Film: Dir. Andrew Bujalski - Mutual Appreciation

Dir. Andrew Bujalski
Mutual Appreciation
[Drama/Indie]

The plot: Alan (Justin Rice) is a musician who leaves a busted-up band for New York, and a new musical voyage. He tries to stay focused and fends off all manner of distractions, including the attraction to his good friend's girlfriend (Rachel Clift).

Mutual Appreciation, the sophomore effort of writer-director Andrew Bujalski, is one of those films which are so unapologetically genre-specific that, within the first five minutes, viewers will know if they are going to adore or abhor. Shot in black and white and in that wobbly, unprofessional style so beloved of today’s professionals, it features insecure people mumbling to other insecure people about things they really shouldn’t be so insecure about. Little surprise, then, that it is one of the most impressive films I have seen so far this year*.

This recommendation should be taken with a pinch of salt, however, because, without wishing to sound too much like the prickly, outstretched tentacle of truth belonging to a certain Friday night television review programme, Mutual Appreciation is not for everyone.

What it is, though, is a big, colourless, two-fingered salute to the recent cultural obsession with all things normal. Unlike all the books, games, music and movies that purport to celebrate the mundane but do so through a clean-cut looking glass of icy precision, this is fucking mundane, and dull, and unimportant and hopelessly unspectacular.

As characters shuffle from room to room, uttering sweet nothings between sips of water, tweaks of hair and adjustments of belt buckles, we are reminded just what it takes to make a great independent film - a complete lack of consideration for the comfort of the viewer, the producer, and acts 1, 2a, 2b and 3. There are no twists, no shocks, no bangs (rarely any noise at all, in fact), hardly any bucks and a whole lot of youthful indignation. I wasn’t alive in 1977, but this is the type of movie which makes me wish I was.

Whereas the purpose of punk was to do be active, to do something (anything) to show how much society didn’t care, the role of films like Mutual Appreciation is to critique the relentless pace of that same society in the twenty-first century by being deliberately slow, achingly apathetic and irresistibly insignificant; don’t vote, don’t have kids, don’t get on the property ladder and don’t get a job. Instead, do have friends, do stay in school, do be creative and do whoever the hell you like. If you don’t have time then, well, that’s your own bloody fault. 90

* Though originally released in 2005, it only recently made its merry way to my area.

Film: Dir. Sam Raimi - Spider-Man 3

Dir. Sam Raimi
Spider-Man 3
[Action]







The plot: Peter Parker (Tobey MacGuire) and his girlfriend Mary Jane (Kirsten Dunst) experience problems with their relationship while a mob of dastardly villains cause mayhem in New York. In an attempt to win back her heart, Parker once again dons the red suit and attempts to keep the peace, but he soon finds he isn’t strong enough to deal with them all. So what does he do? That’s right - he turns to the dark side! Whatever will Peter’s impeccably moral pals think of that…?

Considering it is the most expensive film ever made, Spider-Man 3 is a remarkably unspectacular affair; while there may be endless shots of Spidey swinging from building to building, collapsing scenery, high-speed chase sequences and oodles of green screen, the overall feel of the movie is one of conspicuous regularity. It is a two-and-a-half-hour slog through tired conventions, awash with missed opportunities and painfully aglow with all the requisite glitz and glamour of a summer blockbuster.

Maguire’s typically understated potrayal of the series’ withdrawn, bespectacled, slightly kooky (anti-)hero is again impressive, delivering appropriate helpings of self-conscious cool without ever venturing into the dreaded realm of geek chic. Unfortunately, however, he is forced to spend the majority of the movie’s duration spluttering lazy one-liners at the camera as the eponymous protagonist. Even more disappointing is the lack of scientific evidence to substantiate the implication that donning a tight-fitting, blood-red spandex two-piece is a one-way ticket to effortless charisma, intoxicating sex appeal and faultless integrity.

