Spoon - Indie-rock's underdogs

From Italy, where the band has never done numbers worth mentioning – so much so that they decided to skip the country on several tours (triumphant elsewhere) – the scale of the Spoon phenomenon is hard to grasp. Serving up a rock mix perfectly suited to the 2000s indie-rock scene (and thus indebted to the 80’s), as prone to swagger and sultry sensuality as it is to the hooks of the Rolling Stones, as thrilling as it is perfect for dancing, Britt Daniel and Jim Eno's band has repeatedly broken into Billboard's top ten, as well as topping the independent album charts with nearly every release of the new millennium. Not only thanks to the radio firepower of numerous hits, but also to the strategic placement of certain songs in key episodes of iconic TV series such as "The O.C." and "Scrubs", the Texans have become a cult object capable of permeating American pop culture on multiple levels.

For the Austin band, however, success didn't come all at once – it was the end point of a long and winding road, one on which the faith labels placed in the group didn't always pay off as hoped, at times producing premature departures, upheavals and line-up changes. Over a career now spanning more than twenty-five years, Spoon have never really changed shape, staying consistently true to a rough-edged yet always catchy indie-rock outfit, with dozens of memorable hooks up their sleeve. Yet despite the growing fame they could have coasted on, Spoon have dared to try something new with every release – new ideas, sonic detours and fresh additions – even brushing up against kraut-rock at one point, a longstanding fixation of Daniel and Eno's ever since they chose the band's name, a tribute to the famous Can track.

It's precisely this balance between boldness and fidelity to their indie lineage, along with superb, untamable songwriting chops, that has guaranteed Spoon a career spanning (so far) nine albums of extraordinarily high average quality. A feat that has eluded even bands considered more seminal – which Spoon certainly aren't – but far more erratic in quality (the Pixies, the Strokes, perhaps?).

1993 – 1998: anything but a blazing start

Already bandmates in a little-noticed country band called The Alien Beats, in 1993 singer-guitarist Britt Daniel and drummer Jim Eno recruited second guitarist Wendel Stivers and bassist Andy McGuire to form Spoon. In the early days of Spoon's career, the idea at the heart of their music was very simple: straightforward, driving guitar riffs, roughness and attitude learned from Pixies and Pavement, with Daniel constantly on the hunt for easy-to-remember refrains. In short, everything that was in vogue in the second half of the Eighties and the first half of the Nineties: they wanted to play it simple, we might venture to say.

With a song like "Nefarious" already in their pocket (the centerpiece of an EP of the same name released in 1994), the band's live shows around Texas, particularly at The Pink Flamingo Club, built up a solid reputation and, following the most predictable of scripts, caught the attention of numerous record labels.

The first to sign Spoon was none other than the legendary Matador, who in 1996 released their ill-fated Telephono. The album, far from bad, sold just a few thousand copies. Due to certain disputes over earnings, which Stivers and McGuire deemed unsatisfactory, the two left the band.

Truth be told, Spoon's debut LP is a fairly ordinary record, especially for a time when plenty of good, noisy, prickly indie-rock was being churned out, but several of its songs, despite the rather thin production, lodge themselves firmly in your head – largely thanks to Daniel's personality and distinctiveness as a vocalist. That's the case with the aforementioned gem "Nefarious", but also with the sludgy "Towner", where Daniel, backed by bleeding guitars, unleashes one of his most successful vocal tones, somewhere between anguish and sensuality. Despite being something of a rip-off of the Black-Deal dynamic found in numerous Pixies songs, "Dismember" is a terrific listen. The more full-throated, frenzied "Cvantez" and "The Government Darling" are also hard to forget.

With no further high points, the rest of the record leads us to regard Telephono as the quintessential debut album, the rough seed of a talent still waiting to be fully explored and displayed.

