Just what does fat-faced-thin-person and Helena Bonham Carter double, Pete Doherty, have to do to get sent down around here?

Yet again, he’s been let off with the threat of prison if/when he fails in his latest bid to stop sucking on the old Apple Jacks and Zammo Powder.

He’s had more appearances before court than he’s released singles* but still they let him out to bother cats with crackpipes and muck himself in a winebago. Why?

What does this affectation-infested former rentboy possibly have over the highly esteemed judicial system of this country.

And fuck all that, he supports QPR.

The one big Gladiator hand thumbs up in his favour though, is that he once decked Max Carlish.

Stop the madness, stop the madness!

* All maths estimated but almost certainly true.

Ey up petal. Not wanting to steal anyone’s limelight like, but I’m not ‘avin no bucktoothed wannabe horse taking over MY homepage. Who said Yorkshiremen were tight eh? Wa’ it you, lad?!

Aye, it’s been a while, I’ll gi’ yer that, but this old Grandfather has been reet busy. My days as a rock ‘n’ roll hero are far from over. I’ve had that sprog from t’Arctic Monkeys on t’phone asking me fer advice. He knows, y’see, he knows that I used to be in Slade before they hit t’big time. He knows how quick t’tide can turn. ‘ow can I ‘elp it that me ‘air wasn’t as funky as Dave bloody Hill’s, I ask yer! Noel Gallgher were reet abaht him. Three ‘aircuts on one ‘ead? That’s just greed and rock ‘n’ roll excess, that is.

Anyroad, young Alex Turner were askin’ fer my advice ‘cos I’m Yorkshire’s official Rock ‘N’ Roll Sage. It’s a very esteemed position, I’ll have you know – and they’ve all been on t’blower to me. That Jarvis Cocker thinks he’s got this job laid out on a plate fer his later years – a nice little retirement package. Well I tell thee now Jarvis, if yer still kickin’ it in 20 years time like Paul McCartney hoppin’ around in black and white wi’ his little ukelele, only then can yer come knockin’ at my door.

T’old music industry does seem a little quiet this week, I ‘ave to say – must be why that donkeh’s goin’ on abaht Peter Doherty yet again. I think it’s fair to say that t’donkeh’s more hooked on old Doherty than the Doherty is himself t’sherbet!

All I will say is thank God that t’bloody Rihanna an’ her Umbrella song has been displaced at last. I’m sorry love, try livin’ in Yorkshire before you start rattlin’ on abaht umbrellas. I tell thee!

Nostalgic fans had one last chance to be horrified in 1994 as Pink Floyd heaved out a final death-defying album before eventually fading into apathy.

Rather than make the heroic sudden exit that many of Britain’s greatest acts chose to make before falling from grace, the Floyd engine simply refused to stop.

Many times by this point the band had churned out a work spurned by critics as the headstone of their demise and now, fronted by a man who wasn’t even there when they started, psychedelia’s biggest legends coughed up what was to be one last dance.

Bearing almost no resemblance to their alter-egos of the sixties, who stumbled through a haze of drugs while frivolously plucking at strings and nonchalantly crooning about bicycles and ancient gods, the nineties Pink Floyd gorged itself on great ensembles of sound, with backing choirs, multiple percussionists, booming synth backing and hefty effect-laden guitar noise.

The album was consequently scoffed at by reviewers as being nothing but a tribute to what once was great. And it would be true to suggest that the album is not their best. But, for me at least, it stands perfectly in its place as the end of a long tale: the closing chapter of an act that has undergone such change it is scarcely believable. And for that reason alone, listening to the songs is an absurdly moving and inspiring experience. With the role of epilogue, The Division Bell sums up Pink Floyd’s transcendence from its innocent and simple infancy to its roaring, commanding adulthood.

