My latest discoveries: MARIANA ENRIQUEZ

I woke up in a city in the south of Poland, in the middle of the night, and there was someone sitting on the edge of my bed. Someone silent and rather small. A boy. He was looking at me, quite intensely, and I felt a mixture of dread and confusion. It actually took me a little while to recollect the short story "The Neighbor's Courtyard" I had been reading on the train from Warsaw a few hours earlier. Little by little, the night light began to seep through the curtains, the boy on the edge of my bed dissipated, and I realised that this was all Mariana Enriquez. Again. 

It was not the first time that it happened. These episodes would keep coming back to me, and the little person from "The Neighbor's Courtyard" was just one of my visitors. They were mostly children. "The Dirty Kid", the one from "Under The Black Water". The girl that entered "Adela's House". They would all make their presence felt in my apartment, in my hotel, even in the street. The more I thought about it, the more sense it made. Mariana Enriquez can do adults, too, but then nobody can feel it like the kids. And nobody can creep you out like them, either.

My fascination with South American literature never really stopped, and this time it revealed itself through the short stories of Mariana Enriquez. The Argentinian writer and journalist has published several novels and short story collections in the Spanish language but so far only four of them have made it into English. Initially I was seduced by the title The Dangers Of Smoking In Bed as well as the glowing Kazuo Ishiguro quote on the cover (he is a fan), after which I sought out Things We Lost In The Fire. As I opened the very first short story a few days later, I felt the chill and the tingling that always accompany great literature. Indeed, there is no way you can read the first page of "The Dirty Kid" and not be impressed. Her Buenos Aires is stark, expressive, horribly alive.

Mariana Enriquez's writing style is visceral yet somehow elegant. Her sentences have this palpable, almost physical intensity, and she has the knack for always finding the right metaphor. When she writes things like 'sunken eyes of insomnia and too many cigarettes', it creates an eerie mood that complements the ghost story perfectly ("The Lookout"). Her pacing is quite fast (too fast sometimes, as is the case with some stories from the first collection), but she will always place you right in the midst of things. In The Dangers Of Smoking In Bed (confusingly, this was translated into English later than the subsequent Things We Lost In The Fire), she sometimes gets carried away with the physiological aspect. You always feel, however, that her main priority is to create the appropriate effect, and if she needs a man to defecate in a suburb of Buenos Aires (or Barcelona, for that matter), she will do that. 

And oh this effect. The stories get burned into your psyche like delicious cigarette ends. This stuff stays with you. Her horror is literary and the shock effect is never cheap and always well warranted. It really is quite hard to find a contemporary writer of such conviction and blistering originality. The story "Rambla Triste", for instance, presents a uniquely bizarre, and clinically precise, take on immigration. The writing is so distinctive it almost makes everything else feel half-assed.

As I have mentioned previously, I find the second collection Things We Lost In The Fire to be a more accomplished work. While the quality in The Dangers Of Smoking In Bed is always there, a certain sense of a few of these stories being a little rushed never left me ("The Cart", for example, which feels somewhat confused about its own ending). That said, the masterful "The Well" about the ever-present evils of the past (one of her favourite topics; is there a more brutal and haunting line than 'the pain and the sand between the legs' in the aforementioned "The Lookout"?), is vintage Mariana Enriquez. As for Things We Lost In The Fire (incidentally, better than the Low album of the same name), I found it absolutely faultless. The tropes are often familiar: haunted houses, weird kids, demons, witches, etc. It is what she does with them that counts, however. She filters it all through South American magic realism as well as her boundless imagination and takes them to wholly new places. 

In a rather odd turn of events, I bought one of her books while on vacation in France a short while age. It was a small English bookstore, and the woman behind the counter said she loved my choice and I was going to have a good time reading that book. I thanked her and left. A few days later I decided to search for Mariana Enriquez's images online, and to my utter surprise I realised that she looked exactly like the woman in the English bookstore. Not possible, of course, but having read the book, I am no longer too sure. That it was a ghost would be the simplest, and least disturbing, of all explanations.   

