Review: Steven Wilson, Warwick Arts Centre 15.3.18

The Warwick Arts Centre is something or other in order to fluff out an appropriate beginning to a review.

British musician Steven Wilson has spent the best part of twenty years on an uphill slope to mainstream exposure. Leading the much-missed Porcupine Tree for the first 100 years of his career, after putting them on ice and embarking on a successful solo jaunt he has continued to draw in audiences and earn a well-deserved reputation for quality music and having a formidable live show.

Tonight, his tour in support of new 'progressive pop' album To The Bone brings him and superbly talented solo band back to home shores. Having previously graced beautiful European cities, where better to progress to than Coventry?

In the first of many highlights of this damp Thursday evening, the venue allow for a seat swap for a few extra quid after your correspondent got the seating map the wrong way round and happily paid £40 for the back centre seat, instead of the front. Shelling out on the night results in being four rows from the front, sadly resulting in some of the impact of the impressive new visuals diminishing somewhat.

The Butterworth Hall is something of a large lecture theatre - the stage is about a foot off the ground, and there is a greater sensation of the performers and audience being in the same room, rather than the usual physical gap between both parties.

Pictured: record audience numbers

The setlist follows the same rough outline as previous tours: two main sets split by a twenty-minute piss break and some extra songs tacked on in the encore. It's generous in length, covering around 19 songs and indicating the same thoughtfulness Wilson gives to his music and which songs to show off - some mainstays of previous setlists face off against a smattering of new To The Bone material: Nowhere Now and Pariah kick things off, after a short film, Israeli musician Ninet Tayeb appearing on the new projection system, with the cinematic epic Pariah and the sliding tackle of People Who Eat Darkness, with another winning accompanying video from animator Jess Cope.

The very show itself is an inherent bonus, as Wilson already has the Midlands area 'covered' with an upcoming date at the prestigious Birmingham Symphony Hall, providing some relief to Coventrians sick of decades of venturing to neighbouring Birmingham to see a show. It's strange however that Wilson continues (self-deprecatingly and with self-awareness, however) to express personal preference for standing shows and the greater freedom of enthusiam-expression that they allow - yet every show on this leg is seating-only.

Surely every major region has a more rough-and-ready sticky-floored sweatbox to accommodate (step forward, Wolves Civic) to balance out the swankier ones (good morrow, Symphony Hall), and Wilson could have trod the boards barefoot in, say, the Academy - offering as it would a combination of standing and seating.

Anyway.

Wilson gets around this somewhat by instructing the audience to stand for the grinningly defiant 'Permanating', where middle-aged curmudgeons get a boogie on and the stage - and the rest of the room - becomes a huge disco. It's so much fun you almost want a chunk of the show to carry on in the same vein. Wilson however faces a difficult task whenever he hits the road in choosing the right combination of material from his seemingly never-ending back catalogue, a rapidly expanding world that grows in size faster than you can get into it. Indeed, he has more hours of music to his name than there are people in the world.

Rubbish pic added to fill space

He always rises admirably to the task, however, and somehow manages to make unlikely bedfellows stand shoulder to shoulder in the set without any loss of theme, quality, or momentum. The much-loved Porcupine Tree track Arriving Somewhere... But Not Here opens the second set before the aforementioned Permanating and by some weird musical voodoo the two are unquestioningly Wilsonian yet are some of the most wildly different examples of Wilson you could place together.

As the man himself points out later, when doing a Billy Brag-style rendition of Even Less using just an electric guitar and none of his cohorts, there are tons of songs his slightly younger fans (i.e. under 40) never got the chance to hear, and they all his songs anyway, so Wilson continues to pepper his setlists with well-recieved renditions of Porcupine Tree tracks, slotting in surprisingly well alongside his solo material.

In celebration of Deadwing and In Absentia having long-awaited reissues on vinyl, surprising inclusions of The Creator Has a Mastertape and Heartattack in a Layby also appear - sounding so damn powerful you suddenly realise there are no barriers to what Wilson can draw from his extensive back catalogue (Storm Corrosion material has been played, never forget). Can we expect some Bass Communion on the next tour?

To The Bone's predecessors Hand.Cannot.Erase. and the 41/2 EP continue to survive into the new era with the deployment of instrumental Vermillioncore later in the evening, with Ancestral and Home Invasion/Regret #9 making welcome appearances during the opening set, continuing to feel at home just about anywhere despite being removed from the wider context of the Hand.Cannot.Erase. album. The sprawling Regret #9 guitar solo originally laid down by Guthrie Govan (in one take, legend has it) continues to be a litmus test for the prowess of Wilson's latest stringsman, and new recruit Alex Hutchings ably proves his worth on it.

Porcupine Tree's memory refuses to budge as the deathless (ha) Lazarus adapts well to the new visual presentation and the monolithic, lumbering beast of Sleep Together stomps around the room and erodes the vibrational integrity of the architecture with its downtuned power. While the prospect of the band ever functioning again continues to fadeaway (pun intended), Wilson's solo lineups continue to knock out impressive and satisfying renditions.

Song of I, Detonation and The Same Asylum As Before round out the rest of the second set, being Wilson's first ever 'sexy' song, another prog winner and a balls-out rocker respectively. The former gains more power in a live setting and continues to show off the new projection system and Detonation showcases the band's enviable tightness yet again.

The aforementioned just-Wilson Even Less finishes proceedings before the inevitable The Raven That Refused to Sing forms the habitual closing number. A Spinal Tap moment where the video fails to load on three attempts brings everything back to Earth a little, but without diminishing the show in any way - rather, an inadvertent opportunity to remind all present that for all the musical virtuosity and presentational bells and whistles, things can actually go wrong. It is quickly forgotten as one of Wilson's very best compositions draws an unforgettable evening to a close, and yet another unmissable tour by Steven Wilson gets properly underway.

Review: Killing Joke, Brixton Academy, 4.11.16

For some time, the legendary Killing Joke have been ageing like a fine wine, albeit one spiked with nerve poison. Defiant in the face of the natural aging process, the band – possibly in reaction to volcano-throated frontman Jaz Coleman’s doomsaying, prophetic lyrics actually being more relevant by the day – have only gotten louder, darker and better as the years have passed.

It is a good fortune and seemingly never-ending winning run only afforded to the truly special and prosperous, with fellow national treasures Iron Maiden being an immediate example – also having a back catalogue so crammed with gems a truly perfect setlist is impossible.

Nevertheless, they give it a bloody good go. From the minute the lumbering, shuddering nightmare of The Hum fills the equally historic Brixton Academy, the ‘Joke give a faultless lesson in how to keep any heel-snapping protégés away. Indeed, when they finally hang it up it’ll be hard to find an act with quite the same weird allure or blazing intensity.

