Comedy Review: Daniel Kitson, 66a Church Road: A Lament, Made of Memories and Kept in Suitcases

I've always thought that a good way of judging the quality of a show is how much of its spirit accompanies you home on the Tube, swimming lazily around in your head juices and sticking with you for a while after you slam shut the front door at home.

When I saw The Woman in Black for the first time (aged 12 or so), I spent a night have recurrent fear-aneurisms about vengeful spirit-bitches from the black beyond. When I saw Springsteen on his Magic tour (in a stadium, on my own. Go me), I air-guitared my way home like I was sprung from cages on Highway 9. A good show leaves ghosts of thoughts that take time to fade, like flashbulb motes flaring across your eyes.

Which brings me somewhat unceremoniously to Daniel Kitson, who has been quietly winning crowds over for years with a mix of stand-up routines and so-called story shows, which mix humour with narrative structure, recounting events from Kitson's life and stirring in immaculately worded observations on the strange irregularities of mundane life.

You might have also seen him pop up briefly on Peter Kay's Phoenix Nights series, although he later dismissed the show as "lazy and racist" (on the Phoenix Nights DVD commentary, Kay refers to Kitson only as "the bastard").

It's clear that Kitson shines brightest when telling his own tales, and 66a Church Road is a fine example. In recounting his love affair with a relatively unassuming piece of rented accommodation and his subsequent, years-long quest to purchase it from a colossal clusterfuck of a landlord, Kitson actually delivers a whole lot more.

Possibly the closest touchstone to Kitson's style is Dave Gorman's Googlewhack Adventure, but while Gorman relied on a preposterously dramatic turn of events to keep audiences rapt, Kitson shows a true flair for performance by achieving precisely the same result with considerably less pliable material.

Whether conveying the sheer joy of his favourite full English breakfast ("Nailed it! Nailed it! Nailed it!" he cries, gesticulating wildly at an imaginary plate of sausages and beans) or vividly recreating the highs and lows of his fraught flat hunt, Kitson has the audience alternating between fits of laughter and ravenous silence for a full hour and a half.

The show is broken up by musical interludes (sounded like Iron & Wine to me) over which Kitson's pre-recorded voice plays, while the man himself illustrates the scene with adorably twee home-made models, appropriately stashed away in suitcases strewn about the stage.

But what made the show great, what had me still digesting the spirit of it on the way home, was Kitson's poignant vision of home as a concept, and what that concept ought to be. It's the show's central theme, and throughout, Kitson poetically expands on the idea that home is a repository of memory and the keystone with which we reassure ourselves that those memories won't be lost, because they've seeped into the walls and floors and before we know it they're galleried all around us.

Whether we find home in a building or in the arms of a loved one, the protection of memory - the instrument we use to measure and define the meaning of our lives - is an enduring and endlessly romantic theme. That's the warm spirit of 66a Church Road, and that's what I was thinking about on the Tube home.

ASTRAL NUGGETS: New tracks plucked from the interwebular loom

This is a track review round-up in which I chew on some of the most exciting new tracks circulating around the web and regurgitate some thoughts directly to the readers, whom I consider my hungry baby birds. It's sustenance mixed with stomach acid, essentially. A salty cocktail, but good. Let's get started.

Gold Panda, 'You' (listen here)

After the miraculous warmth of last year's 'Quitters Raga', which stitched samples of guitar, sitar and sliced-up Hindi vocals into an emotionally gripping patchwork of textures and melodies, London producer Gold Panda might have been feeling the pressure to produce an adequate follow-up. Well, if 'You' is what Gold Panda comes up with when he's under pressure, I propose the motion that he henceforth be forced to write tunes whilst suspended over a pit of ravenous Komodo dragons. 'You' is a refinement of the chopped-up South Asian classicism of 'Quitters Raga', sacrificing a little of that track's emotional pull in favour of a more instant hook and danceable beat. It's a rare breed of sunny driving music that has enough depth to withstand the endless repeat listens foisted upon it by an obsessive like me.

The National, 'Bloodbuzz Ohio' (listen here)

Escape Artist: "OMG! It's Matt Berninger, lead singer of the National! Hey, can you tell us a little about Bloodbuzz Ohio?"

Matt Berninger: "Well, it's kind of like most other National songs."

EA: "So, totally awesome in an earnest way; led by plaintive piano melodies and propulsive drums, with driving guitars heightening emotional tension as the song progresses? And lyrics expressing an intangible sense of loss and frank introspection, delivered in your trademark shellshocked baritone?"

MB: "Uh, yeah."

EA: "Cool! ...Hey, Matt?"

MB: "Yeah?"

EA: "...What's a bloodbuzz? And why does it happen in Ohio? And how did you get there in a swarm of bees? Also, can I be your friend?"

MB: "Oh my God, shut up."

Erykah Badu, 'Window Seat' (listen here)

Erykah Badu is now two-thirds of the way through her New Amerykah trilogy, with part two, entitled Return of the Ankh, released a week or so ago. Thematically, it's all change - out goes the venomous social commentary, in comes spiritual reflection backed by soft synths and ear-nibbling jazz; the hard concrete of the mind traded for the verdant glades of the soul. 'Window Seat' is a bewitching highlight, Badu weighing a yearning for escape against the need for the love of another ("Somebody say come back...I want you to need me"). It's the kind of effortlessly listenable soul music that's easy to define but so hard to master. This is music as spiritual salve.

The New Pornographers, 'The Crash Years' (listen here)

Whistling in pop songs. It's a hard road to walk. There are only a couple of sonic millimetres of difference between the wistful brilliance of Otis Redding's 'Sitting on the Dock of a Bay' and the skull-collapsing, planet-imploding agony of 'Young Folks'. Luckily, with the second track revealed from their upcoming album Together, the New Pornos walk that line with typical grace. 'The Crash Years' has a tremendous sense of momentum, building from a solid template of guitar and rhythm interplay and incorporating so many elements that there seems to be a hook around every corner. To some it's songwriting for the brain-mashed goldfish generation, but to me it's musical confectionery, a song that leads you merrily down the garden path, soundtracked by Neko Case's commanding vocals and the cheerful whistling of ruddy-cheeked Oompa-Loompas nearby.

Deftones, 'Diamond Eyes' (listen here)

So, we've heard two tracks from Diamond Eyes, the new Deftones album coming out in May. The first, 'Rocket Skates', is a sleek atonal beast, all sharp elbows and bared fangs. Second single 'Diamond Eyes' is a more spacious affair. Where 'Rocket Skates' feels like a lunatic screeching off the walls of a padded cell, 'Diamond Eyes' builds a dense cathedral of noise, culminating in a sweeping chorus dominated by Chino Moreno's echoing vocal refrain: "Time will see us realign/ Diamonds rain across the sky". Perhaps the only link between the two tracks is a return to the thick riffs of Around The Fur, Steph Carpenter's guitar presiding over the track in a way not seen since 'My Own Summer (Shove It)'. Certainly, the pounding onslaught of the song's final seconds is one of the most lead-heavy moments in the band's career, which is another way of saying it will blow your teeth out through your anus. It's a tantalising glimpse into what we can expect from the album next month. Rest assured, too, that the band has lost none of its thunderstorm spark after the sudden (hopefully temporary) departure of bassist Chi Cheng following a car crash that left him in a semi-conscious state.