La Femme: rundown

It is always interesting to write about bands like La Femme. Flawed bands. Bands with flashes of genius but wildly inconsistent. Bands which were once good but have lost their way for one reason or another. La Femme, the French band from Biarritz, fit into that mould perfectly. They can (could?) write a timeless classic. They can also record misguided albums like Teatro Lucido and Paris-Hawaï. They are many things, and they certainly add an intriguing French twist to the world of music.

Their first album, the perfectly titled Psycho Tropical Berlin (2013), was released three years after the band had been formed by guitarist Sacha Got and keyboard player Marlon Magnée. The title and the cover should tell you what to expect. You will get drunk on this album in no time at all. Psycho Tropical Berlin is an intoxicating mixture of surf music, indie pop, psychedelia, krautrock all imbued with the inescapable yé-yé overtones. It is all quite brilliant, really. They are all over the place but they are also great songwriters. "La Femme" features a terrific melody, sort of shiny French pop, only darker, slightly more sinister. "Sur la planche" was their signature single, the perfect marriage of synthpop and motorik beat. Other favourites include the endlessly tuneful "Saisis la corde" and "La femme ressort" as well as the short and sweet "Si un jour" that is like France Gall and Suicide rolled into one. Psycho Tropical Berlin remains La Femme's best, most consistent album.

That said, Mystère (2016), their second LP, comes very close. With the cover that leaves no room for imagination as well as the running time overkill, the only thing you could accuse them of was excess. The album goes on for over 70 minutes, and while each of these 16 songs has something to offer, a little editing would have been welcome (there is no reason, for instance, why "Vagues" should go on for 13 minutes). But damn it. "Le vide est ton nouveau prénom" is a folk tune for the ages. "Où va le monde" is so infectious it should be banned. "Tatiana" would have you dancing like a wild robot. And "Elle ne t'aime pas" starts like a Pink Floyd epic ("Echoes"?) and sweetly grooves you into complete submission. What a band, one could say.

Paradigmes (2021) is a good album but it also marks the point where things start to fall apart. I mentioned in the previous paragraph that every song on Mystère had something to offer (some more, some less). Well, here the good sits side by side with the bland, and while I enjoy the lush playfulness of the title song, "Cool Colorado" is all style and little substance (even those usually irresistible French 'pa-pa-pa's' sound forced and uninteresting here). And then it goes on like this. "Nouvelle-Orléans" and "Pasadena" are insanely good pop songs but stuff like "Disconnexion" and "Foreigner" just sounds uneventful. It is almost as if they sometimes try to replace substance with sonic kitsch and lyrical seediness. Paradigmes remains a frustrating listen, but there is enough good material here to make it worth your while. 

Generally, La Femme took a few years between albums, so it was a bit of a surprise that merely a year after Paradigmes the band released Teatro lucido (2022). As the title attests, this is a Latin-influenced album sung in Spanish. My big profound statement would be something along these lines: the sound is rich but the songs are weak. Teatro lucido is a grotesque mess, and not a very entertaining one at that. A couple of lovely ballads ("Tren de la vida", for example) can not save it, either. Then, one more year later, came an even more perplexing record. Paris-Hawaï (2023) is another revealing title. This time, we are into Hawaiian-flavoured ambient pop that has shreds of glorious past but try as I might I simply can't get too excited about songs like "Les fantômes des femmes". It is pretty, I guess, but the melody is too plain and monotonous to get us anywhere. Paris-Hawaï is languid, lazy, watered down and utterly forgettable.  