Whether intentional or not, the album makes several noticeable references to previous eras of Floyd. Cluster One – there’s the haunting organ sound from Shine On You Crazy Diamond. On Poles Apart we hear the same cheery acoustic guitar sound used in such songs as Fearless and Free Four. And A Great Day For Freedom speaks for itself with its opening line: “On the day the wall came down…” But this isn’t just more of the same; the tone is different – more powerful, less innocent and sometimes a lot moodier. It’s easy to understand why a die-hard fan of the original sound would have been so disgusted.

But of what value is The Division Bell to those of us less educated in the history of Pink Floyd’s music? Even more! Any critic stripped of Pink Floyd’s past accomplishments would surely be impressed by this album. Were it the debut of some adolescent anorak-wearing indie train spotters with a name like ‘The Cooling Vice’ or ‘The Mysterious Blanket’ it would probably gather rave reviews across the nation. I can’t help but feel that it has been widely rated in comparison with previous Floyd efforts, and is therefore subject to enormous prejudice.

The Division Bell isn’t an earth-shattering feat of achievement (despite the fact that the album begins literally with the sound of the earth shattering). But it proves, once and for all, that Pink Floyd has grown old gracefully. Once again in 1994 they gave us new music. And great music.

The year is 1968. Like the dinosaurs before them, The Beatles rule the Earth. They are at their most personally fragmented, musically at their most self-referential (see Glass Onion: “I told you about the walrus and me-man/You know that we’re as close as can be-man/Well here’s another clue for you all/The walrus was Paul”), enlightened by spiritual escapades in the Indian sun and at the cusp of everything that followed, deaths, Wings and whinges.

It is the little songs that work so well here too. Yes, Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da and the Beach Boys winking of Back In The USSR have probably had more airplay than all the other tracks on the first LP put together, but they’re in no way the best.

The White Album isn’t the Holy Grail that some fawners seem to be adamant about pushing, but it is still a terrifically diverse and, at times, frenetic artefact and as listenable on the hundredth playing as the first. Like the Libertines some 35 years later, the White Album is the stage on which the original boys in the band played out their soap opera. The artistic one-upmanship of Lennon and McCartney, the directional pulls, the self-obsessions, the nods to the most observant fans, the spin-off legendary tales of feuds and sojourns… And sometimes they even sound like they’re having fun: Wild Honey Pie.

Lennon gets to put all his rock n’roll sensibilities into a big prom dress and swing them around, pleading and whining to his heart’s content. McCartney gets to go mad with the studio equipment and branch into the sub-genre-plundering that would mark out much of his post-script work. Harrison gets his mates involved and Ringo… well, Ringo is just Ringo.

They bask in the ability to pastiche their heroes (Rocky Racoon’s not a long shot from a bad Bob Dylan impression) and Lennon’s well documented love of the rock and the roll (his infamous jukebox was of course stock full of the stuff) is as well-hidden as a ferret in Compo’s trousers.

Stupid songs, they’ve made a few. In no particular order: Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da, Piggies and the irrepressible The Continuing Story Of Bungalow Bill. I know I shouldn’t… but I love it! The really wonderful thing about Bungalow Bill is that it gets you all silly and singing along and then plunges you headlong into one of the most beautiful guitar songs ever written.

While My Guitar Gently Weeps, with its dream line up of Clapton and Harrison, climbs and chimes, gripping your heart and forcing it upwards, forming a lump in your throat the size Andover. While My Guitar Gently Weeps, with its quasi-sexual moans and groans and unstoppable electric wail, is the stuff of wet dreams for any subsequent pretenders. And ha! In your face Lennon and McCartney, one of the most endearing, enduring tracks was written by the boy, George Harrison. I love that.

Happiness Is A Warm Gun follows, with it’s poster-ready phrases “Mother Superior jumped the gun…” “bang, bang, shoot, shoot”. Again Lennon’s rockabilly cravings are indulged, and this is surely an uncomfortable listen for anyone who knows the story of St John’s death. Which would be everyone.

I’m So Tired, while nice and cute, highlights that whatever people say about Paul, John was just as incapable at resisting cringing throw-away rhymes. “I’m so tired/I haven’t slept a wink/I’m so tired/My mind is on the blink”. But it’s all forgiven with the little rock-breakouts throughout.

