Here are a couple reviews from the Jan. 3rd NME that some may find interesting:
The Coral - Nightfreak And The Son Of Becker
After a year overflowing with the surreal (Blaine in a box; sudden rugby 'mania'; the rise of The Darkness) it seems only fitting that 2004 should kick off with the unscheduled arrival of a third album from The Coral. Sounding like it was recorded in a leaky cowshed over a week in Wales (which, as it turns out, it was), and so called thanks to the sprog-creating conquests of teutonic tennis bore Boris, 'Nightfreak And The Sons Of Becker' is a low-key classic from a group grappling with the demands of fame.
Bearing more than a passing simlarity to the Super Furries' genius tossed-off 'Mwng' and clearly intended as a means of clearing the band's creative tubes prior to their third album 'proper', it provides an insight into the mindset of a band who've gone from BMX-riding curios to the oddest residents of the Top Ten for years. Be warned though, those expecting the radio-friendly jangle of 'Pass It On' should approach with caution. 'Nightfreak...' sees the Hoylake Six reject the gloss that made 'Magic And Medicine' feel, at times, like a fizzy glug of Coral-lite, and return to the darker grog of their debut.
Paranoia stalks every chorus: 'I Forgot My Name' is a bad-tempered rockabilly rumble which ends in a burble of TV static; the fearsome 'Migraine' ("I got to parties and I just freeze/I think I'm infected with a social disease") takes the rattle of 'Talkin' Gypsy Market Blues' and hardwares it to a gnarled terrace chorus; and the priceless 'Auntie's Operation' ("She'll want your sympathy/She'll never let you be/Sniffing at your food/Before it's even chewed) manages to make light of domestic strife and sum up the parlous state of the NHS all in two minutes and 23 seconds. The contrary spirits of everyone from The Kinks to The Specials must be looking down from the heavens approvingly.
Pop songs emerge from the murk. 'Sorrow Or The Song' is a gloomy, funkier cousin of 'Don't Think You're The First'. 'Venom Cable' reprised the limescaled disco shuffle of the outro to 'Skeleton Key', and 'Song Of The Corn' manages to include the lines "I hard a commotion one late afternoon/Someone was singing a funeral tune" and still sound like Radio 2 fodder.
Things inevitably go off the boil. A funny-at-the-time 'Why Does The Sun Come Up?" is a stoned interlude inspired by their US tour habit of recording random snippets of cable TV, and 'Precious Eyes' and a final 'Lover's Paradise' should have been left to scrap it out on a B-sides collection. No matter.
'Nightfreak...' is here to provide us with a gauge of where The Coral are two years in. If James Skelly's lyrices are growing increasingly bleak, then the band matches him stride for stride musically. Throughout, Paul Duffy's bass buzzes with cocksure intent, which Bill Ryder-Jones and Lee Southall's guitars twang and thrash without ever sounding like we're eavesdropping on some unscripted muso horrowshow. When they all combine in a splurge of chronic-coated G-funk on 'Grey Harpoon' it's so spot-on you half expect the Snoop of 'Doggy Style' to show up for a duet on the joys of life on the Wirral frontline.
In short, the threats of implosion or creative exhaustion which seem to haunt their peers seem notable only by their absence. Their label must be delighted. With the weirdness purged, the scene seems set for The Coral to produce future pop triumphs still formulating in the recesses of James Skelly's mind.
For the rest of us, 'Nightfreak...' serves as a reminder that in a climate where pop celebrity is based on constantly repeating a winning formula, The Coral are defiantly off-message. Striving to be more than just grist to the CD:UK mill, they're fighting to retain their integrity and also poke fun at the process.
It's the difficult third album alright, but only because they wanted it to be. Paul Moody
7/10
Ballboy - The Sash My Father Wore
They may be fronted by a primary school teacher, but Edinburugh indie four piece Ballboy have far more guts than your average outfit. Having already charmed the residents of his homeland with the 'I Hate Scotland' EP, singer Gordon McIntyre adds injury to insult with this album's title track, a scathing attack on knuckleheaded Rangers FC fans that delights in the chorus "you're a big fat bigoted arsehole".
The band's past EPs and debut album have favoured jaunty indie pop and sumptuous orchestration, but this record sees them stripped back to just McIntyre, some sparse acoustics and those searing lyrics. A subtle reworking of Bruce Springteen's 'Born In The USA' brings stark humanity to the song's oft-overlooked anti-war sentiments while the more romantic 'Past Lovers' and 'Tell Me' are starkly heartstopping. Just pray that this album doesn't earn all concerned a good post-match kicking. Ian Watson
6/10