And now we get Rock Machine (oddly, Wikipedia says this is their fourth album - which is interesting; perhaps Teatro lucido and Paris-Hawaï did not happen, after all). La Femme had songs in the English language in the past, but this time they are serious about it: Rock Machine is sung almost entirely in English. Knowing the French even a little (I have just come back from Lyon, incidentally), you can guess that this idea will not go down well in their country. "Ciao Paris!", too. Still, the language would not matter if the songs were great. And, a few relative successes notwithstanding ("Waiting In The Dark", for instance, is another one of those signature timeless melodies), the band sound tired and uninspired. The remnants of La Femme's identity are still there, but this time the wine seems diluted and does not make you drunk anymore. As a matter of fact, I barely even feel tipsy. 

Album of the Month: CHRISTIAN & MAURO by Blixa Bargeld & Teho Teardo

The magic must be in the unlikely combination of German restraint and Italian expression. It is hard to describe, but the whole thing sounds eerie and lush, detached and yet somehow strangely comforting. Blixa Bargeld recites his oblique yet memorable lines in German, Italian and English, while Teho Teardo's classical cello does dramatic runs that transition effortlessly from avant-garde to baroque prettiness. The result is beautiful, imaginative and deeply strange.

There is coldness to their music, but there is also playfulness. They inhabit these songs ever so comfortably. When Blixa half-whispers "Bella ciao, bella ciao, bella ciao, bella ciao ciao ciao..." at some point in the bizarre and hilarious "Bisogna Morire" (which you will end up singing along to before the end of the first listen), you sense the absolute joy of the recording process. 

There is great expression, but there is also restraint. In terms of individual songs, my favourites are the melodic 'chamber pop' of "Dear Carlo" and "I Shall Sleep Again" which are as good as anything on their masterpiece Still Smiling LP. There is nothing on Christian & Mauro (incidentally, Blixa's and Teho's Christian names) that touches the sheer otherworldliness of "Ulgae" off Nerissimo, but this is still very much a singular experience. It creates images in your head, and new sensations that you simply will not get anywhere else. 

So much so that I'm willing to forgive the slightly weaker second half, which, nevertheless, features more originality than I have heard anywhere else this month. And all the while, there is a sense of uniqueness that permeates the whole album, this unforgettable interplay of words and music, strangeness and appeal, expression and restraint.

October Round-Up

Black Francis keeps trying. He is trying really hard. Sadly, something essential just isn't there. Some vital chord, a subversive twist. These post-reunion albums (which already outnumber Pixies' classic four) bring no sense of resolution. The Night The Zombies Came, for instance, has the catchy melodies and the vocal hooks, but still comes off as a middling Frank Black solo album. "Chicken" is interesting and "Motoroller" is infectious, but much of it lands between the obvious and the vaguely intriguing.

Oddly, I enjoy these albums by The Smile a lot more than anything Thom Yorke-related since 2007. It is especially odd because they have now released three albums in three years (this is their second in 2024), and this sudden prolificacy is somewhat mystifying. But, and I'm as surprised as the next person, Cutouts could be the best of the three. It is loose but the inner dynamics pull you in. Not everything works equally well, but even something as flimsy and sparse as "Don't Get Me Started" lures me with its tasteful understatement. Plus, whatever the hell "Zero Sum" is, its funky urgency is absolutely delightful.

La Femme require their own article (coming soon), but for now let's just say that Rock Machine is a slight, if ever so slight, return to form. Tragically, they have made the full transition to the English language, and even recorded a song titled "Ciao Paris!" With the path now clear to a complete loss of identity, they are only saved by the increasingly erratic pop sensibilities that are not yet completely gone.  

The first solo album by Geordie Greep is adventurous and inventive and fascinating and intense and everything else all at once, and while I admire the scope and the talent, I simply do not enjoy these songs all that much. The New Sound is a bit like black midi, Greep's previous band, only more unhinged and extremely Latin-flavoured. A little like Steely Dan on steroids (the man's voice resembles Donald Fagen's). I respect the hell out of this artsy and brainy record, it is just that I do not love any of it. 