1980s hit and deathless set-staple Love Like Blood follows, throwing back to their historic gothy-pop period and reminding us all of their expeditions into varying genre territories: the enduring, endearing result is, for the uninitiated, a nerve-racking proto-something or other that’s too heavy to be punk, too nuanced to be industrial, and not quite metal either, yet they outwit many of the greatest proponents of these genres by (still) being stubbornly uncategorisable and seamlessly blending them together, without losing sight of what constitutes a tune.

Stringsman ‘Geordie’ Walker, the immovable object against which Jaz Coleman’s unstoppable force collides, provides great textural cathedrals of sound with an utterly unmistakable and sought-after guitar tone, making the noise of thousands from only one pair of hands.

Legendary producer and bassist Youth is almost his complete opposite, stage left: barefoot, in a kimono, and grinning his teeth out, and why not? Most bands never make it past the big 3-0, most never manage to retain or reform their original lineup and sound this fantastic (the tragic passing of longtime bassist Paul Raven having preceded this, however, with the band taking a long hard look at their own mortalities and making the decision).

But Killing Joke are not ‘most bands’, and in a world of absolute fucking anaemic grey-arsed musical tedium they have only become more vital and desperately needed. New Cold War, from last year’s barnstorming Pylon album, ably explores its title’s subject matter like an essay set to music, with Walker supplying chilly atmospherics. They somersault into territories other bands refuse to enter.



Underpinning all of this sits the formidable ‘Big’ Paul Ferguson, a mesmerising sight during the rabbit-hole tumble of Unspeakable and, well, at any given point during the gig. It’s a testament to the man’s dizzying tub-thwacking that he can command your attention even with a pair of fire dancers blowing flames within singeing distance of Youth’s dreads.

The generous running time amounts to nearly twenty songs, and while some stones are left unturned, there’s room for the likes of Eighties, the venerable Turn to Red, underrated dancey banger European Super State, while failsafe early ‘uns like The Wait and Change square off against the furious Dawn of the Hive and I Am the Virus.

A delicious hat-trick of The Death & Resurrection Show, Wardance and a multi-dimensional Pandemonium ensure a winning send-off to a night of energy, dancing, sore necks and smiles all round.

Killing Joke, after thirty-plus years in the game, are still impossibly unique and utterly unsolvable. We shall not see their like again.

Review: Opeth's 'Sorceress' casts its spell

Soldiering on through their new growl-free era, Opeth have either musicially neutered themselves or continued to push progressive boundaries with quality music, depending on who you ask.

Splitting their fanbase down the middle with 2011’s infamous (but really rather good) Heritage album, guttural growls and heavy riffing went out in the window in favour of a greater emphasis on haunting, autumnal atmospherics and slight noodling, all drenched in 70’s worshipping prog.

This turned away a sizable number in disgust, with the rest (and music publications) praising the resultant music for what it was, rather than what it wasn’t: and crucially, it was really fucking good. 

The same was said of 2014’s Pale Communion, which tumbled deeper down the prog rabbit-hole.

The naysayers can be forgiven, however, for while both Heritage and Pale Communion were excellent slabs of music in themselves, there was certainly something strangely different. 

Where the likes of past albums Blackwater Park, Still Life and Ghost Reveries were genuinely awe-inspiring, almost maddeningly inventive works hitting a high clang on the how-did-you-do-that register, Heritage and onwards are merely really-quite-good in comparison, destined to occupy an interesting spot in Opeth’s gleaming back catalogue but never to knock the twin giants of Ghost Reveries and Blackwater Park off their (deserved) high perches.

With this in mind (and in one’s ears), 2016 brings us the mysterious Sorceress. Boasting a title-track with the first heavy riffing of any kind since 2008’s Watershed, this new gilded release, essentially, continues onward from Pale Communion – as it should.

A straightforward return to death-metal stylings would carry a 99% chance of being an obvious rehash and lazy genre-milking, so hats must come off to Mikael Akerfeldt and co. for having the confidence to writing from the heart with more deliciously classy prog-rock.

So to an extent, the listener knows what to expect – piano, acoustic guitar, tasteful flute, looming keyboards, etc – and is rewarded in kind with more achingly beautiful instrumentation, inspired passages, haunting melodies and Akerfeldt continuing to be one of rock and metal’s most favoured sons.

Simply put, the quality bar is still endearingly high and Opeth have reliably rewarded those deciding to stick with them in a brave new musical world. Their classic past albums will always exist for those who prefer them, and the band have long since earned the right to do whatever they damn well please, and the results are fantastic.

It's a strange, strange thing to be reviewing a Guns N' Roses tribute act in the knowledge that while you nod along to eerily detailed renditions of Civil War, You Could Be Mine et. al, the 'core' of the real thing are bulldozing through America on the will-they-won't-they reunion tour.

Before Axl Rose and Slash finally, finally buried the nuclear hatchet, the singular Guns alumni were, of course, in action in their various pursuits. Axl could be seen fronting enormodome shows under the GN'R name, from which drummer Frank Ferrer and stringsman Richard Fortus (10 and 14 years in the job respectively) have graduated to the current 'hybrid' reunion lineup. 

Slash, meanwhile, toured and recorded under his own name and Duff McKagan continued to be the coolest human being alive. But while the Great Trio can indeed be seen sharing a stage again, there's still no sign of a UK tour or even a London show.

Enter Guns 2 Roses.

It's been 14 years (geddit?!) of mirror-imaging the legendary Hollywood rock n' roll ensemble for this lot, and Bilston's Robin 2 - a routinely fantastic place to catch tribute acts - welcomed them back.

For Axl Rose has long been heralded and celebrated as having the most fearsome pipes in rock history, and I'll be damned if my wine-addled ears didn't hear Guns 2 Roses' frontman, who even has Axl's way of glancing at the audience nailed down, wail a long way up and down the holy fuckometer. 

Of equal attention-hogging ability is their Slash. Innumerable Halloween and fancy dress outfits over the years have proved just how easy it is do dress as the man, so ingrained in the rock n' roll consciousness , but G2R's representative actually has the right guitar strap as well. Oh, and he plays guitar really well and whatever.

No, really: he cranks a damn good sound out of a gorgeous Les Paul and Marshall amp - the inseparable rock n' roll marriage - for the duration and supplies, as Slash so memorably did (does?) wonderfully crunchy, warm tones and lets fly with excellently slick guitar licks. 