LCD Soundsystem, 'I Can Change' (listen here)

With LCD Soundsystem's new album This Is Happening plump and ready to drop on May 17 (May's shaping up to be a pretty great month for music, isn't it?), leaks are popping up with a frequency that suggests the album has lost elasticity and tracks are simply tumbling out of its butt. While 'Drunk Girls' is exactly the kind of indulgent party banger that an LCD album would feel bereft without, 'I Can Change' feels like it might be more representative of the album's core. In other words, if 'Drunk Girls' is this album's 'North American Scum', 'I Can Change' is 'Someone Great'. Sharp, stripped-down keys are overlaid with a sparkling synth sheen. James Murphy is in contemplative mood here, reflecting on the emotional compromise of a lover stretching to accommodate an infatuation ("I can change...If it helps you fall in love"). It's also Murphy's most confident and consummate performance as a vocalist, his voice sounding more supple than ever, even bending to an impressive falsetto. David Byrne would be proud.

Joker, 'Tron' (listen here)

Tron Legacy, the sequel/reboot of the 1982 cult sci-fi favourite, will be hitting our screens in December. Based on this track, the movie's producers could do a lot worse than hire Bristol dubstep producer Joker to provide the score. Earlier Joker tracks like 'Digidesign' have shown his predilection for an aesthetic that evokes a future constantly shrouded in night, lit only by the flickering luminescence if the inner city. It's a good fit all round. With 'Tron', Joker has downplayed the hyper-bass of previous tunes to experiment with a more mid-pitch sonic spectrum (if you think 'Tron' is bassy, just try 'It Ain't Got A Name' by Joker and TC). The result is a lithe central hook intercut with thrilling diversions. It's a track that more than lives up to its name, and should leave track marks on a significant number of dancefloors, even if we never get to hear it blaring from the stereo of Kevin Flynn's light cycle.

GOD OF WAR III & HEAVY RAIN: Refined past vs. imperfect future

Last week, like several million other gamers around the world, I had the somewhat jarring pleasure of playing God of War III and Heavy Rain back-to-back. So I thought I'd try my hand at a double review with some cursory commenteering thrown in. Just because my recent posts have been nowhere near confused and scattershot enough. So prepare to be forever trapped in an infinite vortex of unnecessary adjectives, pungent similes and phallic punnery! HAHAHAHA!!!

Ahem. So, God of War III and Heavy Rain. Unlikely bedfellows, I'm sure you'll agree (although after three games I'm fairly confident that Kratos could dominate pretty much anything in the bedroom). God of War III is a slickly-produced action/adventure game set in a highly revised version of Greek mythology, giving players the chance to brutalise all manner of fabled beasts and deities whilst carving their way up Mount Olympus in a gore-soaked journey of merciless revenge. It's also the product of five years of refining a combat system and a fight-puzzle-fight game structure through the previous two GoW titles, not to mention the countless influences it snatches from other games (most notably Japanese hack 'n' slashers like Devil May Cry and Ninja Gaiden). The story of God of War, therefore, is one of brilliant refinement, of taking features that have existed for a while and implementing them in the most seamless, epic way possible. It's what has made this the definitive action series for the Western audience, a crown that's thoroughly deserved.

And GoW III is the purest refinement yet. The combat system, characterised by vengeful protagonist Kratos' wildly swinging chain blades (now called the Blades of Exile), is familiar and comforting like an old quilt, with just enough new hotness thrown in to keep things spicy. The controls are intuitive enough that the player can think tactically about how to react to different situations without having to battle with buttons or spasming thumbs. The balance of the game is similarly well-honed, with chase sequences, platforming and simple puzzles effectively breaking up the slaughter sections.

Some recurring problems inherited from the previous games still occasionally frustrate. I can't count the number of times Kratos awkwardly stumbled off the side of a cliff because of spazzy camera angles and deceiving depth perception. There are also a few too many (ie: more than one) 'arena' sections which pad out gameplay by tirelessly throwing waves of minotaurs at Kratos' bald pate before allowing him to continue.

But all criticisms fade into insignificance during the game's most impressive sequences, the sheer scale of which is genuinely staggering. The game's opening salvo (Kratos scaling Olympus on the back of monolithic Titan Gaia) might hit your eyes like a bag full of sex hammers, but just wait until you experience a later boss fight, in which your enemy's fingernail is the size of a detached house. And despite the occasional platforming hiccups, the team at Sony Santa Monica has done some great work with the in-game camera, which zooms out to paint epic watercolours and back in again to capture all the gory details without ever sacrificing player control. I heard someone say that the game is aggressively directed, and in the case of the game's highlights this is a spot-on description. And by aggressive I don't just mean point-of-view beatings and unflinching decapitation sequences, rather that the camera feels more actively involved in the proceedings than ever before.

While GoW III represents the refinement of a genre to its purest molten core, Heavy Rain is an attempt by French developer Quantic Dream to breathe life into a whole new genre of gaming: the 'interactive drama'. Yes, I too was ready to sniff at this somewhat baroque Gallic description, but I genuinely can't think of a better one. It's basically a CG movie in which the player has control over the outcome of scenes through pressing (or failing to press) buttons at relevant times. Although that makes it sound much more boring than it is. It's an interesting game. An important game, even, and one which will hopefully spark a new wave of mature gaming experiences with which adults can connect. It's just that it's not a very good game.

The story, which follows four unconnected characters (you play them all in various scenes) who are all trying to track down a child-snatching serial killer, is involving if generic (think Zodiac meets Se7en with Saw groping itself in the undergrowth nearby). Dialogue veers wildly from convincing to laughable, depending on how well the largely French cast can manage a US accent and how well the game's director David Cage deals with North American dialect and mannerisms, both of which seem to vary from scene to scene. It's disappointing that a game that has compromised interactivity in order to present itself as a thriller to sit proudly alongside cinema's best offerings has settled for a story and dialogue that fails to break out of the 'good, for a game' category.

However, what the game does excellently is build atmosphere and tension within individual scenes. Quantic Dream has built on lessons learned on its last game Fahrenheit to craft some of the most memorable moments in videogame history. Scenes in which the characters are imperilled are rendered all the more jittery with the knowledge that any of the four characters can die and the story rolls on without them, often towards a more tragic ending. The controls effectively mirror the stress levels of the characters, and tricky actions (picking locks, disarming bad dudes etc) translate into holding down tendon-stretching button combinations that are refreshingly representative.

But on almost all other fronts, the control system leaves a rancid aftertaste. The developers' bizarre decision to control character movement by holding down the right trigger and steering them like a goddamned Panzer tank makes the simplest actions a chore and often leaves the player strafing face-first up and down a wall like an abandoned Asperger's patient. The over-reliance on responding to on-screen button prompts, as is so often the case, means that your eyes are scanning the screen for the next prompt to pop up rather than enjoying the action that's going on as a result of your button presses. Likewise puzzles, which regularly occur under an aneurysm-inducing time limit, too often degenerate into frantically wandering around an environment looking for a prompt to pop up rather than actually coming to a logical conclusion.

No matter how dubious the execution, however, the fact remains that it is Heavy Rain rather than GoW III that will be looked upon in ten years as a landmark release. While Kratos disembowelling his way through the Olympian pantheon trumps Heavy Rain on virtually all counts in terms of sheer fun, Quantic Dream has made a more ambitious game. In fact, playing them back-to-back was a curiously satisfying experience; a 48-hour marathon during which my thirst for new virtual experiences and my sickening bloodlust were both sated. As long as the games industry has the capacity to continue offering polished gems like God of War alongside ambitious experiments like Heavy Rain, I reckon gamers have got a lot to look forward to.

Drive-By Truckers BBC album review

The follow up to Drive-By Truckers' incredible Brighter Than Creation's Dark (number 28 on Escape Artist's Top 50 albums of the 21st century) came out yesterday, and it's called The Big To-Do. To find out what old Auntie Beeb's take is on the Truckers' latest slice of Georgia geetar-twang, check out my review on the BBC music website by clicking here.