On their own again, in 1997 Daniel and Eno recorded another EP with Matador (Soft Effect, which Merge would later include in a reissue of Telephono), which nevertheless failed to relaunch the band. Discouraged by the results of these early releases but unwilling to throw in the towel, Spoon's founding duo began gravitating toward a more pop, modern and sophisticated sound. Sensing that Matador – a historically and proudly indie label – wasn't thrilled with the direction they were taking, even though they could have recorded another album there, Daniel chose to part ways with the label amicably. By the time the band signed with Elektra in February 1998 – a major that had, among other things, worked with the Pixies during their most successful period – Spoon's second album was already nearly finished, with bass parts handled by the excellent Josh Zarbo, who would stay in the lineup until 2007, thus contributing to the band's entire golden age.

Despite a much more original and engaging sound that sacrifices huge amounts of noise, refining guitar lines indebted to the geometries of Talking Heads, Wire and Television, and despite near-unanimous critical praise hailing Spoon as far more than just a next big thing, A Series Of Sneaks was also a commercial flop. Far more interested in money than Matador had been, Elektra didn't take long to turn its back on the band. The first to betray them was Spoon's product manager, Ron Lafitte, who resigned just four months after the album's release, before the band's own dismissal, which was evidently already looming. Bitter and disillusioned, Spoon dedicated two sharp, ironic songs to Lafitte, "Lafitte Don’t Fail Me Now" and "The Agony Of Lafitte", which close out the album in the version reissued by Merge in 2002. Two very candid, stinging songs (“Oh tell me, don’t tell yourself/Are you ever honest with anyone?”), whose theatrical melodies, taut guitars and a wonderfully sweet xylophone further enrich an already very good, solid record.

If there's a flaw to speak of, the only one afflicting A Series Of Sneaks is the lack of one or more songs capable of grabbing attention above the rest – the kind of potential hit that would arrive in droves on the following record. The album's strength lies instead precisely in its consistency, in the absence of weak tracks, in the refinement of its melodic choices and the guitar effects applied throughout, always inventive but never excessive, never weighing down a sound that's agile, lean, nimble, and, when called for, tense and sharp. With only four of the fourteen songs originally on the tracklist running longer than three minutes, A Series Of Sneaks winks at art-punk, presenting itself as a mosaic of jagged guitars and square-edged rhythms. Still, the songs' brief running times are more than enough to lodge melodies and quirky flashes of modernity in the listener's mind.

Little more than an introduction to the album and its renewed sound, “Utilitarian” immediately grabs attention with a lethal alternation of swaggering riffs and slogans shouted with determination by Daniel. “The Minor Tought” features guitars that are even sharper and starker; while “Execution” exploits the infectiousness of hand clapping and whistling to wink at the Stones' brand of rock'n'roll. “30 Gallon Tank” is a riot of neurotic, dadaist chants wedged between an electric bass line and the irritable grumbling of the guitar.

“Metal Detektor” is among the more relaxed moments of the bunch, with a floating melody that sets up the churning, river-like riffing of “June’s Foreign Spell”. What follows is a series of sketches more than actual songs, among which the trendy “Staring At The Board” stands out, almost pointing the way toward the iconic drawl of Julian Casablancas. Before the two tracks dedicated to Lafitte, the original version of the album closes with an unrestrained post-punk brawl (“Quincy Punk Episode”) and the slippery, flirtatious “Advance Cassette”.

Fragmented, elusive, highly-strung, brimming with ideas, exuberant, at times imprecise and overflowing, A Series Of Sneaks takes a thousand different routes, just like the stylized cars on its gorgeous cover art, but ultimately it's clear this is only the beginning of a journey.

1999 – 2006: landing at Merge and the long-awaited redemption

After a year of reflection and experimentation, the band signed with Superchunk's label, Merge. The partnership would not only finally launch Spoon for good, but would also become a cornerstone of the label's mission to brand the history of indie rock at the turn of the 90s and 00s – among other things, Merge did in fact produce landmark titles by Neutral Milk Hotel, Arcade Fire and Magnetic Fields. Daniel, Eno and Zarbo found in Laura Ballance and Mac McCaughan, Merge's founders, two welcoming mentors who, by giving them relative freedom, stoked their creativity to the point of kicking off what would become a true golden age. Shortly after, Spoon would go on to produce four albums with virtually no weak spots, featuring some songs destined to live on forever.