The evening is over all too quickly, and after a set that leans mostly on Appetite for Destruction material, it's tantalising to think what Guns 2 Roses might be able to do with a bigger room and a longer playtime - Estranged, maybe? 

"Fing is, they're not just one of the best tribute acts oi've seen - they're one of the best gigs oi've seen," blares a punter, and as I slip away during a spirited set-closing Paradise City to dash for the last tram back to Birmingham, I'm inclined to agree. 

Here come the drones: Muse return to Birmingham in grand form

Where next? Short of featuring inter-dimensional portals or a functional greenhouse onstage, Muse have readily fulfilled what it means to be an all-conquering stadium-slaying band. The Teignmouth trio, out in force supporting last year’s discography-uplifting Drones, have taken their already quite fucking mental stage show to new ceiling-punching heights.

A decade ago, the Black Holes & Revelations show was a retina-wrecking spectacle in its own right; the following Resistance tour featured three blooming towers in which Matt, Dom and Chris stood; while The 2^nd Law tour had a giant ensemble of dynamic screens that gradually closed over the band. Toss in a fair few stadium-swallowing treks and scorched-earth festival appearances and you’ve got a seriously formidable act.

As title-track Drones filled the Barclaycard Arena, the promised computer-controlled "swarm" of drones finally revealed itself. Only slightly sinister (so not completely in accordance with the dark imagery of the album and the rest of the show), they are in fact floating ping-pong balls, gently sashaying around the arena in an almost David Copperfield-esque moment of open-mouthed wonder.

The drones in flight, during Supermassive Black Hole.

In another Copperfield moment, the levitating ostrich eggs line themselves up peacefully down the stage’s runways, and we realise the act is introduction but also magical misdirection, as Muse finally emerge and swing into the gloriously punchy Pyscho.

Eager to please, the hoary old Plug In Baby is wheeled out and administers a good arse-kicking to everyone not already moving. Slightly irritatingly, classic notions of keeping the pacing are thrown to the wind as Dead Inside then lumbers into view, followed by The 2nd Law: Isolated System and another new'un, The Handler. 

All are objectively fine, but slow the show down and stand in the place of, say, New Born.

As if responding to this impression, Supermassive Black Hole moonwalks through the arena, bringing the drones out with it, wafting over the crowd. Bizarrely, the orchestral prelude to Survival then precedes the irresistibly anthemic Starlight, but the pair - now ten years old! - have become staples in their own right. 

The juggernaut that is Citizen Erased then thunders out from Muse’s back catalogue, pacifying any old-time fans and answering desires for several classics in one go, with Bellamy taking to the grand piano for its emotional wind-down. It is a treat indeed, possibly a magnum opus and always welcome. 

Note Bellamy's red 7-string guitar for Citizen Erased. The potato loved it.

While the intervals aren't as annoying as, say, the instrumental jams and guitar solos employed by Guns N' Roses in previous years, they make the fine line between presentation of art and a blast-through of songs wobble slightly. Happily, Muse are old hands at this and get the balance right, even if the more nuanced moments are nearly drowned out by mindless chatter from surrounding blithering boar-faces bores in the standing area, for no gig of this size is free of these eternal twats.

After the traditional drum-and-bass jam, Muse finally approach an uninterrupted run-through: the unashamed pop of Madness and giddying space-rock of Map of the Problematique are dealt out, only for another interlude: the John F. Kennedy speech sampled in the Drones album that precedes uplifting stomp-rocker Defector in its tracklisting - this is revealed to be another bit of misdirection when two of the old guard in Stockholm Syndrome and Time is Running Out get the crowd almost jumping high enough to knock the drones out of the sky. 

A couple of after-song riffs (including Led Zeppelin's Heartbreaker) and fist-pump anthem Uprising are given well-received airings, then Muse try out their arguably proggiest undertaking since the Exogenesis symphonies: The Globalist, referenced by Bellamy as something of a sequel to Citizen Erased. A hydra-headed musical beast, it is perhaps the greatest showcase of the new stage show and its themes, not least when a slightly wanky drone plane flies over the crowd and Matt revisits his piano. 

Ticker-tape tomfoolery for Mercy.

Before saying goodnight, the slow burning of Take a Bow and Muse's newest anthem, Mercy, with its accompanying ticker-tape explosions, set the stage for the immortal clarion call of Knights of Cydonia. 

There are probably around five artist and bands with anything approaching Muse's statesmanship, showmanship, and absolute dominance of the arena-show in the universe right now. While it's mind-boggling to think of how they can top this, in the meantime one of the great acts of our time are still readily available for your delectation. Got your ticket yet?

Michael Schenker returns: 9-date January UK tour announced

LEGENDARY SCORPIONS, UFO GUITARIST RETURNS


Legendary six-string wizard Michael Schenker will return to the UK in support of Spirit on a Mission, the acclaimed follow-up to 2013's Bridge The Gap. Kicking off at the Robin 2 in Bilston on January 20th, the trek will also take in two Scottish dates, plus Liverpool, Manchester, Nottingham and London.

Schenker will be performing as Michael Schenker's Temple of Rock, backed by the formidable rhythm section of Herman Rarebell and Francis Buchholz (who played together on the classic 1979 Scorpions album Lovedrive), Wayne Fidlay supplying keyboards and 7-string guitar, and the formidable vocalist Doogie White fronting the group.

Spirit of a Mission looks set to be another highlight in Schenker's expansive career, with an impressive cv featuring The Scorpions, UFO and The Michael Schenker Group.

"I always write in the same way but this time, especially driven by a precise concept. The picture was album balance for me and combine many years of emotions in one," says Schenker. 

"I wanted lots of double bass drum to keep the fast songs rolling like a train with lots of energy covered with interesting elements, a couple of my UFO days-type of mid tempos and the 7 string low sound to get a very wide range of sounds and emotions."

Spirit on a Mission is available now. The tour begins January 20th at the Robin, 2 Bilston.
Tickets are available at http://www.michaelschenkerhimself.com/tour.php

Turn to red: the legendary Killing Joke slay Birmingham

There are bands, and there are cults. There are concerts, and there are religious experiences. There are fanbases, and there are devout followers. 

There is an endless void, and there is Killing Joke.

Those wise enough to make this distinction and spend All Hallows' Eve crammed into Birmingham's Institute enjoyed a rollicking set of the Joke's special brand of indescribable purifying noise: cackling over the end of the world and presenting landscapes drawn from a sonic palette so indefatigably punishing and relentlessly brutal that it is, in its own way, unerringly beautiful. 