The plot holds together reasonably well for the first sixty minutes, documenting the questionable origins of the Sandman and providing an uncomfortable insight into Peter Parker’s now fractious relationship with Mary Jane, who is once again competently played by Kirsten Dunst (in case you hadn’t realised by now, she does ditzy and doe-eyed very well). However, after a bright start, things get very messy indeed as too much side-plot, too many villains and far too much Hollywood schmaltz (redemption, valour, patriarchal dogma!) overwhelm the strong sense of subtlety established in the opening hour.

Then again, considering very silly cult vanguard Sam Raimi was at the reigns, some may be willing to believe the rushed, tiresome and clichéd finale to be the machinations of a post-modern, absurdist masterpiece steeped in cultural ironies. I didn’t, though I have to admit that when, in order to authenticate his turn as ‘dark Spider-Man’, Maguire’s preppy mop was immaculately glued into position as the universal badge of post-millennial alienation - the emo fringe - I was partly convinced. 50

FIlm: Dir. Julien Temple - Joe Strummer: The Future Is Unwritten

Dir. Julien Temple
Joe Strummer: The Future Is Unwritten
[Documentary]









Fans of The Clash are famously hard to please. During the commercials at the screening of The Future Is Unwritten that I saw, someone in the audience violently erupted following the advert for a new, Russian-themed vodka called Stolichnaya, dismissing it as “counterrevolutionary bourgeois shite”. Of the many talking heads commenting on Joe’s life and legacy in the film, some (including, but not limited to, Bono and Johnny Depp) were subject to furious tirades from all corners of the room. Needless to say, at times it felt more like Question Time than cinema.

I consider myself a Clash fan and, as some would no doubt attest, I can be hard to please, but I nevertheless found Julien Temple’s biopic to be charming, heart-warming, reasonably informative and, crucially, well-researched. Exploring the bad and the good in equal measure, Temple has avoided much of the hagiography that so often plagues rockumentaries, especially in the case of the deceased, instead gathering together a motley assortment of family members, ex-girlfriends, old colleagues, former band members and random celebrities to provide a balanced and thoughtful account of the life of one of rock’s most iconic and enduring heroes.

Covering John Mellor’s days in a brutal barding school, his brother’s suicide, his phase as “Woody” in art school and the London squatting scene, his time in pub rock band the 101’ers and, of course, his transformation into Joe Strummer and the Clash era, as well as the post-Clash years, Temple’s film is hugely ambitious. However, most of the important phases in Joe’s life are covered in impressive detail even though, puzzlingly, no mention is ever made of The Clash’s underrated second album, Give ‘Em Enough Rope, or their early flirtations with America under producer and mogul Sandy Pearlman.

As alluded to previously, another of the film’s strengths is that it pulls no punches, taking a serious look at Joe’s womanizing habits, the fist fights, his manipulation of fans, the megalomania, his mistreatment of drummer Topper Headon and the fact that, much like the Sex Pistols, The Clash were a manufactured group - a boy band, if you will.

The only significant criticism that can be levelled at The Future Is Unwritten (and it is a big one) should be aimed in direction of those who have been responsible for putting it together. Obviously intended for devoted fans (names of the various contributors don’t appear in subtitles on screen, so if you don’t know your Don Letts from your Tymon Dogg, I imagine it would be very difficult to follow), it offers very little new information, only new perspectives on that which is already known, bringing into question the purpose of its existence. Too inaccessible for newcomers, it seems to offer all us fans a hearty pat on the back and very little else, recycling opinions better analysed in Pat Gilbert’s essential Clash biography, Passion Is a Fashion.

That said, two hours of self-congratulation doesn’t come much better than this. All together now: mi-idnight ‘til six, man… 76

Film: Dir. Juan Carlos Fresnadillo - 28 Weeks Later

Dir. Juan Carlos Fresnadillo
28 Weeks Later
[Horror]






The plot: 28 weeks after the initial outbreak of the Rage virus, London is quarantined and the US army is brought in to keep an eye on proceedings. Before long, though, the virus finds its way into the safe zone and all hell breaks loose again. The movie follows a group of plucky survivors as they attempt to escape the virus, London and the unspeakable brutality of assorted American military commanders.