The Indelicates have returned after a seven-year hiatus with a satirical concept album titled Avenue QAnon. Show tunes, rockabilly, piano balladry, rock anthems, even a little reggae - it is all in here, in this cleverly constructed takedown of conspiracy theorists and 4chan pornographers (the lyrics are a little too on the nose sometimes, but they are still great fun). The melodies do not reach the heights of David Koresh Superstar and Songs For Swinging Lovers (both are near-classics in my eyes), and the piano ballad "A Song For Roseanne" is a little bland and "We Are The Carbon They Want To Reduce" survives on pretty much one groove, but Avenue QAnon is a great little LP that deserves to be heard by many people. The infectious melodic twists of "Hotwheels" are worth of the price of admission all on their own.

The Hard Quartet is something of a supergroup made up of Stephen Malkmus, Matt Sweeney, Emmett Kelly and Jim White, and if not for a cunning surprise by a certain German/Italian duo, their debut would be my album of the month. Quite simply, The Hard Quartet is the best Stephen Malkmus-related album since the days of Pavement. Fifteen songs of superior indie rock, sometimes informed by punk ("Chrome Mess", "Renegade") and sometimes alt country ("Our Hometown Boy", "Six Dead Rats"). Hooks, distortion, beauty. "Action For Military Boys" goes from Pavement-like slacker rock to Libertines-style anthemic glory in such an effortless manner that I just surrender in complete admiration.  

Songs of the Month:

"Renegade" - The Hard Quartet

"Fountain of You" - Peter Perrett

"I Shall Sleep Again" - Blixa Bargeld & Teho Teardo 

"A Fragile Thing" - The Cure

"Wandering In The Wild" - Cold Specks

"Waiting in the Dark" - La Femme

"Little Bobby" - The Indelicates

"Next Big Thing" - Du Blonde

"Instant Psalm" - The Smile

"Chicken" - Pixies

On Syd Barrett

I stopped using the word 'genius' a long time ago. Once in a while I may still slip it into the odd sentence but it would never be about a person. Rather, it would be about a song, a plot device or an especially good scene from a film. Basically, an artist can produce a genius painting without being a genius him- or herself. I think the problem that I have is that the word 'genius' presupposes a certain purity that is simply nowhere to be found. It is all too diluted and tampered with. And yet there are moments in my life when I come back to the music of Syd Barrett and the dim, broken light of the word 'genius' starts to shine again. It just becomes overwhelming, and for a while there is no other art that I can accept. 

It still gives me chills, that brilliantly unnerving fact that back in 2003, when I was in England for the first time, Syd Barrett was alive. Apparently content, if not actually happy (that is, according to his sister Rosemary), he could sometimes be spotted in the streets of Cambridge, lost and barely recognisable from the old days, with a desolate stare and a paper bag filled with groceries. Tim, a friend of mine, kept saying that Syd Barrett had to leave Pink Floyd in 1968, that he was no longer compos mentis and that there was nothing else for his bandmates to do. While I was having none of it. They pushed him out, I reasoned. They forced him out of his own band. Obviously, I did not know the full story back then, I did not know about the mind-altering effects of acid and just how much he took, but I knew what I loved. It was called The Piper At The Gates Of Dawn, and it had gripped me like nothing else. 

He would die three years later, in July, during my second stay in Gateshead. By then, I had read and reread the full lyrics of Syd Barrett's songs and learnt them by heart. There was a certain sentimentality about them, a certain childish magic that I could relate to. And there was one song in particular for which I developed a strange fascination. It was called "Scream Thy Last Scream" and I could not find its recording anywhere (members of Pink Floyd had blocked its release for many years). So instead, I came from school one day, took my sister's guitar and tried to set those lyrics to my own melody. Happy with the results, I even recorded it on a dictaphone. Many years later, when I finally heard "Vegetable Man" and "Scream Thy Last Scream", I was quite disturbed to realise that a small part of my largely hopeless melody for the latter was eerily similar to what Syd Barrett wrote in 1967. It was one of his last songs for the band that would in a few months cut him off and terminate his contract. Interestingly, none of subsequent revelations, documentaries, interviews and books (of which A Very Irregular Head and Random Precision are absolute must-reads) would make me see the break-up in a different light from how I felt more than 20 years ago. There is something truly horrifying about Rosemary's words that in later years, when he was living in his messy, half-empty house in Cambridge, suffering from diabetes and severe mental issues, the very name of Roger Waters would send Syd into a fit of rage. 