Head on over to DBT's Myspace page to check out three songs from the album - 'Birthday Boy' (a highlight, rocks like Full Moon Fever-era Tom Petty), 'You Got Another' (forgettable piano balladry, albeit with lovely intro) and 'This Fucking Job' (stomping blue-collar desperation - first line: "Working this job is a kick in the pants").

Red Dead Redemption: Impressions, leading to a conclusion

Apologies for the resigned tone of the title above. It's just that I so desperately wanted to use the subtitle "Me So Ornery" for this post, but the dull side of my brain told me that it was a step too far and more than a little racist. So to spite my killjoy brain I went with a snarky title and decided to put the quote in the very first paragraph. In your face, common decency!

So now that I've given you that privileged glimpse into the creative process of a deranged troglodyte, we can take a collective peek at the creative process of a bunch of intelligent, presumably non-troglodyte game developers who are hard at work on Red Dead Redemption, pseudo-sequel to 2004's patchily-received PS2 spaghetti shooter Red Dead Revolver.

While Revolver was a vivid romp through Sergio Leone cliche, taking in a range of evocative (if occasionally jarring) locales and a well-rounded (if occasionally playable) supporting cast, its shonky mechanics and second-rate graphics showed that the developers' imaginations were pistol-whipped by their limitations. The lack of production values was a result of the game's chaotic development. Original publisher Capcom canned the game mid-way through its development, paving the way for Rockstar Games (the powerhouse behind GTA) to purchase the rights in 2002. Rockstar San Diego expanded on the game's existing assets, leading to a product that felt like a standard shooter with extra features and style poured on before release. Needless to say, it was the last-minute Rockstar additions that provided Red Dead Revolver's best moments.

Red Dead Redemption has suffered no such setbacks. It's a Rockstar San Diego joint from top to bottom, and looks set to become the rootin', tootin', shootin'est game ever to set foot in the Old West.

STORY

Players take on the role of John Marston, a former gunslinger who has since hung up his metal to settle with his family. But familial bliss does not an awesome game make, so our man is coerced by the law into taking up arms again to track down and bring in his old gang. It's a journey that will take him across the arid borders of America's southern states and on into the revolutionary breeding ground of Mexico (there are three huge primary areas where the game takes place). So far, so Ford. But Rockstar San Diego have made the interesting decision to set the game in 1908, with the West definitively conquered and the frontier smashed into the sea. And with encroaching modernity comes the technology to grind the old breed of outlaw desperado into the desert dust. It's a fascinating period of upheaval that paved the way for modern America, and it seems that the game will take more from revisionist anti-Westerns like The Wild Bunch and Unforgiven than the classic interpretations that preceded them.

GAMEPLAY

Well, it's Rockstar, so yes it's an open-world sandbox game. If you're anything like me, those terms will elicit a curious mix of excitement and dread. The best open-world games offer players freedom and choice but with enough context to imbue those choices with meaning. Infamous and Prototype were so unappealing to me because they simply presented cities to piss about in, as if that were enough. It's not. But based on Rockstar's spotless track record in this genre (GTA IV is a platinum example of a game that effortlessly integrates player freedom with an overarching story), we have every reason to hope that Red Dead Redemption will follow suit.

At the front end of the experience is the shooting mechanic, buoyed by the Euphoria engine that powered GTA IV's character animation and physics. Any player who experienced that jaw-dropping first moment in GTA IV where Nico is sent flying through his car's windshield after a particularly nasty crash will testify to the engine's power, and based on the promo videos shown so far, Redemption is using it to similar effect. So expect enemies to react uniquely and convincingly when you fill them with buckshot, rather than pre-canned animations (a la Call of Duty) or over-the-top ragdoll physics. Dead-eye targeting returns from the original game, an inspired take on bullet-time which allows advanced players to slow down time to mark separate targets and then watch the carnage unfold as Marston pours lead into the skulls and bollocks of his foes (the only two areas worth aiming at). Expect to see the Quick Draw pistol duel mechanic return too, although this hasn't been confirmed.

As Marston gallops (on some of the most convincing horses yet seen in a game) through dusty towns and border outposts, his actions will be monitored by an Honour system that will see the reactions of common folk (and the long arm of the law) change based on the violence of his disposition. Capturing bandits and stopping off to rescue stranded wagons will see Marston revered as the Batman of the Old West, whilst horse theft, shooting old ladies in the face and single-handedly wiping out small villages will, unsurprisingly, cause hapless townspeople to prolapse in fear at the sight of his horse on the horizon. Don't expect a swift GTA-style police reaction, but consistent lawlessness may result in righteous posses being rounded up and a sizeable bounty being placed on your own head.

As this is Rockstar's first open world game set in a predominantly rural environment, we can't expect the vibrant, frenzied hustle and bustle of Liberty City. But the development team has worked hard to ensure that, outside of the main story, there's plenty for players to aim their peacemakers at. From lively saloons complete with bar games (one of the videos shows a game of skill involving a sharp knife and five tender fingers, like you used to play at school only not with a compass) to treasure hunts complete with hand-drawn maps to side quests aplenty, there ought to be enough to do. I'm particularly looking forward to simply saddling up and heading into the wilderness for a few hours of living off the land (there's a dynamic wildlife system for you to admire and/or slaughter) and enjoying the vistas presented by the weather system and ambient day/night cycle. After the straight lines of Liberty City, Rockstar's proprietary RAGE engine has shown itself equally capable of creating organic-looking natural spaces, from sunlight filtering through weatherworn branches to the warped wood of the ramshackle towns and villages.

THE CONCLUSION

So all the pins seem to be in place for a satisfying gameplay experience. But the real potential of Red Dead Redemption is in its setting. By choosing to set the game in a period when savage wilderness was eroding under the steam pressure of oncoming modernity, Rockstar has given itself a golden opportunity. Just as GTA IV plays on ruthless entrepreneurialism and the cruelties of modern American economics, Red Dead Redemption could make a powerful companion piece, exploring the violence and misanthropy that lies at the dark heart of the American dream. I drink your milkshake, indeed.

Red Dead Redemption is released on Xbox 360 and PS3 on May 21, 2010.

Escape Artist's Top 50 albums of the 21st Century Part 3: The Top Ten

10. Fugazi - The Argument (Dischord, 2001)

As engrossingly ear-splitting as hardcore punk can be, it's a genre that has always been constrained by its limitations. After all, it's hard not to become desensitized, musically and lyrically, when the volume dial is permanently switched to maximum. So a permanent hats off to Ian MacKaye, Guy Picciotto and Fugazi for consistently innovating in a genre that's often rabidly resistant to change.

Fugazi has been on hiatus since 2002, the band keeping busy with other projects and MacKaye industriously beavering away with DIY punk label Dischord and generally performing the duties of a DC punk legend. They did leave us with a rather special gift before dispersing to the four punkwinds*, however. The Argument is one of those rare, great punk albums which functions equally as a right-on, chest-beating pogo marathon and as an armchair chin-stroker. 'Full Disclosure' and 'Epic Problem' offer up anthemic, driving choruses for those looking to lose themselves in the squall, the latter such a dynamic piledrive of stunning riffs and guitar breakdowns that if it hits your headphones on the Tube, you're virtually obligated to make a dick of yourself. But beyond the categories in which we've always known Fugazi excel, The Argument pushes and strains to deliver delights rarely offered on a punk record. The smooth licks and handclaps of 'Life and Limb'; 'The Kill''s strangely detached glimpse into ultranationalism and martyrdom, complete with spooky death-rattle denouement; the dual-drum percussion opening of 'Ex-Spectator'. If hardcore as a genre is held back by the constant need to prove something (whether musical, political or lyrical), then The Argument is a classic precisely because it was made by a band who, after 15 years of keeping the faith, have absolutely nothing left to prove.