Touring in support of their fifteenth album, the shit-kicking Pylon, Killing Joke - returned to their original line-up after bassist Paul Raven's untimely passing, with a rare Absent Friends dedicated to him - take to the stage then take the stage itself, their autonomous zone for the night. 

Ploughing through an exploratory career-hopping set, due reverence is given to their position as venerable statesmen, with the tunes to match: a suitably boinging Eighties is judderingly relevant, despite being older than some of the crowd (hello). Pandemonium closes the set, after the likes of Turn to Red going toe-to-toe with the assault of newer cuts. 

Theirs is a tribal-industrial lot - if forced to categorize - pummelling the Institute and instigating a two-way energy exchange. Bassist Youth lighting incense sticks or whatever the fuck it was christ I'm tired who reads this shit anyway was a touching addition. 

Love Like Blood and Requiem, two foremost set staples, are tucked inside the middle of the set for once. Security lies in the understanding that the band could fart them through a kazoo and the respective gorgeous ache and fantastic stomp of these two would still transmit, and still incite no less applause. 



After thirty-eight (thousand?) years in the game, frontman Jaz Coleman is also no less the most hypnotic frontman of his generation. Still keeping any heel-snapping newcomers at bay, looking away is an impossible task as it is searingly clear from his expressions that every word carries megatons of weight, delivered accordingly. 

Guitarist Geordie Walker, meanwhile, is a mystery no easier to figure out even when working a few feet away. Chordal oddness and sheer inventiveness mixes with a guitar sound that is completely and utterly unmistakable, with bludgeoning riffing giving way to effortlessly illustrated textures, housed inside great cathedrals of sound, making his underrated status all the more criminal. 

Geordie Walker's Gibson ES-295: a conduit to chaotic noise

There are precious few acts where each and every member makes their mark through sheer force of personality as well as musical and technical skill. Skinsman 'Big' Paul Ferguson emits kidney-puncturing beats, perfectly undercutting the band's sound and quite possibly vibrationally eroding the venue's infrastructure. Aforementioned Martin 'Youth' Glover's driving bass dances around it wonderfully, fulfilling an overall sound that is, upon reflection, something not to be repeated. 


It is sobering to think of the oft-cited bands who Killing Joke left a (claw) mark on - the likes of Metallica, Tool, and Nine Inch Nails may command bigger audiences and their own degrees of fan loyalty, but know this: there will only ever be one Killing Joke, with an unrivalled intensity and singular identities of sound. Miss them at your absolute peril.

Still laughing: Killing Joke return with the incendiary 'Pylon'

Every few years, with the state of Planet Earth sinking utterly beyond satire and parody in its Nineteen Eighty-Five-on-steroids ruination, a certain collective pause to pass scathing comment upon it. This acidic dissent comes courtesy of messrs Jaz Coleman, Martin 'Youth' Glover, Geordie Walker and Big Paul Ferguson, trading unclassifiable apocalyptic disco-metal as the legendary and influential Killing Joke.

"Living outside of the grid is our goal! Misery lies at the heart of control," blares Coleman, resuming duties as messenger from the atomic wasteland in Autonomous Zone. Killing Joke's ideals are everlastingly precious and increasingly sensible, and are more often than not wielded as a bludgeoning device with which to beat some sense and wordly awareness into the listener.

And bludgeon, they certainly do: Ferguson commands a legion of skin-thwacking undercurrents that piercingly punctuates each nuclear missive, driven by Youth's submarine bass. Guitarist Geordie Walker's unique stringsmanship, an integral part of the Killing Joke sound since its inception, acutely divides his time between blunt-force-trauma riffing and wonderfully bleak soundscapes, matching Coleman's fustrated railings against mankind's descent.

Their knack for an immediately discernible and danceable tune is gratifyingly present and correct, with Euphoria and New Cold War proudly representing the band's fearless forays past the punk label in a time-honoured willingness to explore other avenues and nuke them.

Their primal ferocity is entirely compounded, aided and abetted by the same slickness that so enriched predecessor album MMXII. This production sheen may lend a slight cleanliness to the sound, but it in no way distils the message, like a celebrated film director employing modern touches to realise the artistic vision with greater clarity.

As is to be expected of such a self-aware and consistently thoughtful act like the 'Joke, the persistent question of mortality pervades (see also: Iron Maiden). Big Buzz also expertly treads between joyous anthem and teary emotion-trigger. A sense of celebration is one of their several alluring aspects, and this track harks back to the likes of On All Hallow's Eve, Honour the Fire and even Gratitude, where the doomishness is countered by Killing Joke's great sense of occasion: the self-styled Gathering.

In another parallel to Iron Maiden, they present their first double-disc studio effort. The second 'half' of Pylon, while feeling slightly like a tugboat trailing behind a battleship, still packs in four righteously furious pieces. It oddly ends with a remix of Snakedance, the original being curiously absent from the album. This prevents Pylon from sharing the sense of end-to-end completeness that MMXII had. Yet, Pylon has the key advantage of the expansiveness of double albums, and an abundance of such searingly strong music is not to be complained about.

With this, their fifteenth half-spat-half-sung commentary on a world continuing to circle the drain, Killing Joke have proven, once again, that the last laugh is theirs. Pylon is the mutated flower that grows through irradiated concrete: glimpses of ironic beauty in a diseased, dying landscape.

New Street station: Pret-a-Manger cannot address the station's issues

Birmingham's long-awaited new Grand Central shopping centre, plonked unceremoniusly on top of New Street station, has been open now for some time. The second city's denizens have had sufficient time to give themselves undue neck-ache looking at the giant boil of a glass ceiling, before an irate and late traveller almost knocks them flat while hurrying for their train.

Social media has, so far, been kind: likening the new money-sucking endeavour as having the potential to rival Manchester Piccadilly and London St. Pancras in the travel/shopping experience stakes.

However, this is swept away by the experience the travellers actually have before reaching New Street and when boarding a train at it. Aside from whitening several platforms and walls, adding staircases and suchlike, what has actually happened to the station itself? You know, the station-y bit of the station. Where the trains actually come in and out, and people vie for comfortable standing-spaces in their vestibules.

Having been likened to a dungeon in the past, you'd think lashings of lolly would have been targeted at making the sub-level experience slightly less hellish. But no: the price Brummies pay for having a truly city-centre station (an admitted benefit) is still ongoing - and the dark, miserable trains-and-tracks bit is still as unedifying as ever.

Trains still jostle for platform space, evidenced by the waiting game played by every fifth train attempting to enter New Street. Rolling stock is still barely covering the requirements.