I sometimes go back to that summer of 2003 and think about this chance that I had. I could ask Tim to drive me to Cambridge where I could perhaps come across Syd Barrett in the street or even knock on the door of his house. But then again - what next? Robyn Hitchcock has once described his own experience of undertaking a similar pilgrimage and being stopped at the door by Syd's mother or sister. "Oh he is not at home, he is in London". Nervous, pink with anxiety, Hitchcock felt a great relief and was happy to leave Cambridge without ever meeting his hero. 

And it was actually Robyn Hitchcock who, I believe, gave the best explanation of what happened to this incredible, singularly gifted man of twenty-four years old. That generally speaking, all artists dilute their talent. That there are these tubes filled with paint, and they squeeze the paint out a little and smear it thinly over a canvas or a page. Syd Barrett was different in that in those couple of years he squeezed it all out very quickly, in one go. And those colours were amazing, and glorious, and truly magical, but they could not last. Soon it all ran dry and there was nothing left. 

Peter Jenner, I believe, the manager of Pink Floyd in those early days, would say at some point that he could never listen to either Barrett or The Madcap Laughs. Moreover, he would say that he could never understand the people who did. He actually called the very idea of listening to those albums strange and even 'ghoulish'. While I understand his thinking, I also believe that the sheer light of Syd Barrett's music (tragic though it was during the disjointed sessions for his two solo albums) is such that not listening to it, even in the form of frail, occasionally incoherent outtakes released in 1987, is a big loss and grave mistake. Because this was, in a kind of terrible and perverted way, a part of his world that he shared with us for a brief few years of his music career. It is not for me to judge how inevitable it was, but I have come to believe that it was integral. And we should all be grateful to people like Malcolm Jones, David Gilmour and Richard Wright for making those 1969/1970 recordings even possible.

Besides those timeless early singles and three albums (of which The Piper and The Madcap Laughs are in my personal top ten of all time), I find myself coming back to "Jugband Blues" time and time again. In a somewhat emotional move by the band, they attached Syd's last song for Pink Floyd at the end of A Saucerful Of Secrets. It is a harrowing and very pure expression of the artist's state of mind, impossibly sad and yet one of Syd Barrett's best creations. There is nothing tampered or diluted about what is expressed here, the song comes at you full-on, with gut-punching lyrics and inescapable melodies. It is both unbearable and irresistible. Sometimes, though, it is too hard for me to listen to it, almost as hard as watching the closing few seconds of this video, the last that were recorded with him in the band:

Robyn Hitchcock in Brighton, 11.09

One of the sights from this show I will not forget is an expression of utter bewilderment on the face of a young girl sitting at one of the front tables. At that point, Robyn Hitchcock was playing "My Wife and My Dead Wife", an oddly irresistible story of a man who lives in the company of two wives, one dead and one alive. 

My wife lies down on the beach, she's sucking a peach 

She's out of reach

Of the waves that crash on the sand where my dead wife stands 

Holding my hand

Those lyrics are as clever and disturbing as they were 40 years ago, and it must have been a treat to hear them for the first time. But then again, it was a real treat for me, too, and I have heard them a hundred times. Robyn Hitchcock does not play it every night (his setlists are remarkably diverse), but the 1985 song remains an enduring classic in a vast catalogue of amazing consistency and whimsical brilliance. 