*Like normal winds, except if you get too close they'll kick you in the crotch and give you a fierce lecture about how many children lost fingers to make your jeans.

9. Tomahawk - Tomahawk (Ipecac, 2001)

In my MOJO piece on this album, I described ex-Faith No More vocalist Mike Patton as "chameleonic". It's a suitable way of describing Patton's hyperactive genre-skipping, his career taking in thrash metal, hip hop, country, folk, jazz and funk, with Patton's elastic voice stretching itself to fit the mood. But I failed to acknowledge that there's something, whether with FNM, Fantomas, Tomahawk, Mr. Bungle or any of the other multitude of Patton's projects, that ties together his performances. There's always a smokescreen of silliness disguising a hint of murder. The particular strain of silliness deviates between records, from Mr. Bungle's absurdist carnival to the flights of pulp fantasy in evidence throughout Fantomas' discography. But no matter the atmosphere, there's always a snake lurking in the long grass.

A loose concept album, exploring the fetid mind-swamp of an archetypal rural serial killer, Tomahawk is the album where this murderous impulse is truly set loose. With his bandmates (comprising a sort of underground supergroup, with members from The Jesus Lizard, Helmet and The Melvins), Patton employs layers of deranged guitar noise, ambient electronics and mad lyricism to create an atmosphere that plays on the common nightmare of dark cabins in dark woods populated by dark, delusional creatures. On 'Malocchio', frenzied buzzsaw guitars accompany Patton's triumphant beast: "And now that I'm standing, nervous organs dangling from you/ I'm blushing like red roses, the earth is my whorehouse. My zoo." The album was recorded in Nashville and it feels like Tennessee's subtropical humidity has seeped into its bones, with 'Jockstrap' and 'Cul De Sac' providing sneering twists on southern rock and bluegrass respectively. The thing that separates this album from all the other experimental novelties, however, is its evocative musicianship and attention to song structure, making Tomahawk at once disturbing and endlessly listenable.

8. My Morning Jacket, Z (ATO, 2005)

Though I would happily defend 2008's oft-derided Evil Urges with fists if necessary, the inimitable glory of Z remains My Morning Jacket's finest moment so far, which, given the quality of the band's back catalogue, buys it a ticket straight into the top 10. Z guides the listener, hand-in-hand, through the songbook of the American heartland, interpreting the varied guitar-driven movements of the 20th century whilst maintaining MMJ's core identity, guided by principal songwriter Jim James' assured hand. So yes, there are soaring chorus lines ('Anytime'), there is slow-burning windswept rock ('Dondante'), and there's the earnest sense of adventure that has seen the band tunnel its way into our heart sockets over the last decade. But we always knew the band could pulverise in that arena. Z introduced us to all the things we had no idea MMJ could do. We had no idea they could execute R 'n' B and Caribbean rhythm so effortlessly as they do on opening tracks 'Wordless Chorus' and 'It Beats 4 U', for a start. And breakout single 'Off The Record' might begin in fertile James territory, all chugging guitars and catchy rhythm, but then it takes an inspired left turn into an extended breakdown that evokes the best of the British psychedelic wig-out and 70s French synth-pop.

So Z extended the band's range and paved the way for Evil Urges' grand experiment whilst managing to be the most concise and economic expression of My Morning Jacket's appeal. And it managed these grand accomplishments without sacrificing any of those classic MMJ moments that fans have come to know, love, and bloody well expect.

Side note: We did it! We got through an entire retrospective review of Z without once mentioning the band's "comfort zone"! Somebody grab the champagne, we're hitting the town tonight!

7. Roots Manuva - Slime & Reason (Big Dada, 2008)

UK hip hop is in rude health today, but 10 or 15 years ago it was floundering in the garage doldrums, suffocated by slicker, more marketable US releases. At a time when the game was pushing the underground out, the British scene reacted by changing the rules. Ditching huge production costs and prioritising artistic vision over courting the charts, UK underground hip hop embraced its own grim version of electronic music, spawning a fertile breeding ground that takes in grime, dubstep, dancehall and above all an almost fetishistic worship of the bassline. Stockwell MC/producer Roots Manuva's Run Come Save Me (not to mention his debut Brand New Second Hand, released in 1999) felt like the first broadside in the British assault. In a genre with such a predilection for aggrandising the drama of working class life, Manuva's revelling in the inanities of life was a refreshing shift towards the ugly truth.

Run Come Save Me was a landmark record anchored by one of the finest hip hop cuts found anywhere ('Witness (1 Hope)'), but Brigadier Smythe improves every time out of the gates, and 2008's Slime & Reason is hands-down his finest work. Manuva's flirtation with dancehall and ragga evolved into a full-blown romance on Slime & Reason, popping out vivid party babies like 'Buff Nuff', 'Do Nah Bodda Mi' and 'Again & Again'. But in between there are refined echoes of the lyrical and musical heaviness on show on 2005's Awfully Deep, delving into broken homes ('The Show Must Go On'), misguided, betrayed youth ('It's Me Oh Lord') and Manuva's ambiguous relationship with God previously explored in 2001 on 'Sinny Sin Sins' (revisited on 'Let The Spirit'). Roots Manuva typifies the rebellious microcosm that's flourishing in London, embracing its own unique heritage and flying in the face of American hip hop's received wisdom. After all, if you can't beat 'em, fuck 'em.

Side note: I once met Roots Manuva on a train at Surbiton. He was nice. I almost pissed myself. Also, the reason I rambled on so much about the British scene and Run Come Save Me is that I wrote a fairly lengthy review of Slime & Reason for Londoners and didn't want to repeat myself. So for a more in-depth, track-by-track affair, check out my review.

6. The Hold Steady - Boys and Girls in America (Vagrant, 2006)

From the first chiming chords of epic opener 'Stuck Between Stations', The Hold Steady's third record hits you look like an ice-cold bucket of distilled awesome. That's not in question. Shredding through 11 tracks of warm, welcoming rock 'n' roll that definitively answers the question of what would happen if Springsteen had he been born 15 years later and joined The Replacements*, Boys & Girls... sees a great, tight rock 'n' roll band at their greatest and tightest. The likes of 'Massive Nights', 'Hot Soft Light' and 'Chips Ahoy!' are musclebound fist-pumpers executed with such conviction and musicianship (replete with exquisite 'whoa whoaaaa' choruses) that it's little surprise that the band owns live venues on a nightly basis.

That's what makes Boys & Girls an excellent record. What makes it a classic is that, beyond the exultation of the first few spins, it continues to reward the listener over months and years. Craig Finn's distinctive vocals, delivering dense reams of prose in a husky half-shout, are the heart and soul of the album, giving the driving riffs meaning and context and elevating them from simple feel-goodery. Much has been made of Finn's literary references, but his lyrics are far more than a list of look-what-I've-read pomp - they're actually refreshingly direct, charting the highs and lows of a cast of fresh-faced young invincibles over a span of half-remembered nights out. Finn creates incredibly poignant vignettes of the young and foolish, bringing a poetry to youthful abandon that never loses sight of the painful difference between the drug-enhanced fantasy and the stark reality of the morning after.

A party album that refuses to forget the resulting hangover, Boys & Girls... mirrors the bittersweet house party experience, providing the initial rush with epic guitar riffs and rousing choruses, then echoing the gradual comedown and dawn paranoia with frontman Craig Finn's studied, lacerating lyrics.

*Let's start a new literary trend of alternative-history music biographies, starting with a story that presupposes Henry Rollins became principal conductor of the London Symphony Orchestra in the late 80s. Publishers - call me!