The piece de resistance of the ‘little’ songs is Blackbird. So simple “Blackbird singing in the dead of night/take these broken wings and learn to fly”, so lilting, gentle and sweet.

And by stark contrast: Piggies. Less said about that the better.

Why Don’t We Do It In The Road? serves more as a jaunty commercial break betwixt Don’t Pass Me By and I Will. A commercial that is advertising al fresco shagging that is.

And then there’s the ladies: Prudence, Martha, Julia, Sadie. Yawn, yawn, yawn, yawn. I don’t know why it is but whenever there’s a girl involved, the quality of the song takes a nose dive. Hmn…

Birthday, the opening track of the second record, is a fantastic explosion of rock. Made to be played loud it isn’t a far cry from the White Stripes. Not a far cry at all. A blistering opening to another jam-packed record. And Yer Blues, again, indulges the explorer, nay tourist, at the heart of The Beatles. A rocksteady Blues number, not an overly great one, but a valiant crack at pacing out a much-trodden path.

Mother Nature’s Son could have been lifted – except for issues of era and logistics – from Simon and Garfunkel’s Bridge Over Troubled Water. Lovely. And then in the style to which we’re now accustomed the tune, genre and pace takes a hard left and we’re thrown from the buggy and into Everybody’s Got Something To Hide Except Me And My Monkey. Actually, while it’s a toe-tapper enough, the name is far better than the actual song. Don’t you just hate that? A bit like getting a cat just because you think of a great name for it (nearly did that myself… one day I’ll get my Chairman Miaow).

And then there’s the punk – yes PUNK as in “make my day” as in nearly ten years later officially – freak out of Helter Skelter. If you haven’t heard this, and you have previously marked Macca’s card as a Frog Chorus-writing, puppy faced, vegetable lover with a penchant for slightly battered looking blondes, you’d be right. But he also managed to write some amazing, Stand Up Today And Be Counted, corkers.

And then there are the Revolutions (1 and 9 respectively). Ridiculously over-indulgent of course but come on, at the time they were pretty much demigods and the fact ego didn’t take over for all 30 tracks is something of a small mercy. I think we can forgive two. Besides if you ever need to scare some animals out of a room or perhaps make insurgent terrorists talk, the track that put the ‘mental’ in experimental (Revolution 9) is handy to keep in the premises.

Originally to be titled Dope, Sex and Cheap Thrills, this record by Big Brother & Holding Company is a real gem. A shining stone on a beach of back catalogue confusion. Spilling out onto the streets with the musty air of the San Fransisco acid-rock scene of the late 60s, Big Brother and Holding Company played the blues like no other band at the time.

A cohesive unit of James Gurley and Sam Andrew on guitar, Pete Albin on bass and David Getz on drums, the band required that something extra. Boy did they get it when a Texan girl with a raspy voice joined the band. The vocal starlet, Janis Joplin, had arrived. Word spread following their appearance at 1967’s Monterey Festival, and Cheap Thrill was released the following year.

Gritty blues leaks from every pore in the songs I Need A Man To Love and Combination Of The Two, but this is an album that surprises you by the fact you know two of the songs, without realising: the mesmerising beauty of Gershwin’s Summertime, and the awesome Piece Of My Heart – a song which is taken for granted now.

Joplin’s voice is astounding and breathes real soul, the kind that gives Joss Stone wet dreams. Indeed this is an album that could never be produced now. Joplin would be given a makeover and the title would be changed to The Blues Sessions to aim for some margin of credibility. But in the 60s this was the start of it all. Times were indeed a changing, and Joplin became what can only be described as the first true female rock star.

Turtle Blues is a honky tonk piano tune, which would now be associated with Jools Holland, but it sounds so fresh on Cheap Thrills. Then just when you thought the album was getting a little too easy listening, Oh Sweet Mary blows you out of the water with four minutes of dirty guitar licks that give a full-bodied representation of how I imagine those days to have felt. Ball And Chain then heads straight for the gutter to dig out those real blues enthusiasts with a nine-minute assault on the senses that demonstrates Joplin’s vocal range superbly.