The first fruit of the Spoon-Merge partnership was the EP Love Ways, though its recording did not involve Zarbo, who had taken a brief break from the project. The bassist soon rejoined the lineup, however, to make the superb Girls Can Tell in 2001.

Running just 36 minutes, the album is essentially the polar opposite of A Series Of Sneaks. Where the previous work mostly offered a string of lightning-fast sketches in place of proper songs, neurotic fragments declaimed by Britt Daniel instead of fully-formed lyrics, Girls Can Tell achieves melodic and lyrical completeness in every single track. Eleven relatively relaxed songs, where the guitars, though still angular, draw less jagged edges, and contributions from viola and mellotron round out an atmosphere that's hazier and more romantic than anything shown before. In some ways it's an album that sounds much more major-label than its predecessor, and one that winks not only at the 80s but also at the 60s.

The songs are so clear and immediate that picking out the band's first classics among them is child's play, even for someone with zero knowledge of Spoon's discography. The opener “Everything Hits At Once”, which in 2019 the band would choose as the title of its best of, is a marvel of harmonies, melodic vitality and a chorus made for cheerful singalongs. More rustic and aching, “Lines In The Suit” is a triumph of melodramatic sensuality embodied by Daniel's pained tone. In short: two immortal American indie hits.

Driven by roaring riffs, “Believing Is Art” and “Take A Walk” are the moments most in line with the band's early days; while the insistent use of mellotron on “Anything You Want” and “1020 Am” conjures up fresh atmospheres. On the former, the instrument simply provides counterpoint to yet another great vocal performance from Daniel, while on the latter it immerses the album in late-60s vapors. “This Book Is A Movie” is an instrumental with a cinematic pace, in which guitar riffs move stealthily amid keyboards that intone noir melodies and a geometric rhythm section. Closing things out is another future damp, nocturnal indie anthem titled “Chicago At Night”, which drowns the album in a puddle lit by neon signs and hazy keyboards.

Peaking at number 46 on Billboard's independent albums chart, Girls Can Tell offered only a faint glimpse of Spoon's commercial potential, though it still outsold the band's entire previous output combined.

Considered by many to be Spoon's best album, and certainly the one best suited to a wide range of tastes, Kill The Moonlight marked a further evolution in the band's sound. The melodic inclination is the same one that drives Girls Can Tell, but the arrangements are much sparser and more minimal, the blend of instruments less dense. Skillfully using silence as the space between instrumental parts, Mike McCarty's production manages to bring out the texture, tone and nuance of every instrument. Another significant novelty is the heavy use of piano, which on Kill The Moonlight is at least as important as the guitar. This choice amounted to a kind of Copernican revolution for Spoon's music. Daniel and co. went from total rejection of the instrument to making it the engine of their new sound. In an interview from the time, the singer said that early in their career Spoon would never have considered using piano, because bands they idolized like Wire would never have done so, but that once they'd matured they realized how obtuse and counterproductive that attitude had been, and that piano is essential to so much music they love, like that of Marvin Gaye or the Plastic Ono Band.

Better late than never, one can't help thinking while listening to Kill The Moonlight. Piano is indeed the soul of what is probably the most famous track Spoon ever recorded: “The Way We Get By”. A euphoric ode to the simple life, it would go on to soundtrack “Stranger Than Fiction”, the surreal 2006 comedy starring Will Ferrel for which Daniel handpicked several tracks, as well as “The O.C.” and the American version of “Shameless”. Another standout on the album, the sparkling “All The Pretty Girls Go To The City”, is also decidedly piano-guided, as is the romantic ballad that closes out the whole record, “Vittorio E.”, and the shorter “Something To Look Forward To”.

