others I missed because I was knackered (Shellac) or watching awesome TV (Papa M) or couldn't be fussed (Sleepy Sun).

I've stated elsewhere that Sunn O))) were bad but its more just a case of I don't get drone. After watching Fuck Buttons and EITS live I can't say I get them either. EITS are just boring and Fuck Buttons are best on record when you are journeying. I can't just sit and listen to them in my house, I always turn it off. They are blaaaaaah.

Saw Afrirampo as Barry Hogan (ATP founder) claims they put on the best show at ATP ever (a direct tie with Lightning Bolt, for him) and he wasn't wrong. Mental Japanese girls. Bit like a more, er, melodic Melt Banana, I suppose. Great drumming and great audience interaction. Warren Ellis had them on to give out balloons to the crowd during Dirty Three's set. Yeah Yeah Yeahs were excellent, even though they were half an hour late. Karen O responded to the boos with a sweary riposte; "fuck you we just got here you motherfuckerrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrs. I love you ATP. I hate you ATP!" Then she spat water everywhere whilst the entire band proceeded to be 100% awesome for the next hour or so. Best song was either Maps or Modern Romance.

Múm were superb, seemed like they were on at the wrong time of day (10-11pm) but they were pretty soothing following on from Yeah Yeah Yeahs and coming before Fuck Buttons, who almost broke my ears. Drone dance is worse than drone, yeah?

Dirty Three and Battles were a bit up and down. Too much off Ocean Songs and not enough of Indian Love Song, which is absolutely bonkers. Battles were Battles. John Stanier has a really high cymbal and looks like Gordon Brown. The nerds done good.

Melvins are weird. Good but weird. Not sure I'd ever listen to them by choice, The Bloat aside. Four drummers made for a pretty weird experience, with two of them coming from Modest Mouse. The last ten minutes were literally just drumming with Dale Crover shouting "DEATH. PLAYS. FOR. KEEPS." Mental.

Modest Mouse were loud as crikey and played a good mix of new and old stuff as Isaac Brock drank cayenne and vinegar for a sore throat... Josh T. Pearson was a weird, great folk man and Deerhoof were as odd as you'd expect from a programme note that said:

Basket Ball Basket Ball Basket
Dribble
Pivot Pivot Pivot Pivot Escape
Dribble
Bunny Jump Bunny Jump
Bunny Bunny Bunny Jump
Go Go Champyong
Speed Speed Champyong
Rebound Rebound
Rebound Rebound Ready OK?
Rah Rah Rah Rah Rah

The only other thing to report is that you should, readers all, go on youtube, or download, Brad Neely's Wizard People, Dear Reader, which is sublime. Its the first Harry Potter film overdubbed with a narration by this Texan chap, Neely. Bizarre, hilarious and divine. "YOU WILL BE A WIZARD, IN-FUCKIN'-DEED"!

PS: It is pretty damn chilly in Minehead at this time of year. Next year's Nightmare Before Christmas headliner will have to be Pearl Jam or something for me to commit...

We Call Upon The Author

The rest of them albums of the decade that I can't be bothered to write about as the whole process has become a bit boring all over the net and telly.

In no particular order, the other 8 were/are:

Panda Bear - Person Pitch
LCD Soundsystem - Sound of Silver
Yeah Yeah Yeahs - Fever to Tell
Death From Above 1979 - You're a Woman, I'm a Machine
Sufjan Stevens - Michigan
My Morning Jacket - Z (Fuck Fleet Foxes)
No Age - Nouns
The National - Alligator

Perhaps!

History of a Boring Town

If the last one was somewhat obvious, then this shouldn't be too much of a surprise either. The second in the tedious series of my ten favourite albums of the decade is...

Arcade Fire - Funeral




"There's something wrong; in the heart of man."

Arcade Fire came out of nowhere. Funeral was released in the U.S. as 2004 was petering out and hit the UK in early 2005. They might not be the same band in 2009 (take Lenin from this year's Dark was the Night compilation for Red Hot) but their place in the musical landscape of this decade is assured.