Cheap Thrills has now been extended to include four tracks not originally available, including two live tracks from the Grande Ballroom, one of San Fransisco’s most eclectic venues of the era. All four are worthy of a place on the disc and really get your rock and roll juices flowing, just as much as Led Zeppelin did in the years to come. Okay, you don’t get Jimmy Page’s guitar genius, but the vocals from Janis Joplin pick you up and dump you in a dream world in the same way as Jefferson Airplane’s White Rabbit, and leaves you feeling the ‘Summer of Love’ (number one) from inside.

Buying old albums can be a risky business, and with so many classics of the time available it’s easy to see past Cheap Thrills. With The Beatles, Stones, Doors, Dylan, Hendrix and Zeppelin having so many to choose from, where do you start? Well if it’s the 60’s spirit you’re looking for then you really can’t get any closer than this million selling album, without the use of psychedelic drugs. Peace!

Detached from the stereotypical indie scene of New York circa 2001/02 emerged a truly efficient, truly heartfelt band; Interpol. Supposedly named so because of their military-like organised nature and precisioned effectiveness on their respective instruments, this is a band who got it right from the off.
2002’s debut Turn On The Bright Lights, whilst not achieving wild commercial success, was a true hit among critics and followers alike. The album marked the birth of a loyal and devoted fan-base but more importantly, and more lastingly, it marked the arrival of a great band with a ripe bunch of guitars, percussion and melodies.

Kicking off with the ever-so-soothing ‘Untitled’, showing great signs of the delights to come from the band. “I’ll surprise you sometime, I’ll come around, when you’re down”, a quintessential Paul Banks one liner is all it takes for this song flow. And flow it does, effortlessly, careering its way through bouts of throbbing bass and sparse guitar. The somewhat muted start of ‘Obstacle 1’, their first big single, soon erodes and dissolves (with the help of relentless double-bass drumming from Sam Fogarino) into an insanely likeable tune. “It’s different now that I’m poor and ageing, I’ll never see this place again” Banks’ lyrical prowess is largely understated and progresses undeniably as the album progresses.

Many a time it’s been said that there can never be such a thing as ‘the perfect song’, and many a time I’ve heard people claim that ‘NYC’ is perfect; whilst not maybe perfect, it’s not far behind whatsoever. Enduring, loving guitars from Messrs Banks and Kessler provide the landscape for a desolate New York City night, while Banks voice paints the canvas a dark blue. Solidly founded on superb drums and powerful bass, this is Interpol’s attack on the big time. The song from which the album title comes from, the lyrics show Banks at his most endearing. “I’m sick of spending these lonely nights, training myself not to care”.

Speaking of attacks on the big time, Interpol decide to pull another one straight of the bag, unrelentlessly, with the superb ‘PDA’. The simplest and most foot-tapping of drum intros and the band are away. Chopping guitars, cutting lyrics and a sharp sense of melody makes sure this song is up there with their best. A personal favourite follows up the wonders of ‘PDA’, and ‘Say Hello To The Angels’ is no less wonderful. A very 80s style disco-esque romper, instantly likeable, careering towards its finish at pace; “If I seem lazy it’s probably because I’m saving all my energy to pick up when you move into my airspace, move into my airspace”.

‘Hands Away’ is a lesser moment on Interpol’s debut, but when it comes to Interpol, even lesser is magnificent. Much in the vein of ‘Untitled’, with its sparse lyrics and incredibly soothing drums and guitars. The pace picks up again with ‘Obstacle 2’, a follow up to the original, which is a completely different offering, baring no likeness to its counterpart. “I feel like love is in the kitchen, with a culinary eye, he’s making something special and I’m smart enough to try” soothes Banks, in a song where Interpol reinforce their trademark concoction of battling guitars, and squabbling lead and backing vocals.

