The new releases reviewed by Philip Dorward When God started inventing DJs. Cl Mackintosh was at the head ot‘ the queue. Don‘t helieve me'.’ Then check out the way he's sptltl TLC's ‘l)iggin’ (hi You’ (LaFaL‘e) into a wonderfully lazy soul track that people w ill drop their patits for. Many punters will soil their pants. however. when they hear what Snap have done to The Human League‘s- classic ‘i)on't You \\'ant Me' (\'irgin). They also have their own single out called "l‘he World In My Hands' (Arista). l’erish the thought. their Human League remix is had enough. Praise he. then. l‘or Luscious Jackson‘s new release. whiclt sottnds like it's been recorded at a school ctitlcet‘l. l'iotlt‘ females they may he. htit the pop till you drop attitude ol‘ ‘llere' (Grand Royal) suggests they might he the new \N'haml. Still. its First Division tackiness when compared to the Premier stul‘l‘ dished up by Amen featuring Luvain. ‘l’assion' lDeconstruction) is a song to warm the cockles and muscles of your hody as it minces onto the dancelloor. Good old— fashioned hands-in-the-air liurotrash that makes you think that The Hit/mm .‘lllt/ Her never left our screens. Closer to home. those erstwhile Aherdonians Coast limher tip for their imminettt Glasgow gigs with the release of their best (and second) single to date. ‘Slugs‘ (Sugar) is a hit like James on acid and witlt its crackin' vocal and stirring melody. and it could just push them down the harrel ol~ that hig gun \\ e call pop success. They are still many miles away from the title of messiah ol the l‘ortnight. which this issue goes to Egebamyasi. Apart l‘rom having the halls to call his new single ‘Revmont. Nymphony No l in 1) Major op. 35' (Finillex). he's got \"ince Clarke ol‘ Erasure to do a remix. This is the EBY you never thought existed with a drawn-out rhythm and some of the most spooky vocals you ever heard.



(What’s The Story) Morning Glory (Creation) In a move somewhat analogous to

Moses descending from the Mount

with Commandments eleven—twenty

the novelty factor having worn thin comes the second LP from Oasis. The

Noel Gallagher songwriting ethic of ‘rip a few pe0ple’s tunes off [and] swap them round a bit’ is as apparent here as it was on Definitely Maybe one trusts that Gary Glitter will be receiving his fair share of the royalties for ‘Hello’ -- but the tunes get him off the hook and ensure his continued residence upon the pedestal he’s occupied for the past yean

Morning Glory‘s principal handicap is ' that two of the strongest and most immediate tracks have already been released as singles. That said, there’s still a surfeit of fine music on here. If ‘She’s Electric’ is a corny sop to the Britpop masses and ‘Hey Now’ forces us to consider the difference between archetypal and bog-standard Oasis, ‘Wonderwall’ and ‘Cast No Shadow’ are prime examples of how the band can stick a pin in their posturing to let out the melancholia underneath. And the closing ‘Champagne Supernova’ is


If this magazine awarded star ratings for albums, Morning Glory would fetch one less than Definitely Maybe, but it’s still up there with the best rock releases of the year. (Alastair




Outside (RCA)

lt’s astonishing that the negative criticism levelled at David Bowie’s new album has largely been based upon charges of pretentiousness and dilettantism in dabbling with art theory, which, in 1995, is about as relevant as castigating Keith Richards for playing the guitar. This is what he does. The trouble with this ‘non-linear Gothic drama hyper-cycle’, though, is that the conceptual packaging serves

more to detract from the music than to

U , enhance it. After all, we didn’t need a

user’s manual to navigate low or Station To Station, and with Outside

and utilising his narrative tools to

f generate the music, he’d left them alone. So, read the accompanying

novella for some chuckles, sure, but

then discard it, for the music can stand proudly alone.

Delving once more into the cabinet of Dr Eno has worked well for Bowie,

g resulting in the most focused,

textured, consistent and oh, yes experimental set he’s produced in well i over a decade. His vocals stretch,

; whisper and croon strongly and easily over and beneath a series of

backdrops, evocative, punishing, alien and haunting. Kick off your red shoes, slip into your scary little white ones

: and, as ‘Strangers When We Meet’ 1 unfolds, sway like a happy little

you rather wish that after constructing

victim. (Damien love)

The Gold Experience (Warner Bros/MPG)

The album Warners wouldn’t release, thus precipitating the ‘SLAVE’ shenanigans and $5 insistence that he would tour until the next century. What the record company had against it, I can’t imagine. Perhaps they couldn’t hear enough singles. That’s as may be, but The Gold Experience is at least a partial return to form. He’s pulled his finger out for this one, after too long settling for the half-arsed.

Those who haven’t bought a Prince


record since Parade or Lovesexy would be well advised to give it a try.

It’s a horny, hormonal show, performed in the shadow of the ever- pumping ‘Endorphinmachine’, which kicks in in the opening straights,

giving an early energy boost so powerful it lasts the whole album. For all its silliness, even the reincarnation song ‘Dolphin’ is exhilarating. The NPG f is in full flight, feeding off their extensive touring experience and r?“’s moulding of them into a crack unit. On housequakes like ‘Now’ and salacious glam slams like ‘319’, they excel, g leaving their leader to blast away on screaming guitar solos in between exploring the different facets of what it means to be .9 as opposed to

Prince. So what if we can’t tell the

3 difference? It matters only that he’s snatched Victor from the jaws of

defeat. (Alastair Mabbott)


i Burned (wait)

l Considerany more than halfway there. l More a confidence flexing declaration of intent than a defining statement,

but still . . . Confidence is an

important integer in the whole Electrafixion equation. One of the greatest things about lan McCulloch in his Bunnymen days, was the fact that he looked like sex on a stick, and when he opened his mouth to sing the illusion remained intact. And the fact that he knew it didn’t hurt either. In the solo interim, the voice was strangely small, somewhat reticent and somehow lost - a bit rejected.

Now, reconciled with his true foil and partner, erstwhile Bunnyguitaristman

: Will Sergeant, McCulloch’s caught

i sight of his reflection in the lake once more, and decided that he’s still a

right tasty bit of gear.

Burned is all tight, polished chrome, completely into itself and shimmying. The lyrics may fall ready-made from the Rock Glossary, but when you’re inside such a big sound, these things don’t matter. Where the album suffers is in its lack of nuance and shading, the wandering holy romantic poetry of the Bunnymen is needed, something vulnerable to counterpoint the swagger and there’s no mention of vegetables. That said, Burned is a fantastic moment to live in and revisit even if it doesn’t quite haunt you when you leave. (Damien Love)

34 The List 6-19 Oct 1995