“Stay Don’t Go” is a catchy, flirtatious piece of indie-rock that coils its verses around a feverish, syncopated sample of Britt's voice; while the following “Jonathan Fisk” is the usual guitar blast aimed at longtime fans, though dressed up with the juicy support of saxophone. With its high-voltage keyboards, an unforgettable chorus and a moderately experimental approach, “Small Stakes” is another instant classic.

Kill The Moonlight also improved on its predecessor's commercial performance, reaching number 23 on Billboard's independent albums chart. The overwhelming impact of a classic like “The Way We Get By”, however, would only become apparent a few years later.

Hitting store shelves in May 2005, Gimme Fiction was once again distributed by Merge, with support from Matador (relations between the label and the band had never really soured) to cover the European market – terrain where Spoon have always struggled to put down roots.

Focusing solely on the sound of Spoon's fifth album, one might think the innovations brought compared to the previous effort are few — and in fact they are, since Kill The Moonlight was, after all, the work of a band in the full bloom of its artistic maturity. Digging deeper into the eleven songs on Gimme Fiction, however, a considerable effort and a decisive compositional leap forward become evident, making it the most ambitious record to date by the Austin outfit. The songs often derail from the traditional verse-chorus-verse structure (followed fairly faithfully by Spoon in the past, especially on the two previous albums) to reach unexpected destinations.

The moods found here are also quite far removed from the more easygoing ones of Kill The Moonlight, with an aura of mystery hanging over nearly everything. Starting with the fantastic, winking cover art depicting a modern Little Red Riding Hood photographed at an angle, an inviting pied piper who, by seducing the listener, draws them into that glossy, murky world that this time around are the songs born from the pen — never so symbolist and ambiguous — of Britt Daniel.

Placed at the center of the sound, Josh Zarbo's pulsing bass takes the reins on hypnotic tracks like "I Turn My Camera On," a great dance-punk number inspired by repeated listens to Franz Ferdinand, and "The Beast And Dragon Adored." In the latter, mighty piano basslines make the air vibrate and build a palpable tension that is then torn apart, shredded by the guitar slashes of the closing section. Even amid such tense atmosphere, Daniel manages to drop in one of his unforgettable refrains: "I got to believe it come from rock and roll/ Believe it come from rock and roll." "My Mathematical Mind" is even more frantic: piano and bass weave together in a relentless interplay, and the ending is a storm of noise bursting from every corner.

On "Was It You?" and "They Never Got You," Zarbo and Eno unleash their most metronomic side, their ever-present devotion to the rhythmic obsessions of kraut-rock, duly filtered through the modernizing lens of Stereolab, whose lessons are paired, when needed, with contagious handclapping, in a mix that evades any fixed coordinate of tempo or style. The infectious rock'n'roll that Spoon had by then mastered takes lush shape in the Beatles-esque "I Summon You": a muted acoustic guitar riff, a verse as catchy as the chorus, and a light seasoning of synths toward the end.

Gimme Fiction too would be thoroughly plundered by TV shows and film. The immediacy and emotional charge of songs like "Sister Jack," "I Turn My Camera On," "I Summon You," "The Infinite Pet" would flood series such as "The Simpsons," "Veronica Mars" and "Scrubs," as well as Marc Webb's indie-kid cult favorite "500 Days Of Summer" (2009). The album devoured Billboard's indie chart, soon claiming the top spot, and even cracked the main chart at No. 44.

2007-2010: four underdogs at the top of the charts

After Gimme Fiction, Spoon were everywhere. Britt Daniel, Jim Eno, Eric Harvey (pianist and keyboardist, a key figure in the band's new sound and a permanent member since 2004) and Rob Pope (who replaced Zarbo on bass from 2007 onward) tread the stages of Letterman's, O'Brien's and every other late-night show without pause; a bit behind schedule, they had become America's new next big thing, and far more than the usual indie kids were waiting with bated breath for the release of Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga (again released by Merge, this time with the backing of Anti-).

