As the race to discover the next-new-thing-that-isn’t-actually-very-new-at-all reaches a bionic sprint, bands that were big or promising to be so a few years ago have been left behind panting. It seems that unless you formed two weeks ago or more than 15 years ago, record shoppers and young bands looking for inspiration simply aren’t interested in you: Ash are struggling, Supergrass will have a problem and who really cares about once great hopes The Eighties Matchbox B-Line Disaster any more? The kids don’t know who they are or care because, let’s be honest, things are good right now and they need to keep space on their hard drives. But, y’know, there are some bands from the recent past worth sticking by. Like these always-welcome Welshmen.
Super Furry Animals will survive this violent purge, even if no one under 18 knows much about them, because they’re just too important to chuck away. This tank-buying, Siân Lloyd-worshiping five-piece have always marched to their own strange beat and yet always had an unwavering knack for writing feel-good pop akin to a kind of politico-psychedelic Abba. It just comes so easily to them, like on this back-on-form eighth (!) album, a treasure trove of left-of-centre sun-pop that, by rights, should see them back on the radio all day, every day.
Though they’re on a familiar course following the ill-received, ’70s porn-soundtracking ‘Lovekraft’ they’ve been careful not to simply retread old ground, updating the often-melancholic psych-pop of yore by way of some of the best songs they’ve ever written. Either that or they just had a lot of fun exploring country soul (‘Let The Wolves Howl At The Moon’), ’60s girl pop (‘Run-Away’) a sleigh bell-shaking retake of ‘God! Show Me Magic’ (‘Noo Consumer’), the bunny paw-soft, sitar-noodling haze of ‘The Gift That Keeps Giving’ and the epic, arms-aloft ‘Suckers’. If their lacklustre live performances two years ago conjured doubts as to their continued currency this album will be as welcome as sunshine would be this summer.
