Supergrass’ career starts now. But will anyone even feel it.

Gaz Coombes has been depressed since I Should Coco, but now his mum’s dead. It has caused him to take, oh life, seriously and pass over the jizz of dorkness that makes you depressed at even seeing In It for the Money or Life on Other Planets amongst a CD rolodex of Biz3 shit. Always running through a cloud trying to drive waiting for a girl coming in on the 315. But now the black stuff has come up and fucked their glam up.

“The loneliness of times…We were younger, oh, the way you turned my hand, woahy, woah.” Existing in a continuum where they’ve been loosely tied to a chair to make New Musical Express smile a crack, they’ve danced miles for a discrete guess-pass to Brit-rock’s ambiguous top-tier (that smelly shelf of ‘90s melancholy balls, yuck), earning melodramatic contempt and autograph requests (sure). Forever square, they dangle as an anomaly of category-hopping, almost-there arses.

Here comes a psychedelic, leveling surrender and record to save-face. Not similar to BRMC’s Howl, as they don’t possess a vanity basin or label woes to distance with oh, say acoustic blues. Grumbles. Out of Spazzville they arrive, 11 years late, composing rock to stain their artsy middling; finally, their music leads nowhere. If the hip won’t grow-up, will death make them diss the flash and create something? This album cover is horrible though.

- Jim Battles