5. Erykah Badu - New Amerykah Part One (4th World War) (Universal Motown, 2008)

For most artists, there's a natural barrier between the imagination and the final work. It's the barrier of reality and pragmatism that gradually dilutes that pure vision that exists in the head before outside logic steps in to explain what can and can't be done, to reconstruct and compromise. It's the barrier that all true artists are trying to overcome.

Never has an album sounded so pure of vision than Erykah Badu's New Amerykah. Its 11 tracks take us on an unsupervised, unfiltered tour of Badu's firing synapses and zipping neurons; her lyrics come in hoarse flows that seem to catch melodies incidentally, as if the listener has suddenly become privy to the rhymes Badu whispers to herself when no one's listening. Musically, it's her most varied and fearless album to date, taking in vintage funk samples ('Amerykahn Promise'), neo-jazz ('Telephone'), beat-driven electronic elegance ('The Healer') and caustic hip hop ('The Cell'). But while she collaborated with a host of producers (Madlib, 9th Wonder, various members of the Sa-Ra collective), it's Badu's serene, towering presence that infuses the record through that sensual voice. Her lyrics are an immersive mix of personal, political and spiritual, whether making a case for the all-consuming power of hip hop on 'The Healer', stepping in to the role of resistance leader on 'My People' or lamenting the ravages of drugs on 'The Cell' and 'That Hump'. As is fitting for an album that plays like a direct wiretap into Badu's brain, each track finds her in a different mood or adopting a different persona. On 'Me' we find her contented and matronly, accepting all sides of her being: "Everything around you see/ the Ankhs the wraps the plus degrees/ And yes even the mystery...it's all me". On 'Soldier' she's a zealous firebrand in full-flight, ready to "keep marchin on/ Till we hear that freedom song/ And if you think about turnin back/ I got the shot gun for your back". Perhaps most poignant is her emotional address to lost friend J Dilla on 'Telephone': "Just fly away to heaven, brother/ make a place for me brother". It's a vulnerable, hopeful moment on an record that lays bear an artist's life and soul - a record that demands, and deserves, our full attention.

4. At the Drive-In - Relationship of Command (Grand Royal, 2000)

At some point (usually somewhere around hour three of the Great Led Zep Discussion at age 16), most music geeks get to mentioning "rock 'n' roll alchemy" - that indefinable magic that turns a collection of synchronised components into so much more than the sum of its parts. It's what makes great bands great, and it's the reason that the break-up of At The Drive-In, mere months after discovering their own alchemical miracle with third album Relationship of Command, is such a tragedy. It was all inevitable, of course, with Class As, fracturing creativities and non-stop tour exhaustion all playing their parts in the slow-burn car crash. Not to mention At the Drive-In had to live with the paradox of being determinedly against slam-dancing at shows whilst playing the most unleashed brand of post-hardcore passion that anyone had heard in years. The band now reside in two separate groups (The Mars Volta and Sparta), both excellent but neither quite harnessing the magic that poured out of them via At the Drive-In.

But better to break-up after writing your best album than before, I suppose. And we'll always have Relationship of Command to cradle us through the nights of sobbing and soundtrack our fantasies of (long-rumoured, still unlikely) reunion. ATD-I's best album is simply a force of nature, a maelstrom of guitars and electric energy that must be heard to be believed. From the opening rattlesnake salvo of 'Arcarsenal', the listener is delivered a tsunami-force ultimatum: come with us, or be left behind. Those willing to let go and ride the hurricane are hit with a sonic barrage that rarely lets up (and then only to heighten the next detonation). Vocalist Cedric Bixler (now Cedric Bixler-Zavala) punctuates the whirlwind with intoxicating (and nigh-impenetrable) lyricism covering drug addiction, intercontinental tension, oppression and alien-infested space stations. His wordplay is engaging ("Paramedics fell into the wound like rehired scabs at a barehanded plant, an anaesthetic penance beneath the hail of contraband" is a line worthy of the finest imaginations), but it's his wild, unstudied delivery that ensures every line resonates on a gut level. We might never know the specifics, but Bixler's final words on striding epic 'Quarantined' feel appropriate both as an exploration of the creative process and a suitable epitaph for a band that exploded so brightly at the turn of the century: "A single spark can start a spectral fire".

3. Bon Iver - For Emma, Forever Ago (Jagjaguwar/4AD, 2008)

Anyone who has shown even a passing interest in Justin Vernon's Bon Iver will be aware of the circumstances of For Emma, Forever Ago's recording, which has by now been indelibly inscribed in the annals of folk history. Vernon, following the break-up of his previous band (DeYarmond Edison) and the disintegration of a relationship, still weak from the after-effects of glandular fever, retreated to a remote cabin in the wilds of his native Wisconsin to convalesce. While there, he recorded a set of songs that mixed reflections on relationships past with the wintry natural imagery around him.

I'm usually happy to largely divorce albums from the circumstances of their creation (it seems to encourage a myth-making process that prioritises the cult of personality over music), but in this case the background informs the shape of the songs to such a great extent that it's impossible. Because For Emma, Forever Ago is essentially a one-man therapy session, scored by an unspeakably beautiful guitar/voice interplay and the spectral presence of the forest outside. Through the nine tracks we catch glimpses of his emotional recovery, from the pained remembrance of a lost love on album opener 'Flume' ("Sky is womb and she's the moon"), through the exquisite torture of 'The Wolves (Act I and II)', on which the climactic, clattering percussion might bring to mind Vernon's gibbering demons scratching at the walls of the cabin as he intones a protective mantra in an attempt to keep them out ("What might have been lost - don't bother me"). Throughout, Vernon employs his stunning falsetto, often double-tracked to add texture, as an accompanying instrument as much as a conveyer of words. By the time we reach the serene beauty of final track 're: stacks', Vernon seems to have reached a resolution to cast off grief and live happy in the knowledge that past love is no less real, as long as it's remembered: "This is not the sound of a new man or crispy realisation/ It's the sound of the unlocking and the lift away/ Your love will be/ Safe with me."

2. Deftones - White Pony (Maverick, 2000)

White Pony was the moment that Deftones definitively cast off any nu-metal affiliations (which were always a nonsense - the band so quickly outpaced the nu-metal fraternity that they were probably the first to bang the final nail in that ugly genre's coffin) and effectively rendered any categorisation of the band's sound moot. They're simply Deftones, existing defiantly apart from heavy metal, in a league of their own creation.

Not that they're incapable of liquifying a listener's internal organs with pure molten ferocity. 'Elite' is one of the most vicious metal tracks in existence, Steph Carpenter's guitar shredding at a merciless pace behind Chino Moreno's howling vocals ("When you're ripe/ You'll bleed out of control"). What elevates White Pony from mere sound and fury is a sense of musical and lyrical freedom that often flies in the face of genre expectation (much to the chagrin of the lapsed Deftones fans that never really got them in the first place). 'Teenager', for instance, is a polar counterpoint to the murderous rage of 'Elite', a swaying beat accompanied by a soft Spanish guitar arpeggio and DJ Frank Delgado's ambient electronics. And, somehow, it's still just as much Deftones.

The album, and the band in general, is filled with pleasing paradoxes. But the strange truth is that Deftones are proudly Romantic with a capital R, an updated artery of Gothic literature, melding music and words to revel in the little details. Moreno's lyrics are far more interested in evoking mood than meticulously detailing scenes. And the mood on White Pony is overwhelmingly sexual - even the album's title refers to a dream that supposedly represents sexual discovery. 'Feiticeira' and 'Passenger' form a thematic duo that place characters in cars (one in the back seat, one tied up in the trunk), basking in an imperious sensual energy. It all culminates on lead single 'Change (In the House of Flies)', with its explosive chorus mirroring the thunderous physical metamorphosis described by Moreno: "I watched you change/ It's like you never/ Had wings". As an album, White Pony remains a stunningly complete and shockingly overlooked work of art.