Spoon's sixth album was a genuine smash, shaking up the Billboard charts with a resounding No. 1 on the independent albums chart and No. 10 on the general one. Probably precisely because of the band's heightened exposure during that period, which put them in constant contact with their audience, every song on this dadaist, mysteriously titled record seems made to be sung at the top of one's lungs, memorized, danced to with a grin plastered on one's face. Handclapping galore, Lennon-esque inflections, round, radio-ready choruses, irresistible rhythms, and lush, euphoric melodies by the dozen. But also, as usual, meticulous care in the studio, with the skillful Jon Brion joining the usual Mike McCarthy to bring out the total precision and overflowing inventiveness of the four musicians.

Opening the show is a direct, brash piece of indie-rock titled "Don't Make Me A Target": an electrifying riff, elegant piano touches, the usual infectious chorus and a cacophonous enough finale. An obsessive piano pattern haunts "The Ghost Of Your Lingers" from start to finish, while vocal echoes and sinister noises infest the track like dark presences. The song's slight experimentalism does nothing to dampen its pop potential. "You Got Yr. Cherry Bomb" is another killer hit, complete with gleaming horns wrapped around its lush chorus; while "Don't You Evah" sharpens its rhythmic aim to heat up indie dancehalls at the start of the night with a vaguely dance-punk groove and guitar notes soaked in a shot of vodka. Horns of a bygone era pop up in these and other tracks on the record, lending a tasty flavor that enhances its pop edges.

Two rock'n'roll numbers that shine for their immediacy and freshness, "Rhythm & Soul" (featuring a terrific flute part intertwined with a fuzzed-out guitar) and "Eddie's Ragga," lead into another gem: "The Underdog." In its own way a generational anthem, the song is addressed to all underdogs — literally those disadvantaged in a competition, the underrated, the back of the class, the nerds, the losers, the pimply teenagers, the swots, and everyone else in between. They're spurred on by blaring trumpet riffs and an acoustic guitar strummed with verve and imagination, so that, for once, they might come out on top, just like Spoon, the underdogs par excellence.

Despite its Eastern-sounding title, "My Little Japanese Cigarette Case" closes out, amid Spanish-tinged guitars, a rock stroll seasoned with disorienting effects and powerful riffs. Amid all this abundance, a gem with a crystalline melody and lively cadence like "Finer Feeling" — which today's indie bands would pay to have in their repertoire — ends up almost overlooked; while the smooth acoustic groove of "Black Like Me" wraps up 36 minutes of practically perfect pop-rock. A collection of songs that fears no rival among the indie heavyweights of its decade (the likes of Arcade Fire, Franz Ferdinand, Arctic Monkeys), though its weight is hard to fully grasp from this side of the ocean.

Although Spoon would never again release an overtly pop record like Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga, its success in the United States was so overwhelming, and the way its songs infiltrated pop culture so far-reaching, that it positively influenced the sales of subsequent works, even in the absence of instant hits and easy accessibility, as was the case with 2010's Transference. Although it sounds like an inverse reaction to the overflowing melodiousness of its predecessor, marked as it is by jagged edges and structures that are anything but simple or recognizable, the album still reached No. 4 on Billboard's general chart.

"Before Distruction" and "Is Love Forever?" open the tracklist with arrangements positioned right between the aseptic cleanliness of Kill The Moonlight and the palpable frenzy of A Series Of Sneaks. "The Mistery Zone" is all noir keyboard muttering that breaks off abruptly just as the song seems to be heading toward some kind of climax; the following "Who Makes Your Money," built instead on driving guitar riffs, also cuts off mockingly right at the best part, just when it seems about to launch into a chorus or something similar. A release valve.

The title of "Written In Reverse," a song in which the usual ratio between sung and played parts in rock is turned on its head, reads like a mission statement for Transference's anti-climax revolution. "Saw The Light" plays just as dirty a trick: in its opening minutes, Britt rattles off what might pass for a chorus, which however never returns, shelved instead in favor of a long, bristling parade of guitars, occasionally infiltrated by a wandering piano.