The story behind Funeral is well-versed now. Named so because of the deaths of family members in the recording process, the record takes a long look at life, death and the altogether. How else do you end up with songs like Neighborhood #1 (Tunnels)? A blissful look at relationships in towns: "And if my parents are crying, then I'll dig a tunnel from my window to yours." As Funeral moves up and down between emotional turbulence and excessive introspection, it climbs from wall to another, with sweet, pensive missives in Une Année Sans Lumière and Neighborhood #4 (7 Kettles) to the madness of Neighborhood #3 (Power Out). As the emotion starts to drag you down the pit, a burst of life breaks out from somewhere in this discord of instruments and sets you straight again.

The spiralling angst of Crown of Love and Wake Up remain the peak of the album and the band itself. A right kicking to death on several adverts hasn't diluted the potency of the latter, which remains the best song in an Arcade Fire live set. The chugging guitar motors through the song like a tug boat, people scream and wail for some unknown loss, summer disappears... A shout of discord; "I guess we'll just have to adjust!" Whereas Crown of Love wallows in guilt and self-pity before a controlled explosion of violin takes it off the meds, Wake Up bursts forth straight after, a release of pent up hurt and woe.

The Regine-led tracks seems to get a buffeting in some circles but they are a perfect back-end road block to separate Wake Up from Rebellion (Lies)'s rallying call, "sleepin' in is givin' in, so lift those heavy eyelids." Rebellion (Lies), as with Funeral on the whole, is so intense that it seems to pass in a flash, a spark. This is dispelled byIn The Backseat which moves from a tense build of strings and piano and becomes an absolute shitstorm of noise, akin to something from Björk's Post.

What should be a mess is a swirling love letter to the people and places that inspired it. Funeral sounds like nothing else and expels years of universal anguish in less than 45 minutes. There have been imitators since, but they'll never achieve that.

I'm Affected

Thierry Henry is a cheat. I hope the Irish have the gall to say it. They may not for fear of being charged with bringing the game into disrepute. Cheating prospers. Cheating gets you what you want. How does this crap not bring football into disrepute, instead, then?

Bring on the technology. It would have taken about 30 seconds to a minute to see that not only did Henry handle the ball, but then tapped the ball with his palm to keep it in play. Pathetic. He then tells Richard Dunne at the final whistle that Ireland 'didn't deserve it.'

Shameless bastards.

Shay was super. Super Shay Given.

Brink of the Clouds

With the end of the decade approaching, its about time to evaluate what has made it exciting. Ten records for ten years, not that this means every year will be represented, necessarily. The term best has been precluded by favourite as that makes it a bit more subjective. Which is nice. So, onwards and upwards, in no particular order. To start us off, an under-appreciated gem...

Pearl Jam - Binaural




Not a surprise. The second best rock album of the decade saw Eddie Vedder and the crew at the peak of their powers with an album that distils all of the band's influences to create something that wouldn't be out of place in the back catalogues of Pink Floyd or The Who. Sleight of Hand is a brooding, sonic masterpiece that ebbs and flows like cross-town traffic, culminating in a crescendo of Vedder's cracked vocal and wailing guitars; it sounds like it could knock down buildings. Breakerfall is over before its even begun, a smash'n'grab track, swirling by in a cluster of charged aggression and pinpoint noise.

"When we looked up the word 'binaural,' it meant to listen with both ears. So it seemed like a fitting title for the album" / Stone Gossard

Binaural sees Gossard produce some of his best work on a Pearl Jam album, in terms of feelings as well as riffs. Gossard creates polar opposites in Thin Air and Rival; as Thin Air explores the emotional release of being in love, Rival is Gossard reflecting, an attempt to understand the mindset of a killer and those they touch, on the barren aftermath of the Columbine massacre.

While the naysayers would point to tracks such as Gods' Dice or Evacuation as a sign of the album's inconsistency, it is worth understanding the fragility of the band in the face of uncertainty and change, something which is approached in both Light Years and Nothing as It Seems. While Gods' Dice is by no means Jeff Ament's key contribution to Pearl Jam's history (that would be Nothing As It Seems), the swirling mess it became is emblematic of a band cutting loose and playing their full hand.

"There is a lot of music out there that is very easy to digest but we never wanted to be part of it" / Eddie Vedder

This is not to say that the album didn't suffer a troubled genesis. Jack Irons' departure saw Pearl Jam recruit their fourth drummer in six albums, former Soundgarden drummer Matt Cameron, whilst lead guitarist Mike McCready went into rehab for an addiction to prescription drugs. To top it all off, Vedder had the music for the songs that would become Insignificance and Grievance, but no lyrics. Nothing was forthcoming. Vedder swore himself off the guitar, then he set eyes on a ukelele...