1. Arcade Fire - Funeral (Merge, 2004)

Arcade Fire are a pretty unique proposition, having produced two albums that both deserve consideration as the very best this luminescent century have offered up so far. Both Funeral and 2007 follow-up Neon Bible are unmistakeably conjoined by Arcade Fire's distinctive orchestral arrangement, but separated by the very different atmospheres they create. While Funeral turns grief and recovery into a communal experience, a flowering human fireworks display, Neon Bible takes those melodramatic concepts and places them in a dark vacuum. While the overriding image on listening to Funeral is the emotional hustle and bustle of the masses crammed on top of one another in rows of tenement buildings, Neon Bible brings to mind apocalyptic chanting coming from a lonely barn on a stormy plain at night, far from anywhere.

Although I was tempted to issue a massive "fuck you" to my own rules and crown these two albums as joint champions (especially as they work so well as distorted reflections of each other), I finally had to grow a pair and declare Funeral, Arcade Fire's first epic transmission to the world, my favourite album of the decade. It was the defining album to stray from the Strokes/Interpol trend of lyrical detachment and austere guitars to unabashedly adopt grand emotion and sweeping scope. Since then, many bands have attempted to make such lofty gestures, but none have come close to reaching the sumptuous embrace that Arcade Fire achieved on Funeral.

And what a warm embrace it is. Funeral might have been named on account of the spate of family deaths that the band experienced while recording the album, but this music is anything but funereal. It's a celebration, despite Win Butler and Regine Chassagne's lyrical exploration of the dark recesses of grief and self-deception. Opener 'Neighborhood #1 (Tunnels)' is a piano-led slow-burner, culminating in an invigorating guitar/piano freakout and Pixies-esque vocal harmonies. In fact, a large proportion of tracks, notably 'Wake Up' and 'Rebellion (Lies)' end with an extended joyous sing-a-long, accompanied by the band's full range of instruments, including strings, horns, organ, accordion and added percussion. If this album's a funeral, it is undoubtedly in the grand gospel/South American tradition of expressing jubilance for the possibilities of life rather than commiserating the inevitability of death.

'Neighborhood #3 (Power Out)' is the towering centrepiece that crystallises the album's themes and sets the band's musical template. A roaring central riff never slows throughout the song, softening only to be pierced by triumphantly chiming glockenspiel. In using the concept of a power outage to explore the idea of a young generation desperately trying to reignite a fire on which their parents have long since given up ("And the power's out in the heart of man; take it from your heart, put it in your hand"), 'Power Out' also sets out Funeral's manifesto - a passionate expression of the tiny cries of human suffering and joy, ultimately washed away by the enormous clatter of the big picture. While it's always depressing to reflect on the utter insignificance of our lives, Arcade Fire make such a joyously melodic racket that, for all its emotional brutality, Funeral ultimately picks us up, dusts us off and warmly invites us to dance the darkness away.

Comedy review: Tim Key's The Slutcracker live at the Soho Theatre, February 19th 2010

Reviewing a comedy gig seems like a particularly futile exercise. It is, of course, impossible to predict whether you'll find something funny without hearing the jokes, and a review can't tell you any of the jokes without spoiling them for you. If indeed you would have found them funny in the first place. All in all, it's like trying to describe a BMW driver without once using the phrase "self-important, overcompensating bumsniffer". Almost impossible, I'm sure you'll agree. However, occasionally indulging in futile exercises is the only way to strengthen your Quixotic Obstinatrix muscle group*, so on with the show!

Now I don't like to make a habit of issuing brash proclamations. They always come back to haunt you like the ghost of that Papa Roach album you once thought would change the world. What I will say is that Tim Key is the future of comedy.

One of the finest comedians to emerge from the group of innovative, Edinburgh-approved performers that have been trickling into the mainstream of late, you may recognise Tim Key from his poetry recitals dotted throughout Charlie Brooker's Newswipe or as the questioneer from the recently-aired comedy quiz show We Need Answers.

But it's clear that The Slutcracker is Key's baby. And what a charming, delightfully malformed baby it is. Ditching traditional set-up/punchline structure in favour of poems (read and analysed almost simultaneously), supported by video clips, music and childishly anarchic physical comedy. It sounds a bit fiddly, but such is Key's control that the show slides effortlessly from poetry to short films to shambling acrobatics in the grand old tradition of larking about.

To quote from Key's poems would be to take them out of their proper context and butcher them most cruelly and inhumanely, so I won't. But the fact that he can fix an audience with that dead-eyed gaze (see image above) and give a description of bollocks being bitten off and elicit laughs rather than screams is a testament to his skill. The secret is in the flightiness of his delivery; mock-seriousness swiftly gives way to tension-relieving affability, often through Key's idle chit-chat with sound man Fletch. It's a mix of surreal inscrutability and rosy-cheeked English chumminess that never errs too far on the side of one or other.

Given the shambolic nature of the show, it's a minor miracle that by the time it ends with a finale that takes audience interaction to a new level (I won't spoil it, but let's just say he almost broke my girlfriend's goddamned wrist), it all seems so complete. Apparently plucking coherence out of chaos is another grand gift that Tim Key can add to the long list.

Tim Key is currently performing The Slutcracker at the Arts Theatre in the West End. This extra run lasts until 13th March.

* The most important of the made-up muscle groups.

Escape Artist's Top 50 Albums of the 21st Century Part 2: 30-11

30. Interpol - Our Love To Admire (Capitol, 2007)

Our Love To Admire, Interpol's third album, might contain few tracks to rival the instant ear-grabbing spectacle of the likes of 'PDA' and 'Evil', but after several years of re-listens, the record stands on firmer legs than either of its predecessors against the test of time. Distancing themselves from the dense, anthemic leanings that always drew uncomfortable comparisons with late 70s/early 80s post-punk, Interpol here fully embrace the cold, statuesque songcraft that had previously felt like a calling card the band were hesitant to slip into their collective jacket pocket. The songs are impressive as much for the silences as for the sounds, considered riffs expanding and contracting to achieve that highly calculated impact. That might sound artificial, but album closer 'The Lighthouse' proves that Interpol are never better than when they're softly reeling you in for the knockout blow.

29. Les Savy Fav - Let's Stay Friends (Frenchkiss, 2007)

You know we live in a topsy-turvy world when a band of thirtysomethings can create a sound that's one of this decade's finest blueprints for being young and free. For fifteen years, Les Savy Fav have been innovating the shit out of the art-rock/post-hardcore genres. The band has spent its whole career speeding like a flaming unicorn through styles before moving on to something new and exciting while the scenesters jump on the bandwagon they've left behind and make all the dough. As is proclaimed loud and proud on the band's website: "Missing out on cashing in for over a decade". Let's Stay Friends, LSF's fourth full-length, was worth the six-year wait for fans - a riotous flight of driving guitars and pounding drums with enough whimsy and flair mixed in to upset its punk template. It's a set that puts two fingers up to restraint and dives into songs with gleeful abandon, from the unforgettable, granite-splitting beat of 'Patty Lee' to 'What Would Wolves Do?', which should be mandatory listening for directionless and discouraged youth. Hopefully we won't have to wait another six years for their next album, as 'Pots & Pans' lays out an optimistic vision of the world's Savy future: "Let's tear this whole place down and build it up again/ This band's a beating heart and it's nowhere near its end".