Anyone desperately searching for a handful of more properly defined songs will find them in the second half of the record, starting with the roaring combination of Beatles and Television that is "Trouble Comes Running." Short and tender, "Goodnight Laura" is a comforting postmodern lullaby. Closing things out is the beautiful "Nobody Gets Me But You," a skeletal track battered by piano flurries and electronic interference — another great piece of indie rock the likes of which you don't hear anymore. The ambition, the challenge Spoon set for themselves with Transference, is also evident in its unusual length of over forty minutes (only "Gimme Fiction" matches it), during which fans who had only come to the band via Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga are deliberately tested, prodded. The unpredictable geometries of this work showcase the quartet's technical and performative grandeur, though the album occasionally — if rarely — falls short in terms of accessibility.

2011 – present: an enviable longevity

Already hinted at indirectly through a break-up record like Transference, the controversial, conflicted relationship between Daniel and co. and success was expressed with real vehemence in the title of the following album: They Want My Soul. They are, for sure, the record labels, quite possibly some of the fans too, and the soul they want to suck dry is Britt's. Which he sometimes hands over quite willingly, as happens on this album number eight, released in 2014. They Want My Soul is arguably the closest thing to Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga that Spoon ever made, except that in place of the 2007 album's euphoria we find heavy doses of nostalgia (as if the band had suddenly become aware of its lost innocence), and in place of the piano, airy keyboards drenched in echo.

The first record made for Loma Vista instead of Merge, They Want My Soul saw Alex Fischel join the lineup, tasked with fleshing out the sound while splitting his time between guitar and keyboards. Production duties went to David Fridmann (the longtime producer of Flaming Lips and Mercury Rev), brought in to help realize the record's psychedelic ambitions as well as to freshen up its atmosphere. In the four years leading up to the album (the longest gap ever between two Spoon releases), all the band members, needing to unplug for a while, had thrown themselves into various side projects – Jim Eno produced several up-and-coming bands, Britt Daniel formed Divine Fits with Dan Boeckner of Wolf Parade, while Rob Pope went on tour with his own Get Up Kids.

Two meaty guitars swaggering forward, Britt's deliberately rasping voice, a round, crystal-clear chorus complete with uh la la las: with "Rent I Pay" Spoon snap right back to their beloved 60s Stones in the blink of an eye. Just as scratchy and sexy, "Do You" lingers in that golden decade, driven by spirited acoustic-guitar strumming and the proverbial handclap; the ending is soothing, dissolving into murmurs and relaxed flute notes. The title track likewise sticks to rock'n'roll coordinates.

Another instant fan favourite, "Inside Out" traps a honey-sweet melody inside a bubble of narcotized beats and oriental keyboard flourishes. It's the ultimate proof of an arrangement imagination with no apparent limits. Fridmann's skill and experience behind the console heighten the interplay of contrasts on "Knock Knock Knock", where bass and acoustic guitar march forward at a steady clip within a synthetic atmosphere built from beat machine and keyboards. There's even a stinging guitar solo that tears right through the song. High-speed keyboards echo along the synth-pop highway of "Outlier", which compresses the entire career arc of Primal Scream into four and a half minutes. It's a hard one to dance to sitting still.

The romantic finale entrusted to "New York Kiss" is breathtaking: the Big Apple in the rain, at night the keyboards skitter with a racing heartbeat, the neon of the all-night signs is everywhere, on the streets, in the puddles, in the shining eyes of the two people kissing.

With They Want My Soul, Spoon nailed another collection of round, immediate songs, albeit darker and more ambiguous ones, which kept their star shining bright even into the new decade. It's a record that took the band back up to number four on the American sales charts. Sure, the album lacks the freshness and, one suspects, the surprise factor of Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga, but it confirms a creative longevity and a consistency of quality that has few equals among their contemporary indie-rock peers.