Tossing a few wanderers into the paths of hurrying commuters and adorning the building with a frankly hideous array of reflective nonsense will not allay the worsening bottleneck. These problems can only worsen, too, given general reluctance to procure new trains, along with the other time-honoured chestnuts - growing population numbers, growing passenger levels, etc.

It is frankly laughable to consider Manchester Piccadilly and London St. Pancras to New Street. For those who have yet to visit these, it is almost advisable not to as New Street will only worsen in comparison. Out of the capital's numerous terminals and large-scale stations, perhaps New Street is on a par with Euston, being a similar sardine-ramming concrete assault (con)course.

Euston aside, London still has the delights of Paddington, King's Cross, the aforementioned St. Pancras as well as Victoria. Each of these, whilst perhaps not intricately comparable to New Street due to various factors, are spacious and welcoming spaces.

So, what's to be done about New Street? Trains can only lengthened so much, platforms less so. If HS2 wasn't on the horizon, a satellite station of sorts could be built in the place of the planned Curzon Street terminus, with certain services' inter-connectivity sacrificed.

No envy emanates from this quarter for those charged with finding such solutions. Thankfully, we also have the gloriously retro and tasteful Moor Street, sadly beaten down by its neighbouring Snow Hill, the bastard concrete spawn of New Street. An online perusal at 1960s-era Snow Hill is a painful experience, as it less resembles a fallout shelter and more an attractive travel hub/venue.

With the exciting Midland Metro expansion and the HS2 terminus planned, we cannot afford to have any weak links in Birmingham's idealised city connectivity. Making New Street's platform levels attractive, however, may be akin to planting plastic flowers in Mordor.

Review: Steven Wilson, Royal Albert Hall

As far as victory laps go, Steven Wilson's hot-ticket successive sets at the prestigious Royal Albert Hall stand aloft like two giant middle fingers: for the humble bespectacled audio-wizard has enjoyed a fantastic new chapter in a musical career already jam-packed with the kind of accomplishments many musicians would kill for.

After impressing all concerned with 2013's rightly acclaimed The Raven That Refused to Sing, Wilson did it all over again with his latest, Hand.Cannot.Erase. The newer release carries a freshness and immediacy in stark contrast to Raven's lengthy, haunting proggy ghost stories, but not without hidden depths that only appear after the 99th listen.

The first of the two shows feels like an extended Hand.Cannot.Erase. tour concert: Wilson and band glide through the entire album (sans Transcience, sadly, preventing it from being a complete end-to-end run-though), being an extremely well-oiled and rehearsed machine by now. Despite having taken this set to numerous rapturously-received shows throughout the year, they attack the new material with pleasing, spirited zest.

While Hand... is a multifaceted, genre-skipping milestone unto itself on record, hearing it explored live is nothing short of a treat, Wilson and band employing quadraphonic sound to fill the Albert with it. 

The material traverses almost all of Wilson's musical palette: the uplifting prog-rock of 3 Years Older, the nimble pop of the album's title-track, the wistful slow climax of Perfect Life, the monstrous riff-labyrinth of Ancestral before finishing with Happy Returns, expertly treading the cheery/sad balance. Three select choices will survive into the second night, squaring off impressively against older cuts: now, however, Wilson's self-belief in his fantastic accomplishment shines through.


With Hand.Cannot.Erase. put to bed, the second set of the first night provides the assembled disciples with a grinning bag of jewels and gems, starting slowly and ominously with the first ever performance of material from Wilson's collaborotion with Opeth's Mikael Akerfeldt. Drag Ropes, a wonderfully spooky and foreboding piece (to call it a track or 'song' would be a misjustice), is laid out across the Hall over the course of approximately seven days. 

Its sheer length may have has a slight pulse-weakening effect on some, but the sheer rarity of the event cannot be underestimated, especially when Akerfeldt joins the band on stage to provide vocals and animator Jess Cope's fantastically disturbing video accompanies it on the giant screen.

Wilson next reminds all involved whose name is on the ticket as he leads the bands through their reworking of Index, complete with synchronised statue-posed finger-clicking introduction, a fantastically surreal sight through one of Wilson's brilliantly darkest pieces, with suitably eerie visuals presumably from long-term collaborator Lasse Hoile.

How is Your Life Today? and the invincible Lazarus follow, respectively a not unwelcome oddity and one of Wilson's absolute strongest compositions, rapturously received.

A short speech from Wilson prefaces a particularly tasty showcasing of unreleased HCE material, titled My Book of Regrets. Part proggy length and catchy verse, it is reminiscent of the dreamy sections of Luminol crossed with the singalong 'Tree track Blackest Eyes. It will arrive on an EP in January: begin the countdown.

Harmony Korine, The Watchmaker and Porcupine Tree's Sleep Together follow, the latter two with the expected white sheet hanging before the band, with appropriately disturbing visuals projected onto it for Watchmaker. It is nothing short of spellbinding, a masterfully executed matrimony of sound and sight.

By way of eventual encore, the 'Tree's The Sound of Muzak's sincere lamentations precedes The Raven That Refused To Sing, a perfectly judged conjuration of storytelling and emotional power.

The first night wrapped, all speculation turns towards the second: making sense of what has taken place, however, will take a long time. Wilson and band admirably stepped up to deliver something far more than a simple recital, matching expectations by putting on a spectacular event. 




Night 2:

With the first evening being an extended Hand.Cannot.Erase. tour show, the second is a rarities free-for-all. The band members consecutively take the stage to contribute to a steadily growing No Twilight Within the Courts of the Sun. Wilson is the last to take the stage, to deserved cheers, leading it to its fantastically intense conclusion.

Fully assembled, the team tackle the first of several Porcupine Tree gems in the maudlin Shesmovedon, before returning to newer material in Routine. Guest vocals from Israeli singer Ninet Tayeb have been conspicuously absent from renditions of the song due to Tayeb's own inability to attend tour dates. For both of these nights, however, she is present to fill the Hall with the full force of her impressive larynx. Animator Jess Cope's heartbreaking stop-motion video accomapnies it as expected, and suddenly there is a demand for Wilson-themed handkerchiefs at the merchandise stand. 

A prog-rock stand-off ensues between Wilson's solo material versus more 'Tree tracks, to satiating results. "The only way to follow that is with some dumb heavy metal", quips Wilson in the aftermath of the emotional onslaught of Routine's unholy trinity of itself, Ninet's presence and Cope's aforementioned video. The 'metal' he speaks of comes in the form of Porcupine Tree's Open Car, with its itchy verses, gloriously epic chorus and the best guitar riff Matt Bellamy or Tom Morello never wrote. 

