KENT - VERKLIGEN (1996)

I didn't really "get" Kent's sophomore effort when I listened to it first. I thought the band's eponymous debut album was far better, crackling as it does with raw, horny energy and possessed of an accuracy and edge that I felt Verkligen completely lacked. It also sounded especially sloppy and half-finished, I thought, when compared to what followed it only a year later: Isola, a sumptuous smorgasbord of rich, creamy guitar overdubs that you could lose a small dog inside and all the nihilistic Generation X listlessness you could ever want.

In comparison, Verkligen seemed positively primal with its thin, scrunchy guitars, roomy, lo-fi drums and bare vocals. Even the songs sounded unfinished, seeming like nothing but a collection of b-sides for the album's unhinged monster of a lead single, Kräm (Så Nära Får Ingen Gå).

It should hardly surprise anyone that Kräm was what drew me in, just like it drew in thousands of Swedes back in '96 when it shot Kent into mainstream recognition. It's a heartbreaking burst of a song, scorching through an impressive amount of 90s indie rock hallmarks in its two minutes and forty-two seconds. There's the shamelessly cheesy guitar hook, the quiet/loud dynamic of the verses and earnest pining of the vocals, all sprinkled with generous amounts of the youthful angst that made the first album so great. In short, you have a recipe for a song perfect to holler out of the rolled-down windows of a Volvo blasting through a summer night in Stockholm at a good 110 kph.

On the flipside of Kräm is Gravitation, the second single, echoing Kräm like a slow-witted big brother following lazily in its sibling's footsteps. Its plodding guitar lick somehow manages to be even more cheesy than that of Kräm, tying together a neat little song that takes exactly zero steps off the beaten path. Obviously, you can't really get away with a song this predictable without really laying on the emotion, and Jocke Berg sells it brilliantly, soaring into the refrains with unquestionable gusto.

So, armed with these two singles, Verkligen began to gnaw and nibble at my brain. For the longest time, however, I regarded it as one of the weaker, if not the weakest, Kent album, while later offerings such as 2005's epically gloomy Du & Jag Döden and 2009's blisteringly, mind-numbingly gorgeous Röd satisfied all my Kent needs.

But something about Verkligen's raw, honest charm began to slowly win me over. It's the only album on which Berg's presence as a rhythm guitarist is really felt (The band was between dedicated rhythm guitarists after Martin Roos's departure in '95; Roos would not be replaced by Harri Mänty until 1997.) and it exposes his quietly effective songwriting, like you're seeing blueprints for how the band's music is put together. This also has the effect of making Verkligen feel far more 'live' than any other Kent album. There is almost none of the technological trickery and careful overdubbing that would so characterize their later work. I began to feel that while Verkligen might not necessarily amount to much on its own, it was an important piece in the greater whole that is Kent's impressive catalogue.

And I began to appreciate some of the other songs. Istallet För Ljud's laconic tremolo guitar belies the massive vocal hooks of the refrains, and the desperate angst of 10 Minuter (För Mig Själv) is simple but effective. For some reason, the band has always loathed Verkligen's often-overlooked third single, Halka, but I think it's a real gem, simplicity and directness personified with its unfailingly chipper melodies blasted through noise-ridden guitars and crashing cymbals. Both sides of the album close with lengthy instrumental grooves, simple peons to the irresistible pull of thundering power chords played through amps at top volume.

Many of Verkligen's songs have very similar arrangements and structures, as if the band was making a conscious effort not to complicate things. As a direct result of this simplicity, Verkligen's general atmosphere is that of apathy and a distinct lack of pretense, like a teenager trying a little too hard to convince you it doesn't care what you think.