The proof of the pudding – the ninth proof, literally – for this claim arrives with Hot Thoughts in 2017 (Matador), a fragmentary, schizophrenic, episodic record. Maybe Spoon had nothing new left to say; add to that the fact that indie rock had gone completely out of fashion, and the scene they were stepping into bore no resemblance to the one from ten years earlier. And yet, simply by picking back up the hundreds of ideas scattered across their previous albums, reshaping them, packaging them into new songs, a vital, fully realized patchwork takes form. A ninth album fresher than countless debuts.

The title track is a bubbling condensate of jagged rhythms, twisting guitar lines and hammering xylophones, a shapeshifting, come-hither object built for radio and dancefloors alike. "WhisperI'lllistentohearit", played all in one breath just like its title demands to be pronounced, is a supersonic punk'n'roll number with cybernetic keyboards standing in for guitars. "Shotgun" keeps up the same taut drive; while "First Caress", deliciously Jagger-esque, rubbery and enveloping, is another potential radio killer track.

Hot Thoughts is even more surprising when it slows the tempo down, reaching for hypnotic, faintly psychedelic atmospheres. Placed halfway through the tracklist, "Pink Up" is an unsettling tropical dream, driven by sensuous, hissing keyboards. The album's final five minutes, entrusted to the saxophones of "Us", are even more startling, while "Tear It Down" betrays its indie DNA with a surprisingly moving dreamy coda.

Several big titles and leitmotifs kept running through my head as possible angles for this review of the new album by the Texans Spoon. I wouldn't have known which one to pick, I don't have to pick just one, and I think they all more or less hit the mark. So here's a little selection for you.

On Spoon's inability to make a bad record.

Ten albums in and still going strong.

Lucifer On The Sofa: or, how to make a great rock'n'roll record in 2022.

Britt Daniel, Jim Eno and the rest of the band haven't lost a step. If anything, quite the opposite. Tweaking their unmistakable indie-rock formula just enough with every new release, they've outlasted decades and trends – decidedly better, in fact, than plenty of their generational peers (The National, Arcade Fire, to name a couple of big ones). And so here they are again, once more, with another great record. Their tenth, and their most classic yet.

Almost ideally split into a first half that's more raucous and spirited and a second half bathed in dim light, "Lucifer On The Sofa" opens with a cover, "Held" by Bill Callahan (back when he was Smog), built around a short, sharp, irresistible riff. Initially lopsided and bare, the song gradually pumps up the noise, bridging into the unleashed "The Hardest Cut", a riot of rhythm, handclaps and razor-edged guitar slashes. It's only the first of a series of striking connections between one track and the next, which make the record almost an architectural work, excellent in its individual parts but also meticulously engineered in its overall structure.

Ahead of a thrilling and liberating "Wild" (few rock songs manage to be so these days), which squeezes Primal Scream, Rolling Stones (that piano!) and Pixies into a little over three minutes, there's a breather with the loose-limbed "The Devil & Mister Jones", a slow but lively rock track that unspools into a long, sinuous coda of electric guitar and horns.

Alongside two impetuous, decidedly guitar-driven tracks like "Feels Alright" and "On The Radio" (where, however, it's the piano that dictates the pace of the gallop), we find two romantic ballads, "My Babe" and "Satellite", which balance out the excess sweetness with just the right dose of irony and instrumental twists. The fairy-tale touch of the mellotron, the long-breathed horns and the down-tempo rhythms laid down by Jim Eno's drums make the gorgeous, eccentric "Astral Jacket" and "Lucifer On The Sofa" delightfully suspended and nocturnal, even vaguely psychedelic (and here you can feel the touch of one of the producers brought on board, that Dave Fridmann famous for his contributions to Flaming Lips and co.).

Less ambitious, but also certainly far more successful than its predecessor Hot Thoughts (which in 2017 marked the band's return under Matador), Lucifer On The Sofa truly has the stature of what we're used to calling an instant classic, and sits just half a notch below the four masterpieces Spoon released between 2001 and 2007 for Merge.

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