l Julian Cope: Jahovahltill (Island) A concept album where the concept is that anything goes, as long as it‘s spirit-driven. JehovahKilI smacks of coruscating (1 think that’s the word) inspiration, with Copey enlightened by Celtic kinks of history and downtrodden by what he labels the ‘Kraut’ the Anglo-Saxon quest for linearity and precise science. ‘Upwards At Forty-Five Degrees“ he shoots. fired by obsessive kookiness. JehovahKi/l has three phases. pyschedelic excess, acoustic rumination. encyclopaedic scope. and farting girls. ‘Julian H Cope you're a real dead loss!‘ our hero warbles. Again. what flawed genius. (Craig McLean)

I Innocence: Build (Cooltempo) Many moons ago, dance records were lovingly crafted as pieces of art. Nobody however. anticipated the mass dance market. and the glut-creating wave of cheap imports. Now, with confidence in the House market at rock bottom. it‘s up to the craftsmen to rebuild. Step forward innocence. a group oftrue professionals. The towering voice of Gee Morris and the superb production of

J oily/Harris/Jolly dovetail perfectly to construct the perfect laid-back groove. Thought and time has been put into this album. and it shows. Certainly it has its funkier moments (the singles ‘I’ll Be There' and ‘One Love‘), but its brilliance is the ability to transport the listener to a transcendental plane. (Philip Dorward)

I Cicero: Future Boy (Spaghetti) ‘Typical Pet Shop Boys cack‘ was howl described Cicero‘s ‘Love Is Everything“. it promptly went Top 20. However. that should not detract from the fact that it was a truly awful record. So what of Cicero the album? is it more ofthe same dirgc. or do we witness a new Scottish messiah of keyboard wizardry? Well, Cicero is no future boy: while the album is certainly streamlined. it’s no better than any electro pop effort from the mid-805.1t's obvious that Cicero has talent. it's just ashame that the P585 haven‘t exploited its full potential. In addition, Cicero appears to have attended the Bros primary school of song writing some of the lyrics are excruciatingly embarrassing. Anyone would think he was a 22-year-old Livingston bloke striving for the big time. (Philip Dorward)


Mothers (Iona)

‘That’s daelng mah nut in,’ proclaims a Humpr emphatically alter the nth whirlwind caiun skirl has been nailed on to CD and assorted listeners with adrenalin overload gasp their agreement. Despite their being an Increasingly popular live draw, this is only The Humpr Family’s second venture Into album territory and, for all their attempts to prove otherwise, demonstrates the limited scope oi their chosen field.

They weigh In with ‘Keep It Down’, a maudlln tale oi the toll and the hurt of ordinary folk, follow It up with ‘Hoo Haa’, a maudlln tale of the toll and hurt of ordinary folk, with ape noises, and

then there’s ‘Battle of a Simple Man’ which is a maudlln tale of the toll and the hurt of ordinary folk. All played at the breakneck velocity of a group afraid to pause for a reaction, and with none oi the thoughtfulness necessary to do justice to the keenly-observed lyrics.

There are breaks for catching your breath and, for the chairbound listener, these work best. ‘Shoplfftlng’ is a sweet swaying Latin lament, ‘The Sell Pity Waliz’ lurches like Zorba the Cajun, and ‘In That Dress’ is a breathy paean to the awkward adolescent crush. Basically what the rest of this LP needs is a large quadrilateral floorspace and a host oi punters with itchy feet to fill it, because without the athletic prowess of a gyrating audience, all the band’s sterling efforts I seem redundant. (Fiona Shepherd)



The most obvious question is: it’s taken them this long to come up with THIS? The Sundays‘ problem is that when they first crept forward in 1989, they were fresh and new. Okay, so it was The Smiths with less pop blood, The Cocteaus with less arty farting about. But refreshing it was. Slow forward three years, and The Sundays’ debut album’s distinctiveness is their second album’s indistinction.

‘Blind’ offers no great leap forward, neither In the sound nor in the songwriting approach. Harriet’s voice still warps and weaves, with perhaps an added convolutedness to her phrasing. The feel is still wispiiy contrary, the sound of two lovebirds

cooing and clocking over each other. with due attention paid to the lovesick traumas that are never far behind. ‘Blind’ has a small sphere oi concerns, but one that intersects everybody’s. ‘Love, just love yourself like no one else, love, it’s enough,’ says one ponderous paean to the seli(-indulgent?).

‘Blind' lacks the spine-tickling touch of, say, ‘Can’t Be Sure’ or ‘Here’s Where The Story Ends’ or any of the first album songs. Only belatedly does the final ‘Medicine’ rouse itsellto take up this challenge. ‘Blind’ lacks songs that stand out from the soup of pensive, plangent strumming and achey flakey vocals. It lacks an aura that says, Yep, this was worth the wait. ‘Blind’ is nice, even enjoyable. But more niceness and mere enjoyment falls way short of what was expected. But then maybe that’s our problem. (Craig McLean)

[- fcounrNEv PINE

; To The Eyes Of Creation (Island)

a Courtney Pine’s music has diversified

; greatly over the past two or three years,

i and this new album is something of a

I compendium of those directions. Surprisingly, it hangs together quite

l nicely as a whole, despite the lack of

the specific focus which made a unity of

§ his best records, like ‘The Vision’s

: Tale’ or ‘Withln The Realms Of Our

9 Dreams’. If you thinkthat betrays a bias

i towards his most overt jazz projects,

i then I’ll cop to that.

I For me, then, the highspots are

tracks like the surging ‘Country Dance’,

i with some electrifying piano from

3 Julian Joseph, or the lazy groove of

j ‘Cleopatra’s Needle’. The reggae

' flavour of ‘CloserTo Us’ crops up

again, notably on The Skatalites’s

‘Eastern Standard Time’ and Bob

Marley’s ‘Redemption Song’; there is a

strong African presence (‘Zalre’ and

‘The Holy Grail’, the latter with Bheki

Mseleku), a dash of soul-funk (‘Llie

Goes Around’), a political drum-beater

(‘Children Hold Dn’), and even a hymn

; tune (‘Psalm’). The saxophonist

i himself seems to be in the middle of a

‘, distinctly experimental period at the

l moment. and ranges, as in recent live

i shows, from incisive to thoroughly

l self-indulgent. (Kenny Mathleson)

28 The List 23 October 5 November 1992