Soon Forget would be forgotten, sandwiched as it is between Sleight of Hand and the focussed, destructive distortion of Parting Ways, but for its innocent uke jangle, Soon Forget is betrayed by a darker set of lyrics as Vedder waves goodbye to a man of destitute greed. He holds wealth, but he is a man without purpose, truly insignificant.

At the prompting of producer Tchad Blake (Binaural was the first Pearl Jam album not produced by Brendan O'Brien), the album focusses wholeheartedly on moods and feelings, whether those are the highest highs (Thin Air) or the crushing lows (Light Years, Parting Ways). Indeed, the mood of fan favourite Sad (originally called Letter to the Dead) was deemed too "pop" by the band, according to Ament, and was cut, as was the Blake-endorsed Fatal. Although both of these tracks would get the eventual release they deserved on Lost Dogs, its difficult to see how the album could have been considered poorer for the inclusion of these songs. A straight swap with Gods' Dice and Evacuation would see little argument about which is Pearl Jam's best studio album - Binaural by a knockout.

Binaural's original tracklisting:

01 Breakerfall
02 Insignificance
03 Evacuation
04 Letter to the Dead (Later renamed Sad)
05 Rival *
06 Grievance
07 Light Years
08 Of the Girl *
09 Thin Air
10 Nothing as It Seems *
11 Fatal
12 Sleight of Hand *
13 Soon Forget *
14 In the Moonlight
15 Parting Ways
16 Education

* indicates use of binaural recording

The pressed album certainly flows better, but whether this is due to familiarity is not so clear. At sixteen tracks, however, a cull was inevitable, as 2002's Riot Act feels bloated at fifteen; as above, whether the right tracks remained in place is an issue of personal preference, but the album's quality remains undiminished. The Guardian's dismissal of the album's "duds" in its 2000 review could well include tracks like Grievance and Rival, but the anger and emotion that is prevalent in the tracks lifts them high above Gods' Dice or Evacuation; as Vedder wails on Grievance, "you don't give blood, then take it back again. We're all deserving something more".

"Because Mike wasn't all there, and there was a 'get-to-know-you' thing with Matt, everyone wasn't on the same page" / Stone Gossard

The evolution of Pearl Jam has continued because of their embrace of the past and a burning hope for a better future and this is apparent in the use of binaural recording techniques on some of the songs, one of the most successful of which is the Gossard-penned Of the Girl. A love story brimming with sweeping guitars that sound like trains edging away from a station platform, a juddering, bluesy mid-section sees the occasional jams of a Pearl Jam live show brought into the studio. Small tremblings of guitar not dissimilar to Jimi Hendrix echo all over the backdrop; like finding buried treasure. Of The Girl is full of mystery, even after the seven or so years that I've been listening to Binaural, I've never truly gotten to the bottom of the track, never completely discerned just what it is that creates such an air of abstract detachment that draws you in completely, not unlike the album itself.

"The reason that we went with Tchad Blake is because he provides an amazing atmosphere to songs.... So, I think we wanted the artwork to represent that" / Jeff Ament

The emptiness of giant spaces and the feeling of being a miniscule something within them prompted the use of photographs from NASA's Hubble Telescope for the album's cover, inserts and liner notes. Examining these with a soundtrack of Nothing As It Seems creates a dense, crushing feeling that Pearl Jam never captured before or since, encapsulated by Vedder's mutter, "a scratching voice all alone, its nothing like your baritone".

Ultimately, as highlighted by the selection below, Binaural is about a band examining a new direction, and although Pearl Jam didn't reinvent themselves to the extent that Radiohead did with Kid A, the progression from Yield, a balls-out rock'n'roll album, to an introspective work full of elongated tracks and spacial arrangements (the beautiful juxtaposition of April Cameron's viola and Justine Foy's cello against the guitars on Parting Ways) helped Pearl Jam to create their most atmospheric work.

A fractured, aching masterpiece.

The true meaning of Light Years

The Twist

NUST have unveiled their plan to buy the club from the sociopath in charge.

Read an in-depth Q&A with George Caulkin of The Times here.

If you haven't seen Jonas Gutierrez's goal of truly ridiculous (by his nature) proportions, then do so now. Kudos to Danny Simpson too for a remarkable finish.