Along with Robert Forster, Luke Haines and a few others, Robyn Hitchcock is one of my all-time favourite songwriters. The first time I heard his song (I believe it was "Executioner" from Eye), I genuinely could not believe I had never heard this music before. It was confident, charismatic, idiosyncratic and oddly appealing. I have since heard everything else in his discography, and this feeling has only become stronger: how could this be so obscure? After all, The Soft Boys' Underwater Moonlight is one of the greatest albums of all time, and so are Fegmania!, Eye and I Often Dream Of Trains. The answer, inevitably, is what Stephen Pastel once said: "In the end, you become as big as you are meant to be". Or, alternatively, Robyn Hitchcock has never truly desired fame.

In Brighton, at the Komedia club, he does a long set divided into two parts. We start with the wistful "September Cones" (originally on You & Oblivion, a great compilation of demos and outtakes) and end with a brief encore featuring "See Emily Play" and "Waterloo Sunset" (both taken from his new album of 1967 classics that once inspired him). In between, it is what you have come to expect: sex, cheese, insects and death (well, he scales back on sex a little). Plus, the man is genuinely, effortlessly funny with his onstage ramblings and droll English humour. The best joke of the night was perhaps to do with two ways of looking at things. There are two groups of people in the world, optimists and pessimists. Some think The Beatles are half-alive and some that they are half-dead. 

Again, with a catalogue so big, there were bound to be some omissions (I would have wanted "My Favourite Buildings" and "The Man Who Invented Himself"), but you can't fault his choices, either. He did The Soft Boys stuff ("Queen of Eyes", "Tonight"), he did the Egyptians stuff ("My Wife and My Dead Wife", "Madonna of the Wasps"), he did things classic ("Queen Elvis", "Cynthia Mask") and new ("Raymond and the Wires", "The Shuffle Man"). For me, one of the highlights was "Autumn Sunglasses" (from the eponymous 2017 album) whose melodicism came through in style in the intimate live setting. He was eccentric and charming without trying too hard. And he was humble, too, and introduced Syd Barrett's "See Emily Play" as a song written by 'the original Robyn Hitchcock'. 

Interestingly, there were two glasses of water on the small table beside him, and, inevitably, the amount of water was decreasing all the time. I knew he timed it, in the sense that he would finish it off before or after his last song. And yet there was a part of me that hoped against hope that the water would never disappear and he would be playing there for us until the end of times. It would have been amazing, too, and with songs so timeless, such a Robyn Hitchcock thing to do. 

Oasis: worst to best

This post will be my personal contribution to the Oasis reunion. I have decided to relisten to all of their albums to see if my old opinions still stand (spoiler alert: they mostly do). This will be a list in ascending order, from worst to best. 

Also, just to make sure: in the Blur vs. Oasis debate, the correct answer has always been Pulp.

8. Standing On The Shoulder Of Giants (2000)

You know what? This album is not even bad. It is too safe to be bad. Noel Gallagher has always been a somewhat limited songwriter, which means he could never really move beyond the waning lights of Britpop. You may call this post-Britpop (true for the Gallaghers' music after the split), but what it is, essentially, is Oasis going through the motions in a very smooth and boring way. Not exactly terrible (although the title of the album as well as the cover certainly are terrible), just mediocre. 

Best song: "Go Let It Out" (which is not very good either)

7. Heathen Chemistry (2002)

I think Pitchfork gave this album a 1.4 or something. That said, a couple of years earlier they had published that review of Kid A, so who cares anyway? I am not here to defend Heathen Chemistry (it is Oasis by the numbers), but there is more life in it than in the previous album. Songs? Well, I find "Little By Little" to be awfully formulaic, but the sweeping "Stop Crying Your Heart Out" and Liam's tender "Songbird" are both excellent.

Best song: "Songbird"

6. Don't Believe The Truth (2005)

Interestingly, only five out of these eleven songs were written by Noel. He certainly came up with the best ones ("Mucky Fingers", which sounds like "I'm Waiting For The Man" by The Velvet Underground; "Lyla", which sounds like "Street Fighting Man" by The Rolling Stones; "The Importance Of Being Idle", which sounds like "Sunny Afternoon" by The Kinks; "Part Of The Queue", which sounds like "Golden Brown" by The Stranglers; and "Let There Be Love", which is a grand old John Lennon ballad cloaked in "Retrovertigo" by Mr Bungle), but the contributions from the other band members do bring a little variety, and some breathing space. Overall the band sounds fresh and engaged. Don't Believe The Truth is an awfully derivative album, but a very enjoyable one, too.