Don't Hate Me follows, before the two-part prog workout of Wilson's Home Invasion and Regret#9 - the former being a hydra-headed piece of volatile riffery, dreamy chorus and alt-rock swagger, the latter a truly fantastic showcase for the remarkable skills of keyboardist Adam Holzman and guitarist Guthrie Govan, who returns to the lineup tonight as a welcome guest, his recent absences ably covered by the superb Dave Kilminster (including these two nights). Govan and the band then revisit Wilson's wondrously fragile Drive Home, featuring Govan's jaw-dropping emotion-wringing extended solo.

Also re-joining for Drive Home is the humbly talented Theo Travis, providing woodwind instrumentation for a jog through more of Wilson's solo material: the crushing Sectarian, the dreamlike Insurgentes, No Part of Me, and finally a tastefully trimmed airing of sinister prog-demon Raider II. 

The first of two encores is a fascinating exploration of the first of three Porcupine Tree songs, the lengthy Dark Matter. Celebrated 'Tree sticksman Gavin Harrison receives some of the biggest cheers of the night, joining the band for a one-two of Lazarus and The Sound of Muzak.

For Steven Wilson, victory was secured long ago. With performances like this, he is reaching for something greater: immortality.

Review: Killing Joke - 'Killing Joke [2003]'

And there, in the title of this slab of pure fury brimming with intelligence, is the first warning to the uninitiated about the sheer size of Killing Joke’s colossal sonic testicles: that this is their second self-titled album.

This is entirely appropriate as a title, marking as it does a point of rebirth in the band’s history – a history that makes the story of your favourite band read like a council memo on lamppost legislation. The Joke are about as recharged as a musical act can be without actually spontaneously combusting: there is enough energy and sonic intent here to level cities.

Doubly interesting, then, that the band sound is completely stripped back, which pushes each instrument so far into your face that the collective aural beast manifests as a clenched fist. There is nowhere for the listener to take refuge, nor any let-up in the pacing. It’s the musical equivalent of a sound beating after spilling the pint of an intellectual.

And as usual, the forefront intellectual is Jaz Coleman – either a ranting, bug-eyed madman or one of the few to musically spew truth pearls into people’s faces in the hope that they’ll sit up and take notice (In this review, he is the latter).

Such is the skill, that fact is intertwined into memorable hook. ‘Five corporations earn more than forty-six nations!’ Coleman bellows on Blood On Your Hands. Total Invasion, meanwhile, has the sneering ‘Only fools won’t know, they haven’t been told/their empire’s run on the old black gold’. The sense of a shouted history lesson prevails.

The relentless barrage is also the great flaw of the album, one you don’t notice for a long time. Killing Joke pummel the listener senseless here, which is fine, as they do it with intelligence.

However, in concentrating on one of the things they do best, their other abilities are kept shut out, namely the talent in crafting danceable tunes and music with a sense of exploration and/or adventure, namely Bloodsport and Communion respectively as just two examples.

Nevertheless, for what Killing Joke is, it knocks out the competition with a swift knee to the balls and a diatribe on the state of the world. None do it better.

Ten Years On: The Darkness - 'One Way Ticket to Hell...and Back'

It's been a strange decade for The Darkness, having been through more ups and downs than the average rollercoaster, with more rock n' roll tales from ten years' worth of music than lesser mortals will endure in a lifetime.

Bursting into British popular music with shit-kicking debut 'Permission to Land' in 2003, the band enjoyed a hugely successful multi-faceted bullseye, totting up several victories in a short space of time: being the first unsigned band to sell out London's legendary Astoria and injecting much-needed life into rock's decaying corpse as it was being kicked around by indie hipsters.

As is often the case, a speedy rise ensures a similarly speedy descent, and the masses who bought into The Darkness' immediate popularity were suddenly nowhere to be seen for album number two, 'One Way Ticket to Hell....and Back'. A year after its release, frontman Justin Hawkins would underdo rehabilitation treatment for alcohol and coke addiction, leaving the band and leaving the remaining band to become Stone Gods. Hawkins, meanwhile, would return to action with the excellent Hot Leg.

While The Darkness are happily together again - albeit minus original drummer Ed Graham - history has a habit of passing (and pissing) over their unloved second album. Here, ten years on from its release, I wish to make the case for its recognition as one of the best British albums ever made.

Where 'Permission to Land' blew everyone's faces clean off with a giddily inspired mixture of snotty punk exuberance, near-perfect rock balladry, cannonball guitar riffs, Brit-wit and Hawkin's inimitable falsetto wail, the follow-up displayed a sense of world-beating maturity - but without losing the humour.

The impression from having listened to 'One Way Ticket...' more than my mother's voice is a disc where each gilded track stands impressively aloft on its own two flicked-v fingers, and still flows perfectly well in a single sitting. Where there was belligerence ('Get You Hands Off My Woman'), there was now a greater sense of scope and scale, with every single facet of the band sounding monstrously HUGE.

Hawkin's fantastic vocal range sears through each song in an impressive array of styles, a perfect narrator for chucklingly witty lyricisms. Who else can inspire childhood memories of school with the gorgeously anthemic 'Dinner Lady Arms'? The vocals are also produced to glossy perfection, with exactly the right amount of ghost-Justins popping up for sporadic backing vocals and harmonies.

Moving on to the music itself, there is the same subtle hints of serious guitar skills from Justin and brother Dan with considered deployments of widdly-widdly solos and acoustic flourishes, such as the verse to 'Hazel Eyes', which subsequently explodes into a chorus of mountainesque power chords and heaven-sent guitar licks, all the while punctuated with cannonfire drumming and powerful bass.

While almost every track is lyrically entrenched in lurve, the title track is a fantastically-told story of Hawkin's cocaine addiction: 'I always tried to keep my vices under wraps/but a coach-load of mutes would have been talkative chaps'. Setting the course for the rest of the album, there is spades and spades of sheer wit, catchy invention and polished-to-perfection balls-out rock.

There are absolutely no low points, perhaps except for when 'Bald' and 'Blind Man' get a little serious in tone. The sprawling gorgeousness of 'Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time' is this album's answer to earlier single 'Love is Only a Feeling', and is an excellent sequel of sorts. While these songs burst a few of the party balloons momentarily,they are surrounded by bollock-burstingly-brilliant hymns that, above all else, must be applauded for being something that precious few bands seem to manage these days: FUN.

Like an unloved gifted child who turns to heroin during a traumatic parental divorce, 'One Way Ticket...' lay weeping in the corner as The Darkness underwent their meltdown. An incredible record such as this deserved far better in terms of a stable line-up to support it. A fat (middle) finger must also be pointed at everyone who enthused about their debut - hipsters and midlife crisis dads alike - who couldn't be arsed to stick with the band just as they produced their golden egg. 