‘Stella Was A Diver And She Was Always Down’, now somewhat of a cult classic, a song many fans accredit their initial fondness of the band to. Curious lyrics and inventive drumming make this is a lasting tune, which matures with every listen. Whether Stella is an actual person or a metaphor for something altogether different it is unknown, but the enigma of Stella certainly means something to lead singer Paul Banks, with audible emotion; “Stella, I love you, Stella, I love you, Stella, I love you.” Following the relative melody and calm of Stella comes an often live-set closer, the energetic ‘Roland’. A superb riff from Kessler provides the base for the tune, as it descends into a thrash of sounds at its climax, a true favourite. “He severs segments so secretly you like that”: unnerving lyrics backed by the most agreeable of sounds.

The penultimate ‘The New’, gives the feeling itself the record is winding to its finish, the band having thrashed out their most rock ‘n’ roll moments earlier in time. Again, following in the rich and successful vein of ‘Untitled’ and ‘Hands Away’ , ‘The New’ is arguably the best pick of the bunch. Banks’ voice sounds at its ultimate pinnacle, searing with emotion, an undeniably beautiful voice cries: “And baby, my heart’s been breaking”.

Always ones to finish with a punch, Interpol clock off with ‘Leif Erikson’. Again showcasing Banks desire to have the greatest voice in the world and damn near succeeding, this was, and remains, one of the band’s greatest offerings. Tuneful, slightly bare but incredibly rich all at once, this is stereotypical Interpol, which, of course, is brilliant. Banks in a cheekily promiscuous mood: “Well then hook me up and throw me babycakes ‘cos I like to get hooked”, it’s a perfect finish to a very strong album. A contemporary classic from a post-Strokes New York outfit.

Reviewed by: Philip Parkin

The recent arrival of a touring Who to these shores (their first dates since 2004) has seen me dusting down their 1971 classic, Who’s Next.

Not only is this the band’s best, and a recording that can easily hold its own against the usual suspects that dominate the ‘all time greats’ lists, it is also one of the most intensely violent experiences you are ever likely to subject your ears to (and loud even during the quiet bits).

Not surprising, really, coming as it does from a band that grew up amongst the bomb sites of a post-war London. Even the photo on the cover comes with two fingers attached. The steel obelisk the band found on a Sunderland slag heap looks inoffensive enough until you notice that they appear to have pissed on it.

A by-product of Pete Townshend’s aborted Lifehouse project, the awesomely ambitious musical happening based on a vision of a totalitarian future where people live in virtual reality and can only find salvation through the emotional release of rock ‘n’ roll, (sound familiar?), this is an album that grabs your attention right from the start. The first track, ‘Baba O’Riley’, based on the guitarist’s new discoveries of the time, synthesisers and Indian mysticism (the song’s title taken from the name of the Indian prophet, Meher Baba, who was to have such a profound affect on Townshend’s life), suggests a band you wouldn’t want to bump into down a proverbial dark alley. It’s a multi-layered affair – a stereo panned keyboard loop picking up first piano then bass (a magnificent John Entwistle), and guitar before Keith Moon’s drums come crashing into your head. Then Roger Daltrey sings, or rather, screams and you actually find yourself turning the volume up even louder.

The next couple of tracks, ‘Bargain’ and ‘Love Ain’t for Keeping’, showcase the fantastic (Townshend and Glyn Johns) production of this album, a much more polished sound than its predecessor, Tommy. The guitars, whether acoustic or electric, sound sublime and there’s a particularly fine solo on ‘Bargain’; proof if it was ever needed that Townshend was, and is, much more than just a purveyor of loud power chords.