But it's not just the arrangement and production that create this mood, it's in everything. The songs themselves contribute. Every chord progression and melody on Verkligen has an air of detached resignation, of recognizing the beauty and comfort of a world beyond your control. The lyrics and video to Gravitation paint a horrifying picture of domestic violence, its sad refrains stating "That's how it should be/that's how I want it now," (in Swedish, of course) dismissing the nature of things as being far too entrenched for any real change to be effected. Even the name of the album itself, "Verkligen," translates roughly to "reality," "indeed," or "truly." The album cover, a stark, lavender still-life close-up of a flower in a vase, compounds the band's celebration of imperfection.

And therein, I think, lies the true brilliance of Verkligen: while all of Kent's other albums attempt to be perfect by way of immaculate production and exquisite performances on all instruments, Verkligen's perfection lies in its lackadaisical imperfection. It stands as early proof of Kent's ability to effortlessly master sub-genres that legions of their contemporaries have spent their entire careers coming to grips with, which is itself part of what makes Kent one of the best bands in the world still working today, after ten albums and twenty-three years (even though their latest album, for the most part, sucked shit).

But they're still the best. They're Sweden's best-kept and most entertaining secret, and I love every single one of their albums to death (except for that last one. Sweet Jesus, is it ever awful (except for certain songs)). It just took me a little longer to fall in love with Verkligen, that's all.

INTERPOL - OUR LOVE TO ADMIRE (2007)

Pioneer To The Falls might just be the loneliest song ever played by four people. Dismal, sauntering and vaguely latin-sounding guitars accompany a lurching bassline and the signature minimalism of the drums, all of them marching unenthusiastically on a road to nowhere in particular.

But the centerpiece is, as always, the vocals. Paul Banks's vocal style, originally highly derivative of Ian Curtis's, had by 2007 evolved into its own distinct instrument. Somehow both aloof and inviting, his soft baritone always implies pains and troubles, but the idiosyncratic obscurity of the lyrics keeps one perpetually guessing what those troubles might be. When coupled with the general tightness of the band and their incredibly understated style, it often leaves Interpol sounding like it could be a solo project. I've certainly listened to solo artists who sound more like a band than they do (but I mean that in a good way).

Pioneer To The Falls finally lets its emotions out in the bridge just aft of the song's halfway mark, suddenly cascading into major chords with a rush of warmth that feels distinctly like a release. This release is brought screaming back into dank depression with an a cappella verse, and then bottled up for the outro, which is also gorgeous in its own right, a riveting dance between pitter-pattering snare rolls and some deft whammy bar action.

What really makes Pioneer To The Falls such a beautiful, brilliant opening track, however, is how open and expansive it is sonically, perfectly setting the tone for the often-overlooked gem that is Our Love To Admire. On their deservedly much-lauded first albums, Turn On The Bright Lights and Antics, Interpol had always played their cards very close to their chest, preferring experimentation and off-kilter spontaneity to any kind of grand ambitions. Our Love To Admire, right from the opening track, is something altogether different. It's a huge, soaring work, far more laid-back and confident than its predecessors, with just enough self-aware swagger to keep it interesting.

There's a self-assuredness, direction and maturity to the album that goes far past anything the band had previously achieved, resulting in powerful songs, both emotionally and physically. The emotional power comes in songs like The Scale, where the loneliness in Banks's voice becomes its own instrument, and the cynical, resigned No I In Threesome, where Banks seems to be explaining to his girlfriend why they should see other people, but makes it sound like he's talking about killing himself by lopping off his head with garden shears.

The physical power rests with songs like the evil clangor of Mammoth, its vicious guitar lick and relentless refrains containing such power and vitriol that it's hard to believe it's on the same album as No I In Threesome, and the energetic charisma of The Heinrich Maneuver, a ready-for-radio post-punk classic that has about as much fun as Interpol ever allowed themselves to have.

And yet, despite the confidence, there remains the wayward desperation that made Interpol interesting to begin with. All Fired Up scrambles breathlessly up its verses, only to come crashing down face-first into the spiraling vortex of overlapping guitars that make up the choruses. Pace Is The Trick, Who Do You Think and Wrecking Ball amble about with the quartet's characteristic brand of befuddled nihilism, perfectly capturing what the group always did best whilst simultaneously maintaining Our Love To Admire's high standard of pomp and extravagance.

Amid all the doom and gloom, Rest My Chemistry is a sudden bout of calmness and honesty. The lyrics are open and transparent, with Banks confessing to need for rest and sobriety after days of bathing "in nothing but sweat" and making "stairways scenes for things to regret." I think we've all been there. Perhaps not to the extent you have, Paul (what with the "living your life in cocaine" and all), but it certainly admits to an endearingly mundane experience when compared to Interpol's usual subject matter.

Our Love To Admire is then closed with the gentle strum and heartbreaking croon of The Lighthouse. It's as atmospheric and cinematic as the band has ever been (which is saying quite a lot), the perfect showcase for the dreamy wistfulness of their calmer work, especially after the drums finally kick in for the outro.

When at its best (Pioneer To The Falls, No I In Threesome, Mammoth, The Lighthouse), Our Love To Admire seems to float on its own strangely powerful current, simultaneously smooth and deceptively calm as it sucks you inexorably into its undertow. It's a mesmerizing work, impossible to deny or resist, and goes beyond the post-punk revival stylings of Turn On The Bright Lights and Antics to become something grander and more difficult to categorize; something truly timeless.

BLOODHOUND GANG - HEFTY FINE (2005)

I know what you're thinking. "The Bloodhound Gang? What is he, some kind of fucking retard?" While I won't deign to answer that question, I will tell you this: if you're open and receptive to it, this album can actually be very enjoyable. No, really.

When Hefty Fine came out, six years had passed since the release of the hit-laden Hooray For Boobies, which itself followed relatively soon after the band's breakthrough album, One Fierce Beer Coaster (which may or may not have the most hideous artwork ever to grace a mainstream rock album). These two remain the band's biggest-selling albums, and contain all three of their recognizable hits: Fire Water Burn, The Bad Touch and The Ballad Of Chasey Lain. More important than that, they established the band's MO. After two embarrassing forays into white hip-hop, they had shifted styles and tones, becoming slightly more rock-based and graced with a more cynical and sarcastic sense of humor. Musically, they completely ditched any attempts to conform to a specific genre, mixing cheap samples and rudimentary synths with the late-nineties garage rock of their more serious contemporaries.

But people had mostly forgotten about their puerile antics in 2005. When the album's lead single Foxtrot Uniform Charlie Kilo broke the charts, the world squinted in unison, nodding as it muttered with one voice: "Oh yeah... those guys." They had been dismissed as part of the American turn-of-the-millennium wave of teen-oriented music, a wave that had risen as a direct result of nu-metal and hip-hop's popularity. They and their cohorts were then rendered basically obsolete by the arrival of The Strokes and their contemporaries, which demonstrated that teen-friendly music could also be mature and forward-thinking enough for adults to appreciate.

So what was a post-millennial teeny-bopper to do? Korn stuck to their guns, falling into relative obscurity as they pumped out album after album of overproduced mediocrity and their founding members dropped like flies. Eminem became an embarrassment, Marilyn Manson turned to even more drugs and alcohol and Slipknot, Limp Bizkit and Linkin Park basically disappeared. Weirdly, only Insane Clown Posse would continue to rise in popularity, using their status as teen idols to become leaders of their own sub-genre of music.

Meanwhile, Bloodhound Gang were faced with the same dilemma, and, characteristically for them, decided to not really make a decision at all. Instead of continuing on with their watered-down, rock-and-metal infused hip-hop or attempting to tread new ground, they retreated into the past, becoming basically a mid-nineties pop-punk band.