Since their reformation, The Darkness have produced two more albums of knockabout British rock n' roll, thankfully carrying their hallmarks and ensuring their continued existence as a functioning band. But for a catastrophically brief moment in their history, at their most fragmented, a once-in-a-lifetime album was born in the worst possible conditions for its deserved recognition.

If you love witty, loud rock n' roll with just the right amount of polish and heart, I implore you to pick up a copy of this tragically overlooked album. It may just be the best thing you've ever heard.

10/10

Review: Muse - 'Drones'

The world continues to resemble an appallingly-written sci-fi movie by every passing day, so it feels especially righteous to have a fresh slab of music from popular rock's most endearing riff-wielding commentators, Muse. 

Album number seven, with the band noting a marked return to the primal guitar-bass-drums setup of their earlier works, comes with its own narrative: indeed, Matt, Dom and Chris have even expressed enthusiasm for Drones to be adapted into some form of musical.

Possibly to nix the allure of potential album leaks, Muse have pre-empted the release of Drones with not just the expected slew of singles, but approximately half the album. Psycho was the first out the gate, providing a musical home for a guitar riff that Bellamy has been throwing around for almost all of the band's history. 

The Drill Sergeant barking that precedes it is one of two interludes on the album, recalling Tool's fondness for such between-song pieces that allow the listener to breath and take a detour through disembodied planes before stumbling directly back into the album's narrative. 

Dead Inside followed, despite this Undisclosed Desires-turned-nasty stuttering disco stomper actually opening the album, possibly to allay fears of Bellamy talking a load of bells about the supposed return to Planet Rock. When received by the masses, it prompted confusion - it wasn't pureblood rock, but wasn't meat-and-potatoes either, proving Muse hadn't lost their appetite for exploration.

Next up, in both pre-album releases as well as Drones' actual running order, cometh Mercy and Reapers, which history may pinpoint as the overall album's standout tracks. Mercy proudly shows off its musical lineage, carrying several elements from past songs such as Starlight, Follow Me as well as setlist cornerstone Stockholm Syndrome, juicing the ingredients into a fantastic slice of glittercannon pop-rock.

Reapers takes the madness further with a so-so verse that gives way triumphantly to Rage Against The Machine-turned-glam guitar work, featuring a fabulously jubilant  - and dare I say it, sassy - guitar solo with the greatest chorus of the whole album. A surefire gem.

The Handler sits stubbornly at the album's core, guitar riff reaching out in several directions like a drowsy belligerent octopus. It provides the uneasiest experience amongst the tracklisting, but not without showcasing Muse's songwriting prowess.

The second of the interludes, JFK, features the great man himself blathering before Bellamy and co kick the door down with Defector, (yet) another monstrously rocking track that wields its hammerblow riffs and Queen-esque backing vocals, Matt in a pleasingly defiant mood that contrasts with the negativity preceding it over the course of some of the album's first half. 

After the usual dizzying carousel of thick-stringed riffery, bombast and epic themes, Revolt is a not entirely unpleasant prospect but its city-stomping predecessors leave such a mark that it nearly drops the baton. It may please those who wish for a simpler song, but history may consign it to the dusty corner of unloved filler tracks (see also: Explorers and Guiding Light).

Then again, it may be the intention to wind down the musical intensity as the narrative reaches its conclusion. Aftermath almost recalls the woozy sway of past tracks such as Blackout and the three-part Exogenesis Symphony, but is slightly too watery and ultimately fails to make a meaningful impression.

Ten-minute-monster The Globalist pointedly defies any notion of bringing things to a gentle halt with a heady mix of unadulterated fearlessness, albeit with slightly wobbly execution. Whilst not the greatest thing Muse have ever committed to tape, it inarguably succeeds in marking out Muse as one of the most interesting acts to tap the Top 10 on the shoulder before lending it a copy of 1984. 

Closing this chapter in Muse's history is the album's title track, in which Bellamy clones himself and forces the assembled Matts at Manson-point to all sing at the same time. It's a strange soup of the man exploring the different levels of his still-brilliant voice, but also sounds like several vocal warm-up takes being played at the same time. As album closers go, only time will have the final word on whether it truly works or not.

A cabal of longtime Musers wait, agonised, for Muse to return to the form they built their career and legend on. Drones doesn't completely hark back to those times, because nostalgia is a backwards glance and Muse have never done anything else except march into the future. For that, they cannot be criticised. 

7.5/10

Review: The Darkness - Last of Our Kind

Remember The Darkness? Spandex, 2003, I Believe in a Thing Called Love, Love is Only a Feeling, and a sophomore album that nobody liked or bought (despite Kerrang! magazine breathing one of their few remaining gasps of sanity and awarding the album their highest score)?

No?

Well, now's an excellent chance to either re-aquaint yourself with them or roll over and take their special brew of brilliantly silly carrying of the sacred rock n' roll torch.

As rock finds itself in arguably its weirdest state yet, album number four crashes down through the ceiling. Sequinned boots kick in all directions as the glammy force of the band's favourite form of gloriously OTT rock n' roll cheerfully bash your skull in (and out, like a hokey-cokey with Marshall Amps sponsorship).

Where thank-god-they're-back previous disc, Hot Cakes, had more of a lairy feelgood, um, feel to it, Last of Our Kind appears to wear brass knuckles underneath the velvet gloves. Witness the one-two punch of the first two tracks, Barbarian and Open Fire, notably uptempo shitkickers that carry a slight snarl with the expected snigger.

Handclapping anthems sway to the tempo alongside supercharged slices of rifferama, and suddenly the prospect of there being a dimension not containing this band is enough to scare you into grabbing a ticket for their winter 2015 UK trek, for at least one more chance to partake in the time-honoured Darkness party.

On other fronts, The Darkness continue to wear their rival-beating talents on their nipple tassels. Justin Hawkin's inimitable force-of-nature wail is present and deliciously unapologetic, delivering their amusingly inventive lyrical games with the expected alacrity. In a musical landscape oversaturated with unpalatable identikit bores, it is all too easy to

However, having worked so hard to develop their own take-no-prisoners identity and zippily identifiable character, along with a songwriting nous that has set the bar giddily high for themselves (not to mention their catastrophically underrated second album), some tracks, perhaps inevitably, can't quite reach up to those heights.

It's an issue that permeated previous long-player Hot Cakes, a thoroughly solid romp that couldn't quite match the pure greatness achieved prior. Taken as a standard rock album, however, it was by no means without identifiable merit.