Even the song-writing space given over to another band member is well filled on Who’s Next, with Entwistle’s ‘My Wife’, a catchy tale of booze and marital strife, more than rising to the mark and a perennial favourite at gigs for decades. There’s a change of pace next with ‘The Song is Over’ (a slow atmospheric piano track with great Townshend vocals), the quiet lyricism of ‘Getting in Tune’ (with its closing verses of ‘Pure and Easy’, a song included on the 1995 re-issue cd that gives a neat resume of what Lifehouse was to about), and ‘Going Mobile’ (a song about personal freedom: “I’m an air-conditioned gypsy, that’s my solution”). Next up is another live staple, ‘Behind Blue Eyes’ – the lyrics may be angst ridden (“no one knows what it’s like to be the bad man, to be the sad man”) but its beautiful harmonies are a great showcase for Roger Daltrey’s magnificent singing. And you’re a better man (or woman) than me if you manage to sing along during the hard bits.

Who’s Next ends, much as it begins, with the sound of an angry rock band battling against a hypnotic synthesiser loop. The epic ‘Won’t Get Fooled Again’ is perhaps The Who’s most overtly political song, yet it resolutely refuses to take sides. “Meet the new boss, he’s the same as the old boss” sums it up pretty well. Don’t trust your leaders, because they’re all as bad as each other – sound advice that’s even more convincing when screamed alongside the thundering noise of the world’s loudest band.

A classic album that no collection should be without.

www.thewhotour.com

Reviewed by: Philip Parkin

Foo Fighters may be a stadium-filling, Grammy Award winning rock colossus but back in 1994 when this eponymous debut album was recorded not only did they not have a name, as a band they didn’t even actually exist.

A few months after Kurt Cobain died, ex-Nirvana drummer Dave Grohl walked into a Seattle studio, laid down 15 demo tracks and created one of the finest post-punk albums ever.

Apart from a single guitar riff on one track (‘X-Static’) he played every instrument and sang every note, producing 100 copies of the recording for his friends. A frenzied record company bidding war duly followed, as well as a frantic search for band name and members. (Not even the hugely talented Grohl was going to be able to play this stuff live without some help).

This is a raw album, as befits its humble origins, with far from the polished sound of more recent efforts – the muffled vocals giving it a distinctly lo-fi feel. There may be loud, overdriven guitars on most songs but it’s also surprisingly poppy and you find yourself singing along almost from the off. ‘This Is A Call’ (the first of four singles) starts off sedately enough, but soon thunders along with Grohl’s abstract lyrics suggesting a ‘thank you’ to anyone who’s helped him along the way. It’s fast-paced, feel-good stuff, perfect for radio.

Much less friendly is ‘I’ll Stick Around’, a song said to be written about Courtney Love. There’s obviously little love lost here – “how could it be”, sings Grohl, “I’m the only one who sees your rehearsed insanity.” The chorus is clearer still: “I don’t owe you anything”, he screams. Things slow down next, with the most commercial track off the album, ‘Big Me’, showcasing Grohl’s softer side in a song about relationships (“but it’s you I fell into”).

Then a song that used to feature in Nirvana’s soundchecks, ‘Alone + Easy Target’, with lyrics vague enough for any listener to take meaning from, although they do appear to relate to Grohl’s relationship with his ex-band mates: “metronome, I want out, I’m alone and an easy target”. ‘Good Grief’ is even more oblique, but lyrics like “the thought of being ousted comes and goes” seem to be another nod to Nirvana. ‘Floaty’ is great – Grohl’s voice is heavily processed, more so than anywhere else on the album, adding to the otherworldly feel of the track. It’s heavy but laid back with its fantastic refrain of “it’s not as big as what’s flown around here” (whatever that means).

‘Weenie Beenie’, (pure grunge, fun but not a song you feel like coming back to much) precedes ‘Oh George’ – a homage to Grohl’s favourite Beatle, and with great vocals. ‘For All the Cows’, one of the best tracks on the album, starts off gently enough, with soft vocals intertwined with clean, bluesy guitar chords, then hits you firmly between the eyes. Grohl’s not a happy man, and, yet again, a certain Ms Love is to blame:

“It’s funny how money allows us all to browse and be endowed”, he sings, “the wish is true, it falls into places new, the cow is you.”