Listening to Hefty Fine at the time it came out was like going ten years back in time. With a chugging nu-metal opener that is best skipped, a song lyric constructed entirely from Simpsons quotes, lots of cheap dancey euro synths and a guest appearance from Villie fucking Valo of all people, Hefty Fine is the ultimate anachronism, bouncing back to a time not gone long enough to be truly missed, yet far too much had changed for anything like it to be even vaguely pertinent.

Most of the album is slickly produced pop-punk that has a relaxed, detached atmosphere about it, and it's as if the band couldn't be bothered to try to please anyone anymore. While Hooray For Boobies saw them desperately scrambling in all directions trying to prove they weren't one-hit wonders, Hefty Fine has no need to prove itself. The easy nonchalance of songs like Pennsylvania, the aforementioned Ralph Wiggum and the truly wonderful Farting With A Walkman On gives off the distinct impression that, rather than top charts or sell copies, this time, the Gang really just wanted to make an album they could all get baked and listen to on a lazy summer afternoon in Philly.

Also, rather than resorting to samples and genre affectations as a crutch, Hefty Fine sees frontman Jimmy Pop emerge as a more-than-competent songwriter. All of their previous albums contained glimpses at their pop-punk side (I Just Wish I Was Queer So I Could Get Chicks, Going Nowhere slow and their legitimately excellent cover versions of Kim Wilde's Kids In America and The Association's Along Comes Mary), and maybe this was the album they'd wanted to make all along. Foxtrot Uniform Charlie Kilo trails legitimately catchy vocal hooks from tried-and-tested chord progressions and has a pre-chorus you could fuel a jet plane with. It's weird listening to such a warm, heartfelt little pop song like that when every line of the lyrics is an insanely distasteful euphemism for sex.

But perhaps it is Farting With A Walkman on that best represents the album. It pretty much writes itself, meandering through its chords and drum machine beat with a very, very simple slow build. The guitars kick in, fresh and crisply distorted, first with thundering power chords and then with a surprisingly ornate, sliding series of arpeggios, building to a final refrain that has to be the only example of the Bloodhound Gang playing in anything other than a 4/4 time signature. The point I'm trying to make here is that this is real music, not just a backdrop for a series of dick jokes. Just ignore the lyrics for a second, and try telling me that this isn't one of the finest little guitar-pop tracks you've heard. The same goes for Foxtrot Uniform Charlie Kilo, Ralph Wiggum and Pennsylvania.

Whether you ignore them or not, Hefty Fine's lyrics are an interesting meditation all by themselves. Pop's lyrical persona has shifted from the horny, boisterous youngster of their early work to a seasoned, acerbic hustler. This is especially audible on I'm The Least You Could Do and No Hard Feelings, which are basically the musings of a bitter, heartbroken man who is simply spewing out sexual invective and innuendo as a defense mechanism. It's unclear exactly how accurately Pop's rhymes reflect the actual thoughts of the then thirty-three-year old James Moyer Franks, but I'd like to believe there's some truth to it.

Basically, it's as if Weezer's Tired Of Sex had been used as a prototype for most of an album. Here is a man grown jaded at the ease of seducing young women and has evidently fallen in love with at least one of them along the way, only to be fucked over and left a cold, lonely shell of a man whose hump-'em-and-dump-'em attitude is only a mask for a human being desperate for some kind of physical affection. "I'm the least you could do/if only life were as easy as you," claims the refrain, and the incredibly outdated nineties dance piano hooks somehow just make it even more sad, as if Pop is trying to appeal to a girl far younger than him by playing music he thinks she'll find cool, but she just finds tragically unhip.

It's the perfect reflection of the album as a whole, really: an aging loser clinging to relevance and semi-celebrity status in the face of obvious obscurity, but there's something lovable about this loser, and much like the dopey mug that is Jimmy Pop's face, you just can't deny its simple charm. At the very least, it is a legitimate exploration of how well the musical ideologies of the nineties stand the test of time, and what can be gained and lost by staunchly refusing to grow up.