Whether Last of Our Kind can be deemed a victim of the same problem can only be determined with 999 more listens and the fullness of time. What can be immediately ascertained, however, is that it is another secured victory.

7/10

Paul Together Now: Sir Macca Brings His 'Out There!' tour to Birmingham

Few, if any, stand bigger in the pantheon of aren’t-you-dead-yet pop stars than Paul McCartney. Having sold more albums than there are stars in the sky, with a ready repertoire of the most enviable hysteria-inciting pop hymns known to man, delivered by a backing band with more chemistry than a Breaking Bad binge, few have aged as gracefully as Macca.

McCartney is currently carbon-dated at 72, yet all external evidence defies this – the hair, the between-song sassy banter, and the sheer energy put his heel-snapping protégés to shame: the marathon length of tonight’s 40-strong set clocks in at a buttock-numbing two-and-a-half hours.

He and band bring an infectious energy and gusto to the proceedings, leading a hip-shaking conga through Beatles and Wings tracks rarely, if ever, aired before. The brave decision to leave the first undeniable gem until the third song – Can’t Buy Me Love – allows the far-travelled disciples to find their seats without missing the unmissable, but also sets a slightly sedentary precedent: with so much time to fill, Macca & Co set about darting around furtively in his glistening back catalogue. 

Unfortunately, that leaves slight gaps between the iron-clad hits.

The result sucks some of the momentum from the show. It is the way of all musicians, a problem so great that someone even of McCartney’s venerable statesmanship cannot escape: a shorter set of greatest hits, or a longer one that finds room for forgotten songs?

Deep cuts please the obsessive fans, but they are outnumbered by those who’d rather hear the immortal paens and go home again: the polarity in mid-song audience response is irritating, but thankfully allayed by rapturous arena-wild cheering after each song is put to bed.

Such quibbles are washed away when the immensity of a state visit from someone as celebrated as Macca is taken into account, along with the rarity of his visits (1990 – 2003 – 2015), and the sheer spectacle of it all. His voice, one of popular music’s immortal crown jewels, is understandably slightly ragged in parts. Thankfully, and in defiance of the natural ageing process, McCartney still greets each song with due respect, to satiating results.

8.5/10

Review: Faith No More - Sol Invictus (album)

For longer than anyone would admit to remember, in a moment of feverish 'Christ, I'm old' panicked realisation, Faith No More have been enthusiastically leapfrogging genres and expectations required of the ostensible rock band. Effortlessly embracing funk, rap, metal and everything else and soldiering it into their own bizarrely unique yet entirely accessible package, they have consistently proved themselves lovably versatile.

Fans who still can't get the taste of Angel Dust out of their ears need to calm down, however, as Sol Invictus stylistically seems to carry on where 1997's Album of the Year left off. This isn't to say Faith No More are stuck in their own past - instead, this new effort sits all the more comfortably next to its bigger discographical brothers.

For there isn't the effortless shit-kicking genius of their most celebrated disc, enveloped in an otherworldly alt-sheen, but instead the sound is far punchier. Sadly this means less atmosphere-creating synths from keyboardist Roddy Bottum, reduced to piano jingling here. However, the band don't sound like they are transmitting from a dimension of their own dimension - on Sol Invictus they have both arms down your throat, and Mike Patton's hydra-headed range of voices and styles finds copious employment, always to startling effect.

Lead single Motherfucker almost collectively drew an 'Oh' moment, considering the long wait for new material - prickteased by the band's reformation and series of gigs from 2009 onwards. It's a dark, brooding track that is almost entirely composed of a great slowly swelling buildup that overshadows its payoff, dissipating like a fart. The track sits strangely amongst its brethren, an odd choice for the band's first single in 18 years.

And the brethren it sits amongst appears to form its own musical rock face, better heard and easier appreciated as a dark and twisted whole. Few cuts stand tall with both fists flicking the V's, save the manic groove of Superhero.

But for a sorely-missed band such as these, not only is any return to action a cause for jubilation, the added bonus of a comeback album that isn't complete doo-doo is an absolute boon.

Review: Muse - 'Mercy' (Single)

As new songs from Muse's upcoming seventh album Drones break out like laser beams burning through the brick walls of the muscle museum, Matt Bellamy's claims of stripping back all the Queen-preening operatics, theatrics and vocal acrobatics in favour of good-old meat & potatoes rock is slowly being met with puzzlement from ardent fans.

First up was Psycho, a long-awaited musical home for a guitar riff almost as old as Muse itself, frequently tagged on to the end of certain songs live. It appeared to fulfil Bellamy's announcements of a grand return to planet rock, but was derided in some parts by whinging twats for being boring. Evident that you cannot please every bastard - especially when you're at Muse's level and can level entire stadia in virtually city in the star system, recruiting innumerable followers with every squealing slice of gargantuan lightsaber pop-rock.

Following this was Dead Inside, seemingly an about-turn from Psycho's primal riffery. Sounding like Undisclosed Desires' evil brother with its stuttering drums and bass, with Bellamy's guitar arriving late to the disco, it promptly split a lot of onlookers down the middle: either a disappointing continuation of the electro-pop leanings that turned off a few fans, or a relief to hear that Muse were not about to cut off their musically curious side. Whatever indication it might have been of the eventual full-length, it was still pretty damn good.

Finally, we come to the very latest offering: Mercy. Referred to by one wag as 'Starlight Syndrome', referencing its gleaming pop sheen and teasingly chugging guitar forming part of the tapestry beneath Bellamy's ironically merciless soundcannon wail in the chorus, Mercy appears to perch between those two while clutching the severed central hook of Follow Me, air-punching single from previous long-player The 2nd Law.

The vocal-following piano notes of Starlight are present, with a dazzlingly bright production lifting the proceedings into the air and into the raised hands of the tour-following disciples. It veers off from there, however, by simply being more up-tempo, with one hand firmly around the listener's neck and another on their balls. 

But is it rock? Pop-rock, yes. Those looking forward to the promised balls-out ROCK may have to hope there are riffy gems posted deep amongst the Drones tracklisting, because Mercy doesn't appear to fit that bill.

What it does do, however, is provide Muse with (yet) another OTT pop-rock monster that features traceable lines back through their dynasty of increasingly signature brand of this sort of thing, shooting glitter-guns in several musical directions at once: a worthy successor to Starlight and Follow Me, perhaps as Drones' grand continuation of their process.

Long may it continue - who else manages to sound this big nowadays?


'Drones' is released June 8th.
Muse will bring Christ only knows what to the main stage at Download Festival 2015 on Saturday 13th June.

Listen to Mercy below: