Cocteau Twins

If, to be considered worthy of a place in rock's annals, an album must first and foremost be original, then "Treasure", the third opus by Scottish band Cocteau Twins, is to all intents and purposes a landmark work.

Starting out in 1982 with dark, claustrophobic sounds indebted in many ways to Siouxsie, Cocteau Twins (Elizabeth Fraser: vocals / Robin Guthrie: guitar and keyboards) were already the flagship band of Ivo Watts-Russell's prized 4AD stable, but nothing in their fine earlier records hinted at such a dazzling leap forward. Perhaps thanks in part to newcomer Simon Raymonde, a bassist and keyboardist of rare talent, Cocteau Twins struck gold with a one-of-a-kind work, unmoored from every convention and light years ahead of their contemporaries. This is where the "real" Cocteau Twins begin, the masters of what would come to be defined, starting precisely with them, as "dream-pop".

Although entire generations of musicians have tried in the years since, no one has ever come even remotely close to matching the magic, the wonder, the ancestral and unreal enchantment conjured by their sound. It's an absolutely unique and distinctive sound, forged by the Scottish trio, still in some way indebted to its dark-wave roots (especially in the synthetic rhythms and the piercing bass lines), yet developing in wholly uncharted directions; a sound that flows fluid, free and weightless, soaring in ecstatic flight to unreachable heights. To all appearances, theirs are regular "songs", catchy and inviting; in reality, few groups have ever pushed experimentation this far, starting with Liz Fraser's simply indescribable singing, which here finally explodes into the full range of its boundless potential.

Lyrics no longer exist as such, replaced by sounds invented on the spot by the singer, or by wordplay built from free association, nonsense and onomatopoeia (heirs, in a sense, to the great lesson of Robert Wyatt), so that the voice has total freedom to range across its entire spectrum of registers; on every track Fraser seems to "duet" with herself, alternating the nervy, agitated tone of the early albums with weightless, otherworldly, fairy-like trills, following in the footsteps of Kate Bush. The two musicians support her perfectly, building fantastical "stage sets" around her, radiant with rare beauty and atmosphere: Robin Guthrie's chiming guitar, Simon Raymonde's "liquid" bass, and their baroque arrangements, with an archaic, unreal, almost alien flavour, come together to create music that is at once highly sophisticated and gloriously spontaneous, almost naive: the sonic research of Cocteau Twins is learned and exquisitely refined, yet it's also driven by an underlying impulse of childlike, unstoppable anarchy.

What matters, more than the individual songs, is the emotional impact of sounds so pure, airy and crystalline; it is, perhaps, the triumph of form over substance, but certainly not an empty exercise in style like so much British pop-rock. Total freedom is the watchword of Cocteau Twins, the goal being a work of pure "beauty" and creativity, free of any metrical or harmonic constraint. Every track is thus allowed to unfold into a genuine sonic spectacle, like "Lorelei", a joyous nursery rhyme, a dazzling visionary dance in which Fraser lifts her trilling voice to unthinkable heights: the image that comes to mind is of a child gazing in astonishment at wonders and spells materialising before her eyes, surrounded by glittering carousels and fireworks. But even more thrilling is "Amelia", a more hushed and restless track that could go on forever without ever growing tiresome, and which is also, in a sense, the manifesto of the band's sonic intentions: no longer a "song", lacking as it does a beginning, a middle and an end, but a free flight of Fraser's voice left to drift gently through a nocturnal, arcane mist, conjuring ghostly, haunted landscapes. The baroque enchantment of "Lorelei" returns in "Aloysius", but in a more rarefied, intimate dimension, in a sweet, dreamlike air.

There's no shortage of more overtly "rock" moments, though: the opening "Ivo", a gorgeous, cadenced and gripping ballad, the dramatic, beautiful "Persephone", the only explicit callback to the dark-wave sound of the first two albums, and finally the shadowy, jittery "Cicely". Among the most experimental passages, the austere madrigal of "Beatrix" stands out, teleporting the listener to a medieval court peopled with elegant ladies and minstrels, wizards and jugglers: at the opposite ends of the spectrum come the gentle, velvety elegance of "Pandora" and the menacing ambient incursion of "Otterley", with Fraser disguised as an enchanting siren who, amid languid guitar arpeggios and the sound of surf, sends out her whispered, sensual and deadly call. Until the epic "Donimo" arrives to bring things to a close, amid chivalrous choirs and solemn electronic drones, guitar apotheoses and a stormy electronic pulse, all of it furrowed throughout by Elizabeth Fraser's ecstatic, enchanted trilling.

"Treasure" is a work of impeccable musical merit, but of even greater emotional value: few records can boast such refinement and such allure, or offer such suggestive and wonderful temporary escapes from reality. Listening to "Treasure" is like taking refuge in an entirely "other" dimension, like opening an ancient, mysterious casket that has somehow found its way to us, precious and mesmerising, brimming with colours and visions, dreams and spells. "Treasure" is exaltation and introspection, it is total artifice and naive spontaneity, it is a game that's highly intellectual and shamelessly simple all at once. In a word, "Treasure" is the joy of making and listening to music, in its most genuine state.

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29/10/2006