IAMX - THE ALTERNATIVE (2006)

For my first post, I've decided to go with ex-Sneaker Pimps frontman Chris Corner's most successful-to-date realization of his grand, theatrical Berlin post-goth ruminations: The Alternative. The second IAMX album, it followed 2004's rather juvenile and unfocussed Kiss + Swallow, a rambling explosion of songs that could have been shorter by half. Since The Alternative, Corner has put out three ho-hum albums, each one a progressively impure dilution of his goth-rock sound, and his songwriting (which was never that strong to begin with, really - he's always been more about sound and mood) has also worsened with age, leaving his last three albums sounding kind of like Madonna albums always do - amazing production, great hooks and plenty of attitude, but no real meat under the skin. It seems The Alternative was where he peaked.

And what a peak it is. The Alternative is forty-four minutes of deliciously gloomy stripped-down electronica, gliding assuredly through unabashedly sex-and-drug-laced lyrics, with Corner's angelic sigh of a voice inviting you along for the ride, if you think you can keep up with him. After an undeservedly bombastic opener, the party gets going with the title track, a ferocious glam rock stomp that immediately brings Corner's lyrics to the forefront.

Gone are the awkward shock-rock posturings of Kiss + Swallow's lyrics, replaced by subtler insinuations that speak more toward the intimacy and bonding of sex, rather than trying to embarrass the listener with cheesy wordplay about bisexuality and cum-swallowing. This stays on as a theme in some of The Alternative's stronger tracks, always delivered convincingly in Corner's signature soaring, reverb-laden croon.

Both Kiss + Swallow and The Alternative contain a selection of unused Sneaker Pimps songs, but they are more fully realized on The Alternative, more concise and rounded. Song Of Imaginary Beings is no longer the emotionless plod glimpsed on the unreleased demos for the fourth Sneaker Pimps album, but a wonderfully melodramatic glide across thin, despondent synths. After Every Party I Die remains relatively unchanged, but Corner saves the most dramatic alteration for last: This Will Make You Love Again transforms from anthem to ballad, with its drum machine and lurching bassline traded in for the lonely romance of a grand piano. Personally, I feel the track works well in both versions, but the grandeur and splendor of The Alternative's rendition is undeniably more fitting, giving the song room to breathe. The only shame is that it's such a great party album, and one more party track at the end would have been nice. I've certainly never tried putting the piano version on when I'm deejaying.

But the best songs are the ones written specifically for the album, no question. Nightlife is a stark, industrial rave number, all bones bared and no punches pulled, while Lulled By Numbers is a gorgeously unnerving production showcase, all slow build and gentle touches. The Negative Sex is a rock-solid rock anthem, complete with ass-kicking guitar lick and spiteful, sneering lyrics... and then of course, there's Spit It Out.

It takes chutzpah to write a song like Spit It Out. It's so basic in its layout and feel, but there's an irresistible charm to how confidently it boldly goes where lots of bands have gone before. It just sits there in all its nu-romantic electro-pop glory, daring you to hate it for being so unoriginal, but you just can't. It's just that fucking good. The lyrics are especially daring, eschewing all subtlety and even rhyme to simply belt out phrases like "the past is weakness - don't beg the question when the answer is war" with absolutely no shame. Even the fucking chorus to the song is "it breaks my heart that we live this way/I know people need love/but people never play the game." It's so deliciously shlocky that it's brilliant.

As mentioned earlier, Corner followed The Alternative with a string of disappointments that fail to deliver on almost all counts, except for the occasional bout of brilliance such as I Am Terrified and The Unified Field's title track. It's interesting to note that both those songs see more of Corner throwing caution to the wind and simply daring to be simple, rather than overthinking it. It doesn't seem to matter how hard he tries, because he's at his best when he isn't trying at all.

And on that count, The Alternative delivers in spades. Put on your eyeliner, don't skimp on the black leather, leave your brain and your shame at home and come and motherfucking party to this: it's techno-goth at its heart-rending best.