A viewer’s enjoyment of 28 Weeks Later could largely depend on the extent of his or her anti-American sentiment; from the first minute to the last, the film is loaded with thinly-veiled allusions to friendly fire, collateral damage, military occupation, imperialism and, above all else, the supposed foolhardiness of our North American allies.

Whether or not this overtly political approach is warranted (or, indeed, wanted) is up for debate, however what is not in doubt is that, all in all, 28 Weeks Later is a pretty poor horror movie. While it retains the stunningly desolate, post-apocalyptic atmosphere of its superb predecessor, 28 Days Later, complete with wonderfully directed shots of deserted London streets, decaying landmarks (including an unkempt, overgrown Wembley stadium) and the impressively realised safe zone, elsewhere it doesn’t have a great deal going for it.

Firstly, the aforementioned survivors are a dull, uninspired bunch who, apart from a typically robust Robert Carlyle doing Robert Carlyle, do little to convince that their behaviour will deviate from the expected assortment of panicking, screaming, protesting and being mauled in a fantastically gruesome fashion. Don’t get me wrong - I love a fantastically gruesome mauling - but when the cast are so overtly identifiable in their respective roles as either ‘survivors’ or ‘food’, the violence becomes predictable and, thus, much harder to appreciate.

28 Weeks Later also isn’t that scary, mostly relying on stock ‘boo’ moments (camera, accompanied by very loud sound effect, turning to reveal close up of monster’s face) and confused, overly distorted camera work, rather than making effective use of the ingenious setup - previously put to such brilliant use in Danny Boyle’s 2002 original - and potentially provoking subtler chills.

Also, considering the quantities of claret spilled in the movie, it is surprising (and disappointing) how inoffensive 28 Weeks Later actually is; remember, the purpose of the genre is to offend on screen and, in doing so, hold a mirror to society and allow it to reflect upon its own misgivings. Would it be too much to suggest that the anti-American hyperbolae simply serve to disguise the fact that, on the whole, what we have here is nothing more than a low-key action movie? After all, there are lots of guns, gals and explosions, not to mention a glaring plot hole or three.

Where The Texas Chainsaw Massacre used haunting, understated depictions of brutality to comment on the Vietnam war, here 28 Weeks Later uses the Iraq war to comment on the Iraq war, allowing its political sensibilities to supersede making a good horror flick, thus undermining the substance of any overriding message. However, when the prevailing suggestion is absolute, unabashed xenophobia, perhaps that isn’t such a bad thing. 42

Music: Porcupine Tree - Fear of a Blank Planet

Porcupine Tree
Fear of a Blank Planet
[Progressive Rock]









For a band with such a varied and impressive track record, Porcupine Tree’s rise to mini-stardom in 2005 was ironic for two reasons. Firstly, that year’s Deadwing was among their weakest recordings, for once finding the band struggling to pin down a distinct sound and thus resulting in an inconsistent and, in places, distinctly mediocre album. Secondly, despite the fact they had been gradually building their fan base with a decade’s worth of hugely ambitious, multi-layered, mostly wordless soundscapes, the only reason the Deadwing received any attention at all was down to the four minutes of pop perfection in lead single ‘Lazarus’. They had, in effect, become recognised through of a lack of ambition (who’d have thought it?), something they are clearly looking to redress with Fear of a Blank Planet - their most obtuse record since 1996’s career-defining masterpiece, Signify.

Although their latest effort does retain elements of Deadwing’s tighter, heavier sound, it is more closely related to their earlier records, featuring longer, more free-form songs (the shortest of the six is five minutes long), a greater emphasis on texture (rather than melody) and some very strong instrumental pieces. Fear of a Blank Planet is also another concept album, though unlike Deadwing’s vague connection to a Stephen Wilson film project that has subsequently been shelved, the narrative here helps to expand rather than restrict.