Best song: "The Importance Of Being Idle"

5. Be Here Now (1997)

I need to get this off my chest: saying those first two albums are all-time classics and Be Here Now is dog's dinner makes little sense to me. Yes, so this album is dog's dinner and, in fact, it should be the dictionary definition of a 'fucking mess'. Yes, the production was probably overseen by a drug dealer. Yes, each song goes on for a million years. But - and I will die on this hill - in terms of actual songwriting, there is no seismic dip in quality. It is just that it was all amplified, blown up, pushed to the limit. Essentially, though, "Don't Go Away" is hardly all that much worse than "Wonderwall", and "All Around The World" is not far behind "Champagne Supernova".

Best song: "Don't Go Away"

4. Dig Out Your Soul (2008)

I remember how I was in England in 2008 and Dig Out Your Soul was released. There was an Alan McGee article about the album in which he compared it to Beggars Banquet. "Oh for fuck's sake", I thought, and forgot all about it. When I finally did hear Dig Out Your Soul, a couple of years later, I was surprised by how much I actually enjoyed this album. "Bag It Up" was a brilliant opener. "I'm Outta Time" and "Falling Down" were both classic singles. "(Get Off Your) High Horse Lady" was jangly and murky, and Noel's successful attempt at being adventurous. Yes, so the album is let down towards the end by democracy, with Gem Archer and Andy Bell both contributing very unremarkable rockers. Still, Liam's "Soldier On" is a good closer, and that initial seven-song run simply cannot be denied.  

Best song: "(Get Off Your) High Horse Lady"

3. Definitely Maybe (1994)

"Rock 'n' Roll Star" is not a very good song but it is a terrific opener. Which is what you need to know about this album: it is all swagger, no subtlety. The production is a mess, the arrangements lack any sort of nuance - but all the same; there was something about them right from the start: the relentlessness, the oomph. Noel's songwriting was not especially plodding at the time (as a matter of fact, "Shakermaker" is the only song with no saving graces). The classics were, of course, "Live Forever", "Supersonic" and "Slide Away", but the dirty groove of "Columbia"? The middle-eight of "Up In The Sky"? The surprising understatement of "Married With Children"? Good stuff. Not as good as Noel and Liam think, but I still enjoy it after all these years. 

Best song:  "Slide Away"

2. (What's The Story) Morning Glory (1995)

I have always hated that album title. Why so long? Why the parentheses? Why the corny rhyme? That said, the songs are mostly good. Morning Glory is catchy, glorious onslaught of Cheap Trick and nods to The Beatles so low Noel is basically touching the ground with his forehead. Not everything is equally great, and after all these years I'm still not convinced by "Roll With It" or the title song (despite some mild creativity in the arrangement). All the same; criticising "Wonderwall" at this point seems to me as pointless as criticising "Yesterday" or "Hotel California". Most importantly, though, that song number four is such a timeless classic that it lifts this album above the debut all by itself.  

Best song: well, what do you think?

1. The Masterplan (1998)

There has to be something seriously wrong with a band when a collection of B-sides is this much better than regular studio albums. The Masterplan is, of course, a compilation but I'm willing to make it my number one just to underscore the inadequacy of their artistic choices. It is no masterpiece by any stretch of the imagination, but throw away the pointless instrumental "The Swamp Song" and the equally pointless Beatles cover, and you get a near-perfect collection of 90s Britpop. "Underneath The Sky"? "Talk Tonight"? "Rockin' Chair"? "Half The World Away"? "The Masterplan"? I get excited by simply typing those titles.

Best song: "Rockin' Chair"