‘X-Static’ and ‘Watershed’ follow, the former a slow, melancholic slice of grunge, the latter seeing Grohl let rip his disdain as to the commercialisation of punk. ‘Exhausted’ rounds the album off in mellow style until collapsing into feedback about 2 minutes in. There are two fantastic surges of guitar during the track that sound like the song’s really going to fly, but things never quite make it, and it brings the album to a perfect end.

It’s a testament to Grohl’s talent that it really sounds like a band playing together here when, of course, it’s ‘just’ the ex-drummer from Nirvana. Never underestimate the man with the sticks, it seems.

www.foofighters.com

Yes, those singles were astounding, groundbreaking, excellent, but the capabilities of each Roses individual is pushed to the limit in a positive way on Second Coming.

If you don’t know the story by now, then you never will. Unless you read on, of course. The Stone Roses almost split countless times after the release of their first album, with the rift between singer Ian Brown and guitarist John Squire never properly healed to this day. It took five and a half years for their second album, the aptly titled Second Coming, to materialise. A combination of drugs and different directions were dragging Brown and Squire apart, but their parting shot was nothing short than magical.

Second Coming was obviously going to be the band’s “difficult second album”, especially with the deserved adulation heaped upon the band after their baggy anthem-filled debut. Their experimentation with the blues feel, headed by Squire, was panned by critics, who were disappointed with the new sounds and the glaring contrast between the first album and this. There are no “sore-thumb” tracks that stand out begging to be a single; this is a fluid album, delicate, intricate and subtle.

Opener Breaking Into Heaven is Brown’s manifesto: “I’m gonna break right into heaven/I can’t wait anymore… I have a dream/I’ve seen the light”. The extensive jamming and improvisation that we heard a glimpse of on Stone Roses’ lengthy epic I Am The Resurrection is played out with less inhibition on Second Coming. It is minutes before the song proper begins, segued cleanly into after a load of disconcerting monkey noises (something of a pun on Brown’s nickname, King Monkey).

With the first track acting as a veritable introduction to the album, we start again at track two with the rolling bassy riffs of Driving South. Sounding like Jimi Hendrix’s exuberant blues blended carefully with Johnny Marr’s pop sensibility, Squire takes to the helm on this track; it soon becomes apparent to the listener that this is most definitely Squire’s album.

The heartfelt indie ballad Ten Storey Love Song is next, with Brown’s crooning pairing with drummer Reni’s angelic harmonies. This folds gently into pounding funk-out Daybreak, with bassist Mani’s lines underpinning the song’s groovy exterior. That Beatlesy feel runs all through Your Star Will Shine, a quiet and slow affair – less gutsy and rousing than Ten Storey Love Song but similarly heartfelt.

Track six, Straight To The Man, follows Daybreak’s lead but is more chilled-out and has an aura of ‘stoned’ about it. Begging You is so indie-dance; bands like The Music have been well-informed by tracks like this. Brown’s soft laments are layered across stuttering, psychedelic guitar riffs and speedy drumming. The bluesy-folk of Tightrope continues the erratic switching between fast and slow on the album’s tracklisting. Tightrope has a live feel to it, with voices painted onto a strummed guitar and simple percussion. This is The Roses stripped bare and hiding behind nothing.

Up-tempo Good Times is one of the stand-out tracks from Second Coming; it starts with a slow blues tune over drums and bass, before Squire’s standard Roses riff comes in and takes the song to full speed. It reminds me most of early single Made Of Stone with its stature and effect, combined with Squire’s guitar noodling. The heart-rending Tears is possibly a nod to the impending “second split” that bthe band would soon face: “I’ve seen the future in the tracks of your tears”.

How Do You Sleep continues the album’s trend of chilled out balladeering, the song’s negative subject matter juxtaposed with a major key melody, topped off with a grated Parmesan guitar solo. Love Spreads is the perfect end to this excellent album, its garage-rock blues riffs stolen straight from Detroit.

The extended jamming at the end just shows a band at its best – experimenting with styles and pushing the boundaries of the four-piece rock group. Though to some this album marks the demise of one of Britain’s favourite groups, I see it as The Stone Roses at their very best.