Imagining an apathetic, culturally sterile near-future, each of the songs is a document of depression as the band attempt to uncover the reason for such a decline. Television and video games are predictably the easy target (“The flicker of the screen / I’m basking in the shit flowing out of it”), however other, less obvious factors are also explored. For example, the nature vs. nurture debate, society’s desire to medicate, the role of the media, loveless sex and childhood alienation all feature prominently, though never to such an extent that the listener is denied the opportunity to make up his or her own mind. Considering Wilson’s sketchy lyrical past (see ‘Hatesong’ for a good cringe), it is certainly encouraging to see him engaging on a more intellectual level and attempting to achieve the same proficiency with words that he has so often exhibited with a guitar.

Continuing the band’s habit of excellent artwork, the accompanying booklet is laden with creepy images of ‘blank’, seemingly soulless children staring right out of the page, lending extra weight to the apocalyptic theme and helping to tighten the overall concept.

Though technically consisting of six songs, Fear of a Blank Planet is essentially a single piece of music split into six different sections, imploring the listener to listen for the duration rather than dip in and out for a short fix. Though this could have failed spectacularly and resulted in the record rapidly gathering dust, the music is more than strong enough to warrant fifty minutes’ attention.

The title track kicks things off nicely, opening with a gently picked guitar and uptight drums before multiple key changes, lots of reverb and cosmic vocals combine to give it a brutal, tempestuous surge. Aesthetically it is very similar to Deadwing’s fantastic titular piece, though it just about emerges victorious with the sheer weight of its gravitational pull, ever threatening to implode, ethereal yet dangerous.

Such an aural rush inevitably requires a lengthy comedown, and one is helpfully supplied in the form of ‘My Ashes’ - a chilled-out, effortlessly bliss number that takes its time and refuses to be rushed. Mainly musing on life’s regrets (“And my ashes find a way beyond the fog / And return to save the child that I forgot”), Wilson has crafted a ballad on par with some of his best work. Though not quite equalling the sinister majesty of ‘.3’ or the heart-rending candour of ‘Stop Swimming’, its carefully measured guitar and keyboard verses and pounding string crescendos would certainly not pale in their company.

The best is still to come, however, with the ridiculously long, ridiculously overblown and ridiculously ambitious eighteen minutes of ‘Anesthetize’. Attempting to describe its musical construction would be like trying to understand the plot of Inland Empire - a pointless and unnecessary endeavour - but, suffice to say, its like ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ on speed and methadone, shaken up, left to stew and multiplied by infinity. It is the type of song that reveals something new with each listen, cannot fail to excite even the most ardent cynics of prog and, one feels, the type of song Porcupine Tree wanted to show the world they could make. Having now achieved a measure of fame, the desire to experiment appears to have recaptured Porcupine Tree’s imagination and, at times, sees them hurtling above and beyond the imposing peak of ‘Voyage 34: Phase 1’ which, for over a decade, has been the band’s defining, and greatest, achievement.

The fourth song then continues the album’s impressive form, consisting of some free-form drumming, pleasant guitar strums, sweeping soundscapes and more of Wilson’s breathy melancholia. The title of ‘Sentimental’ perhaps doesn’t do the song justice, pre-empting a clumsy whine while the content, in actual fact, thoughtfully considers the surreptitiousness, inevitability and accompanying misery of the ageing process: “Sullen and bored the kids stay / And in this way they wish away each day”. Admittedly, ‘Sentimental’ never attempts to be in the same league as its predecessor, but it is nevertheless solid and, though by itself nothing special, is holistically valuable, adding to rather than detracting from the formidable first half.