28. Drive-By Truckers - Brighter Than Creation's Dark (New West, 2008)

Three principal songwriters; three guitarists; a broad southern rock/alt-country remit that encompasses a wide range of lyrical moods and musical textures. It's a recipe for a bit of a jam-band disaster, isn't it? And, honestly, Drive-By Truckers, whilst boasting an astonishing talent pool, have often struggled in the past to cram their sheer range into one unified album. They nailed it on Brighter..., though. The duelling vocals and styles of core trio Patterson Hood, Mike Cooley and Shonna Tucker undertake a pretty exhaustive exploration of the best and worst of the Southern spirit (always the Truckers' prime preoccupation), tackling different topics at different tempos, gradually building up an affecting, Springsteen-esque tableau of desperation and humour, triumph and despair.

27. Ben Folds - Rockin' The Suburbs (Epic, 2001)

September 11th, 2001. A tough old release date, that. Especially when you're seen as piano pop's clown prince. Luckily, Folds made a concerted move away from the wise-cracking schtick for his debut solo album (with the notable exception of the title track which, to be fair, is pretty funny) to create a sincere, open-hearted glimpse into middle-class American suburbia. The album's tone and quality is remarkably consistent, pumping out insistent piano-led pop numbers interspersed with emotionally resonant ballads, the redundancy-blues of 'Fred Jones Part 2' being a particular highlight of the latter. Rockin' The Suburbs remains a potent reminder of the heights Folds can scale when he goes for the heart-strings rather than the funnybone.

26. The Flaming Lips - Yoshimi Battles The Pink Robots (Warner Bros, 2002)

A continuation of the emotional directness and musical immediacy they so deftly delivered with 1999 masterpiece The Soft Bulletin, Yoshimi is another record by Wayne Coyne and the Lips that grows and grows as repeated listens mesh the music with the listener's imagination. In fact, 'imaginative pop' might be the best description I can come up with to describe Yoshimi (and the wider Lips catalogue). At its heart, the band's tenth release is gloriously naive guitar pop, buoyed by subtle experimentation and anchored by Coyne's unaffected vocal delivery. Screw it, I'll just come out and say it. Wayne Coyne for President.

25. The National - Boxer (Beggars Banquet, 2007)

With 2005's breakthrough Alligator and now Boxer, The National's albums seem to have garnered a reputation as 'growers'. This refers to the tendency for the songs to keep giving over repeated listens, but that shouldn't preclude praise for the immediate impact of the band's bassy intensity and vocalist Matt Berninger's beaten-down, baritone lyricism. I still remember being hit square in the chops by the opening piano chords of Boxer's opener 'Fake Empire'. Throughout the album's 12 tracks, there's such an abundance of melodic guitar/piano interplay and rousing choruses that it's a wonder the BBC hasn't snapped up more National songs to soundtrack emotionally-exploitative montages for its nature docs. Special mention should also go to Bryan Devendorf's superb drumming, which often plays with audience expectations but is always brawny enough to give tracks that essential desk-tapping quality.

24. Sufjan Stevens - Illinois (Rough Trade, 2005)

It's the Sufjan Stevens that you know and love, but more!! Bigger!! Louder!! Longer!! Convoluted song titles!! Exclamation marks!! The second album (after 2003's Michigan) in Stevens' grand, surely-never-to-be-completed project to dedicate an album to each of America's states might seem like a novelty curio, but even on cursory first listen, it's immediately clear that this is a definitive masterpiece and his best work so far. 22 tracks filled to the brim with orchestral swirls, vibrant arrangements and a palpable sense of romance. Stevens draws from the renowned figures, features and musical styles of Illinois, channeling them through his own unique lens to craft an album that is by turns intimate and overwhelmingly vast.

23. Dinosaur Jr - Beyond (Fat Possum, 2007)

Dinosaur Jr didn't have a good 90s. After cementing themselves in the upper strata of the late 80s US alt-rock scene with You're Living All Over Me and Bug, the band's core duo J Mascis and Lou Barlow fell out over Mascis' control freakery, leading to Barlow's departure and the subsequent ten years of diminishing returns on a major label before Mascis euthanised the Dinosaur Jr monicker like some half-starved street dog in 1997. It would have been an ignominious end for such a great band. Luckily, Barlow and Mascis finally put their handbags down in 2005 and set to work on a new record. The triumph of Beyond, therefore, is that the original line-up was able to recapture the fire after over 20 years of huffily ignoring each other. The album takes the best from those original records, as well as Mascis' more structured 90s work, to create a set that sounds as noisy and vital as the early days but incorporating the lessons Mascis and Barlow had learned during their long interim. The result is classic rock song structure played at punk volumes, and arguably the purest distillation of that Dino Jr sound. Clearly Barlow, Mascis and drummer Murph realised that despite the recriminations, they had unfinished business together. And against all odds, it was worth the wait.

22. The White Stripes - White Blood Cells (XL, 2001)

White Blood Cells signaled the moment that Jack and Meg White exploded on to the mainstream music scene, with frantic, drooling write-ups in the music press rapidly degenerating into Heat-esque speculation on the duo's relationship. But their stadium-sized leap into the world's frontal lobes didn't come as a result of a slickly-produced update of their scuzzy garage-rock. All they had to do was write their best and catchiest record to date. Simple. The central riff of 'Dead Leaves and the Dirty Ground' simply rocks on a life-changing level; 'Fell in Love with a Girl' has a feverish, deranged feel that perfectly echoes its theme of reckless young lust; 'Offend In Every Way' is giddy mix of early Kinks and Ennio Morricone. The album succeeds so effortlessly because it digests elements of rock 'n' roll from the past forty years whilst never surrendering its own jagged Detroit identity. Also, little known legal fact: if someone nonchalantly announces to you that Meg White's drumming sucks, you have a legal right - nay, obligation - to knock every tooth out of their stupid ignorant face.

21. Dizzee Rascal - Boy In Da Corner (XL, 2003)

In an age when rap has become the new pop and toothless, self-satisfied turd-wranglers rule the charts on both sides of the Atlantic, it's heartening, not to mention utterly necessary, to focus on hip hop's innovators and street gladiators who choose ugly reality over vapid fantasy. Boy In Da Corner is still a titanic record by one of this broad genre's finest talents. It's the record that introduced most of us to Dizzee's scattergun vocal delivery, the MC skipping from bravado ('Fix Up, Look Sharp'; 'Jus A Rascal') to bruised vulnerability ('Sittin' Here'; 'Brand New Day') to gritty street-level observation ('I Luv U') with a hyperactive, breathless pace. The beats are just as special, Rascal and Cage stitching grime/garage/dancehall/rock samples together to create a dexterous collage of sounds that feels authentically scavenged from Bow's clubs and pavements. Despite Dizzee's recent concessions to the T4 crowd, he delivers every time on his LPs, and even if the future sees him seduced by the fame game, we'll always have Boy In Da Corner.

20. Kings Of Leon - Aha Shake Heartbreak (HandMeDown, 2004)

Is it possible to recall Kings Of Leon pre-'Sex On Fire'? It's all a little hazy at this point. Well, there was that first album all the way back in 2003, which was pretty good, if a little unassuming and light on ambition. Oh wait, then there was Aha Shake Heartbreak, otherwise known as the album with which KOL quietly stole our hearts and unzipped our girlfriends' jeans. Displaying a deftness of touch that seemed to surprise us all, the album alternates between barn-dance guitar ruckus('The Bucket'; 'Taper Jean Girl') and gentle Nashville lullabies ('King of the Rodeo'; 'Milk'), all infused with the sweaty sexual energy that the Followills had so clearly been exercising on the Youth And Young Manhood tour.

19. Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds - Abbatoir Blues/The Lyre of Orpheus (Mute, 2004)

A singularly tough task to pick from Nick Cave's clutch of 21st century opuses (opae?). I was especially tempted to give 2001's No More Shall We Part a glowing recommendation, given the insistence of some writers to reduce that masterpiece to evidence of Cave's old-age softness and "domestic contentment". Still, being the established mathematician that I am, unswerving logic led me to believe that a Nick Cave double album must trump a Nick Cave non-double album. There are other reasons too, though - the fact that it's a perfect summation of a broad and varied career; that Cave's lyrics mix traditional, beauteous sentence structure with anarchic savagery and back-of-the-pub lewdness; that it's Cave's most orchestral, epic work, filled with strings and choirs and guitars and whirling Wurlitzers.

18. TV On The Radio - Return To Cookie Mountain (4AD, 2006)

Three superb studio albums in and it seems there's no stopping TV On The Radio. Sophomore release Return To Cookie Mountain is the star of a very fine litter, a beguiling combination of Desperate Youth's ethereal mystery and Dear Science's dense sound-squalls. Speaking of treading fine lines, the album also expertly charts a midway course between scratchy experimentalism and the immediacy of the head-nodding beats. For that, we can thank producer/sampler/multi-instrumentalist Dave Sitek and drummer Jaleel Bunton. Meanwhile we can thank Tunde Adebimpe and Kyp Malone for the exquisite, powerful vocal harmonies which deliver colourful and evocative lyrics, particularly on single 'Wolf Like Me', which re-casts the lusty male as lycanthropic emotional predator. TVOTR have inherited David Bowie's mantle as the prime purveyors of thinking people's party music. Bowie's vocal contribution to 'Province' may even have served as the inauguration ceremony.

17. Desaparecidos - Read Music/Speak Spanish (Saddle Creek, 2002)

I'm sorry, I can't help it. I don't like Bright Eyes that much. Given that my favourite Bright Eyes album is the much-maligned electronic jaunt Digital Ash In A Digital Urn, it seems I belong to the deformed demographic that prefers the music Conor Oberst plucks out of his butt while resting from his last proper album. With that in mind, I present to you Read Music/Speak Spanish, the first and only album by Desaparecidos, Oberst's collaboration with fellow Omaha songwriter Denver Dalley. Recorded in a week, this raw slice of post-hardcore is a product of Oberst's words and Dalley's powerchords, coming off like a more cerebral Replacements or a meatier Get Up Kids. Elevating the riffery is the bristling anger and surgical insight of Oberst's lyrics, which frantically scratch at the scabs of middle-American cash culture.

Side-note: Read Music/Speak Spanish was the subject of possibly the worst music review I've ever read, in which the writer (for the now-defunct Stylus) spends the first half of the piece comprehensively pointing out all the reasons he should never have been chosen to review the album in the first place.

16. The Besnard Lakes - ...Are The Dark Horse (Jagjaguwar, 2007)

I am as yet unconverted to the genius of Pink Floyd, being that I tend to fall asleep several minutes into each track. As such, I wasn't expecting to fall in love with Canadian duo The Besnard Lakes' second album, which shares a lot of similarities with the languorous psych-rock and prog of the 70s. But ...Are The Dark Horse made me realise that my stumbling block with Floyd isn't a matter of track length or pacing, but aesthetics. I could (and frequently do) listen to the slowly-unfolding beauty of The Besnard Lakes all day. The eight songs (with the exception of 'Devastation', which rocks like almighty fuckery from beginning to end) lull the listener into a hazy rapture by gracefully hiding in shadow before erupting into Technicolour splendour. Album opener 'Disaster' is a particular highlight - I have long harboured the irrational belief that this track should be played at Brian Wilson's funeral, with or without his consent.

15. Spoon - Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga (ANTI-, 2007)

Lean and streamlined like a rock 'n' roll greyhound (seems they used up all their self-indulgence with the album title), Spoon's sixth album is 36 minutes stripped of pomp and frivolity, each song poised to attack. As first track 'Don't Make Me A Target' proves, the essence of Spoon is in the complex interplay of seemingly simple guitar and drum parts, the band exploring all the ways they can play around with and distort a central riff. But streamlining doesn't mean Britt Daniel and co. don't make room for experimentation. On 'The Ghost Of You Lingers', a simple lovelorn sense of longing becomes a spectral masterpiece through pounding piano, static intrusion and Daniel's distant, echoing vocal refrain.

14. The New Pornographers - Twin Cinema (Matador, 2005)

Aah, sweet melodies. Sometimes they don't have to be subverted, reconstructed or experimented on. Sometimes they just have to be fucking sweet. In 2005, accredited melody-meister AC Newman and his army of superstar collaborators (including Neko Case and Destroyer's Daniel Bejar) created a soul-affirming paean to the rippling joy of the unreconstructed hook and the rousing sing-a-long chorus. In the interest of me not repeating myself, check out the Disc Of The Day review I wrote for the MOJO website a couple of years ago for all the adjectives you can eat.

13. Rival Schools - United By Fate (Island, 2001)

Rival Schools might have only brought us one album in their short lifetime as a band, but United By Fate crams in enough rampant riffing to be a meal that replenishes itself every time you come back to it. There's enough sting in the album's tail to hark back to Walter Schreifels and the rest of the band's hardcore punk legacy, but it's mollified by a new sense of soaring melody and a varied pace that makes those fat slabs of guitar noise all the more satisfying when they drop. This is another of the three albums on this list for which I did a write-up for MOJO - have a read, if you're not into the whole brevity thing.

Side note for fact fans: the band and the album took their names from Capcom's Playstation brawler Rival Schools: United By Fate. And people say videogames can't inform wider culture. Tsk.

12. Jay-Z - The Black Album (Roc-A-Fella, 2003)

A massively-hyped album (remember all that guff about it being Jay-Z's last record?) that managed to leave a rabidly expectant fanbase satisfied like happy fat little babies, The Black Album feels like a pretty definitive exclamation mark for Jay's career and the East Coast rap scene in general. From the breezy jazz of single 'Change Clothes' to autobiographical document 'December 4th', the man is on top of his flow on every track. Even more impressive is the way that he marshals the talents of an army of producers and collaborators, incorporating their styles without compromising the unity of the album. Eminem's brooding style shines through on the chorus of 'Moment of Clarity'; '99 Problems' and 'Dirt Off Your Shoulder' are laced with Rick Rubin and Timbaland respectively, but all tracks here are firmly under Jay-Z's bootheel, partly because he made the wise decision to hog the mic, ensuring that it's his voice and his vision that comes through clearest.

11. M83 - Saturdays = Youth (Mute, 2008)

If you're going to name your band after a spiral galaxy (Messier 83), you better make sure your music makes a fair reach for the stars, and that your reach doesn't exceed your grasp. Neither of these are a problem for Anthony Gonzales, who as M83 has been pouring pure dream pop into the world like some benevolent white witch for the last 10 years. All of his five albums resonate on some deep romantic level, filled with giddy synths and swelling arrangements, but 2008's Saturdays = Youth seems to have a particular pull for wistful modernites, harking back to an entirely made-up 1980s American golden youth that we've been mythologising ever since the 90s got boring, with John Hughes' (RIP) The Breakfast Club as a new Sacred Text. It's a painfully beautiful record that's filled with the kind of adolescent ache that would seem so easy to romanticise, but is so rarely done well.

COMING SOON - The top ten! Featuring: Two albums with America in the title! Nasty music! Nice music! Alphabetical extremities! Sinny sin sins! Boys! And Girls!

Click here for the first part of the countdown - 50-31