P!nk, Can't Take Me Home
Following k.d. lang's lower case abuse and 5ive's frankly silly numerical inclusion, here comes P!nk (note exclamation mark in lieu of a boring old 'i'). How do we pronounce it? Ultimately, this linguistic speculation is far more interesting than the debut album by this nineteen-year-old native of Philadelphia who on the cover resembles Annie Lennox circa the video for The Eurythmics' Sweet Dreams. Indeed, its most noteworthy aspect is the inclusion of the term 'wench' in the lyrics - possibly the first such instance in any song written after the nineteenth century. The LP's thirteen tracks employ the acoustic guitar plucking and minimalist beats and keyboards upon which TLC are reliant, but they sorely lack that band's pop nous. The production is suitably glossy, but the absence of any sufficiently engaging melodies makes the album a rather cold and soul-less experience, and, consequently, a bit depressing. 'We are all pink on the inside,' she states in the CD booklet. 'The beauty is in our differences'. Perhaps if she had taken heed of her own maxim, Can't Take Me Home would be less unambitiously rooted within the confines of the modern R n B genre....
Music: The Charlatans, Impossible
Ah, the good old Charlies. Ever reliable, they've been knocking out pleasant indie choons with a slightly baggy, groovy edge since the halcyon days of Madchester, making them notable for, if nothing else, their stamina. Not one of their faster, rockier, or, to be honest, more exciting numbers, this one; our Tim's obviously had Blonde on Blonde on his stereo recently, has decided that harmonica's the way forward, and even sounds a bit like Dylan (if he'd had a Mancunian accent, of course). The three minutes pass by enjoyably enough, but they're not exactly exploring new ideas, and we've heard it all before....
Music: The Junket, Lux Safari
We all love puddings, and here is a musical feast of vigorous variety. Junket is a little eaten culinary concoction of berry juice and curdled milk, and in the spirit of such indulgence this album rumbles with the tuneful delights of delectability. Technical mastery and crashing creativity produce music polished and penetrating; only pedestrian vocals retard galloping potential. It's not caterwauling, indeed "I don't give a fuck sometimes" is sung with a depressive fury to frazzle hairs from your body, but generally it doesn't have that searing edge of recognizability. Any new band needs a voice to distinguish it from the pantheon of competitors both past and present, and this if anything will deny The Junket a spot in music's starry firmament....