However, either because of or in spite of the first two-thirds’ impressive strength, the final two songs are something of a disappointment. ‘Way Out of Here’ suffers from characteristics often (wrongly!) said to correlate with progressive rock - that is, it is a formless, dull and forgettable mess, unlikely to please newcomers to or veterans of the genre. Closer ‘Sleep Together’ is a little better, beginning menacingly enough with refrained, earthy drums and some electronic squiggles before being swamped by a horribly conceited and unnecessarily brash chorus that really saps the verses of any potency; think ‘A Design for Life’ or, more recently, any Muse song.

Following in Deadwing’s footsteps, Fear of a Blank Planet again resists Porcupine Tree’s previous habit of producing either 5-star records (Voyage 34: The Complete Trip, The Sky Moves Sideways, Signify, In Absentia) or absolute musical monstrosities (Stupid Dream, Yellow Hedgerow Dreamscape). However, whereas the former was bona fide mediocrity, the group’s latest effort is a four-and-a-bit-star case of the almost great which can nevertheless be proud of itself. In strict mathematical terms, four and a half good songs out of six equals a solid seventy five; however, given the mind-blowing brilliance of ‘Anesthetize’ and my long-standing support of the band, I’m inclined to be a little generous. 81

Music: Arctic Monkeys - Favourite Worst Nightmare

Arctic Monkeys
Favourite Worst Nightmare
[Rock]







When Arctic Monkeys took over the world with the Best Album of all Time in early 2006, I must admit it took me by surprise; the brand of stripped-down, up-tempo indie rock ’n’ roll and trite social commentary practiced in their early singles certainly didn’t bode well for a great album. Those in the know revealed all, however, letting us all in on the big secret that, in fact, Whatever People Say I Am, That’s What I’m Not was a cracking first try. Despite their record only featuring a handful of solid tunes, team Arctic Monkeys (consisting of the band members, their record label, the NME, Radio 1 and the most expensive non-existent hype machine ever built) made sure everyone knew Whatever... was a winner. Dissenting voices were silenced, skeptical reviews were swept under the carpet and negative media coverage was simply not permitted. And people say Kim Jong-Il is bad.

A little over a year later and they’re back with Favourite Worst Nightmare: a different, more mature, considered, polished, wide-reaching and inward-looking follow-up, surely? Well...no, not exactly. It’s still the same Monkeys we’ve been told to love, only this time with slightly better songs and a slightly stronger dose of the self-important machismo and blasé chauvinism so beloved of their debut. Jeremy Clarkson, eat your heart out.

Of the twelve songs on offer here, two are great, four satisfy and the rest should be condemned to the fiery depths of hell. So, while they’ve managed to double their previous success rate (only ‘When the Sun Goes Down’ stood out on Whatever...), the saving graces of being naïve, young, poor and misguided are unfortunately no longer on hand to assist.

Starting at the top, ‘Do Me a Favour’ is a cracking slower number where Alex Turner - for once not in his guise as a wannabe stand-up - muses on a previous relationship. “As she walked away / Well her shoes were untied / And the eyes were all red / You could see that we’d cried” laments the initially regretful frontman over a gentle guitar line, appreciating the smaller details during a short-lived reprise. The rolling drums kick in again before too long, though, allowing the song to resume its sorrowful tumble. The real high point comes two minutes in, however, with a striking change of gear as the mood becomes darker and the music heavier. Turner then reconsiders his position with the thought that “To tear apart the ties that bind / Perhaps ‘fuck off’ might be too kind”. Damn right.

‘Old Yellow Bricks’ is the other highlight, essentially a Long Blondes song for ninety seconds with its insistent drum beat and single note guitar line. “You can’t kid us and you couldn’t trick anyone / Houdini? Love, you don’t know what you’re running from” is the standout line, a rare example of Turner’s occasionally brilliant wit. The latter half of the song features some of the only experimental moments of the album as the Monkeys show some great musical chemistry, perhaps best characterized by the commendable incorporation of the Knight Rider melody into a truly hair-raising riff.

