Playlouder - Music is the Network

I don't know if you've ever tried to synchronise the playback of two copies of the same record before. Not being a Flaming Lips fan, I've never bothered, but in an attempt to achieve some compromise between technology and tradition, past and present, clarity and quality, I thought I'd try getting the 12" I so patiently awaited these past weeks, (and inevitably had to trek to the sorting depot to retrieve), to hold hands with its illegally-downloaded mp3 doppelganger.

The fury followed; was it the cheap antique record deck I bought from that second hand shop in that village in Devon playing the LP at a renegade 35 rpm? (A Toshiba Stereo Music System SM-2100, with a complementary copy of the translated 'Tales for Young and Old' by Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm thrown in for good measure.) Or was it the dodgy hotch-potch demo-ripped contraband I hoovered from the digital ether that was the guilty party?

I decided to give both a try.

"Rising in the East, setting in the West." Had my Czech grandfather been here to answer the (rhetorical?) question posed by British Sea Power's third long player ('Do You Like Rock Music?') he'd have responded with a resounding "Ne!" He hated rock music, and pop music, and anything other than what we now call 'classical', but which was probably known to him simply as "music".

And yet I can't help but feel, from what little I knew of him before his untimely descent into alcoholism and hermitude, that he'd have been moved to tears by the sentiment of recent single 'Waving Flags'. "Welcome in", inscribed on the the inner sleeve of the vinyl in what looks like a cue card for colourblindess tests, is a message rarely seen or heard once you've stepped out of the airport of any foreign country. The twentieth century was, above all, a time for borders to be drafted, for walls to be built, for the last maps of the furthers frontiers to be inked and printed, and for words like 'immigrant' and 'refugee' and, latterly, domestically, 'identity crisis', to rule the broadsheets and tabloids alike.

While often preoccupied with Englishness and/or Britishness, BSP are never foolish enough to entirely define themselves or their music by one or both. Their musical journeys may have their beginnings in these wet islands, but their destinations can be, at times, both the harsh climates of the unexplored, and the postcard perfection of known heritage sites.

British Sea Power have a distinctly unmasculine (and perhaps un-rock music) habit of asking, not answering questions. And, cheekily, in 'Lights Out For Darker Skies', one of their more direct numbers, they insist "There is no reason that you need to ask why", preempting the inevitable speculation. And yet, amongst their confounding yet enthralling lyrics is a rare celebration of vagary and exploration, exemplified no better than in the explosive 'Atom', where Yan squeals in joy, as much as exasperation, "I just don't get it!"

And their language bank is no robbed loot. British Sea Power may be the first band in a long time to have arrived at their very own vernacular, so much so that 'No Lucifer' sounds like it could have been written using a BSP Fridge Poetry kit. From the "Easy, Easy" Big Daddy backing chant to the baffling "You can just say no / to the anti-aircraft crew / the boys from the Hitler Youth... To Sodom I will go / not Tel Megiddo."

We tend to be wary of literate pop stars. Their songs often make the least sense. But isn't it preferable to ask questions of the listener? Better than half-baked love metaphors, surely?

'A Trip Out' stands as a definite competitor for 'No Lucifer' in the 'potential first top ten hit' category; "It doesn't come much bigger than this," they rightly claim, amongst awesome riffs shadowing Yan's echoing vocals. This is the sound of a band having fun.

This is as much Big Country or Manic Street Preachers as it is Joy Division. "Arcade Fire" is what a lot of people are saying. Well, it's big, but not exactly flashy. It's global in scale, but not always stadiumesque. 'Open the door' is reminiscent of House of Love's tenderer moments, and puffin-munching bully bird tribute, 'The Great Skua', sounds like glaciers shifting.

No, there are no answers here, just "moths that get confused / By all the man made moons", and lost travelers dreaming of home: "Where I come from, silvery trees... Why did I leave?" Perhaps we humans are still nomadic after all this time.

The sound collage ending is less cathartic than British Sea Power's usual crescendos, but is far from being a disappointment. It just begs to be played again and again, until the needle wears out, or the computer collapses under the weight of a virus. It's a blessing not to have to 'rate' this album, as such, or have to quantify it. Whatever form it's in, it's well worth owning, worth carrying with you, wherever you go.