Of the numbers worth saving, lead single ‘Brianstorm’ is the best of the bunch: a funky enough slice of pure aggression that unfortunately thinks it’s a lot funnier than it actually is. Elsewhere, ‘Fluorescent Adolescent’ is a charming comment on getting old (“Discarded all the naughty nights for niceness / Landed in quite a common crisis”), though it does outstay its welcome. Eighth song ‘This House is a Circus’, in spite of being Monkeys-by-numbers for the most part, can’t help but raise a smile with the line “This house is a circus / Berserk as fuck”, while ‘If You Were There, Beware’, despite its terrible title, offers four and a half above average, musically progressive minutes which stand in stark contrast to the majority of Favourite Worst Nightmare.

The rest of the album ranges from inoffensively tedious guitar rock filler (‘The Bad Thing’, ‘Balaclava’, ‘D is for Dangerous’) to criminally poor, duration-lengthening ballads conveniently placed at the end of each half (‘Only Ones Who Know’, ‘505’) to the abomination against humankind that is ‘Teddy Picker’. “Let’s have a game on the teddy picker / Not quick enough can I have it quicker / Already thick can you get any thicker?” rails Turner against the ambitionless working classes. “Who’d want to be men of the people / When there’s people like you?” he continues, fist pumping in self-righteous indignation. Chances are, if the previous two lines haven’t got you seething, you’ll love the song’s no nonsense, up-tempo chug. However, for those of us who didn’t think ‘chav’ bashing was funny when it was trendy five years ago, ‘Teddy Picker’ should induce a snort or two of disgust. Sorry Alex, but any credentials the Monkeys had as a people’s band just disappeared out the window faster than you can say, “Two Big Macs please.”

All in all, then, Artic Monkeys have produced a predictably satisfactory second album. The music’s still OK, the lyrics are still smarmily unfunny (for the most part) and it’ll sell millions. There’s a lesson to be learned here, surely? 52

Music: The Arcade Fire - The Neon Bible

The Arcade Fire
The Neon Bible
[Rock]






Before getting into a review of The Neon Bible - The Arcade Fire’s second, epic, multi-instrumental showpiece - I ought to get something off my chest. Alternative and mainstream musicians alike have been relentlessly fetishizing the Iraq war for over four years now, ceaselessly bombarding us with details of how much they hate Bush and why the war is wrong, more often than not with toe-curling clumsiness. A quick glance at the lyrics on The Neon Bible suggests this trend is set to continue, with choice snippets including:

“Mirror, mirror on the wall / Show me where the bombs will fall”

“You’re still a soldier in your mind / Though nothing’s on the line”

“Working for the church while your life falls apart”

“Hear the soldier groan / We’ll go at it alone”

“Now the war is won / How come nothing tastes good?”

“Don’t wanna fight in a holy war / I don’t wanna live in America no more”

Don’t get me wrong, I’m more than happy with fuzzy Oberstian metaphors (see below), but preaching this heavy-handed is, quite frankly, rather off-putting. Whereas The Arcade Fire’s majestic debut Funeral focused mainly on human relationships and was underscored with some heart-wrenching arrangements, here Iraq - so often the reserve of the floundering lyricist - is the dominant theme.

It is also no surprise to learn, then, that some of the most successful songs on the mostly successful The Neon Bible hark back to older days. Live favourite ‘No Cars Go’ has been hanging around for some time now and, rather than lingering like a bad smell, the aura of Funeral gives it a definite sweetness. You know the score - drums, accordions, strings and trumpets swim together effortlessly as Win Butler and Régine Chassagne lay down their manifesto with dizzied yelps: “We know a place where no cars go / Between the click of the light and the start of the dream…women and children, let’s go!” Its six minutes manage to recapture the relentless momentum of ‘Rebellion (Lies)’ and ‘Power Out’ with the closing, choral-backed instrumental burst being particularly impressive.

Also recalling past glories is the first ninety seconds of two-part blockbuster ‘Black Wave / Bad Vibrations’, an irresistibly charming, bi-lingual, percussion- and voice-led shimmer awash with the childlike enthusiasm of Régine and Sarah Neufield. “We’ll make it if we run / Run from the memory / Je nage, mais les sonts me suivent” they sing, shedding light on the other recurring theme of the record: water.

For some reason or another, very possibly climate change (the new Iraq?), The Arcade Fire are obsessed with the seas, swimming, drowning, being submerged and other water-related peculiarities on The Neon Bible. It is certainly a commendable fixation, arguably best explored on the apocalyptic ‘Windowsill’. A Kaczynskian denouncement of recent human ‘advances’, it defiantly resists the urge to comply while a sinister, plucked guitar dangles menacingly: “Don’t want it faster, I don’t want it free…Don’t wanna give ‘em my name and address / Don’t wanna see what happens next…’Cause the tide is high and it’s rising still”. After a couple of combustible minutes the song finally surfaces as strings come in, the voices get a bit shakier and crescendos abound, all while the line “Don’t wanna see it at my windowsill” is wailed by every member of the septet for a considerable duration. Gloomy stuff, non?

More of the see-through stuff comes in the baroque thump of lead single ‘Black Mirror’ (“I walked down to the ocean / After waking from a nightmare”), the guitar-heavy ‘The Well and the Lighthouse’ (“So down I fell into the water black”), the brooding whisper that is ‘Ocean of Noise’ (“In an ocean of noise / I first heard your voice”) and the more up-tempo, poppy number ‘Keep the Car Running’ (Can’t swim across a river so deep”). While never becoming dull, the over-reliance on the water theme does draw attention to some fleeting references to the band’s more interesting politics. Even though I disagree with both of the bands other messages - abortion is indefensible (“Now who here among us still believes in choice? Not I”, “Why did I take the pill?”), the state should get lost (“Shot by a security camera”, the name and address reference in ‘Windowsill’) - it is encouraging to see such directness from the, Iraq aside, seemingly depoliticized mainstream indie scene.

Though the aforementioned tunes see The Arcade Fire in the steady, 8/10 mode they have seemingly mastered so easily, The Neon Bible’s two standout tracks see the band move into a different gear altogether. Essentially a hymn, fourth song ‘Intervention’ has, fittingly, music to die for. Starting with bone-chilling organ chords, strummed guitar and occasional brushes of the humble triangle, the stage is certainly set for a stunning song. After a couple of minutes drums and strings flesh it out further, before the choral shrieks of Régine and Sarah are again put to good use. It is such a great shame, then, that much of the song’s lyrical content is focussed on you-know-what. For such a spellbinding musical achievement, however, I’m willing to overlook some of the words. In any case, Win delivers them with such teary-eyed vulnerability that he could be singing about toothpaste and still be assured of shivers down spines.

The other highlight of The Neon Bible is the band’s grandiose rant against anything and everything, ‘[Antichrist Television Blues]’. Though it could be argued that the brackets aren’t exactly essential, the song itself is, bringing together everything that has so far made The Arcade Fire a household name: angelic, undulating backing vocals; Win getting angry; a toe-tapping guitar and drum progression; strings on demand; crescendos and refrains in equal, innumerable measure; unashamed Biblical overtones; someone attacking a piano. If this is The Arcade Fire by numbers, I for one will keep score.

The only obvious sour notes on The Neon Bible are the two minutes of underwhelming, plodding title track and momentum-sapping concluder ‘My Heart Is a Cage’. While the former is undoubtedly a poor song, the latter may have worked if not placed after such a tailor-made album closer in ‘No Cars Go’. As it is, I could do without it.

Aside from those two missteps, The Neon Bible is an exceptionally strong album musically. It could be better lyrically, but then that would be like asking Bob Dylan to go a bit faster or telling Beastie Boys get a bit more serious. The OK Computers, Marquee Moons and If You’re Feeling Sinisters of this world are few and far between and, while The Arcade Fire are prone to the odd ham-fisted or clichéd observation, they are first and foremost an exceptional musical outfit. For that, and perhaps that alone, we should be very grateful. 84