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THE COURTEENERS
St Jude (A&M)
ORPHAN BOY
Shop Local (Concrete)
ELLE MILANO
Acres Of Dead Space Cadets (Brighton Electric)
SARABETH TUCEK
Sarabeth Tucek (Echo)

I HEREBY declare myself, once and for all, too old for this.

Each of the albums on today's page comes garlanded with strings of rave reviews from rival rags, and each audibly contains something or other of real merit, yet I'm just not getting it.

Maybe I'm having a bad week, but I don't think so. I'm genuinely at a loss to know what to say about much of it - and on reflection, it's less like feeling too old and more like feeling absolutely full to the brim, as though there's no room left in my brain to accommodate any more bands who sound a bit like other bands who in turn sounded a bit like other bands.

The Courteeners, for example, have been sweeping all before them as the newly-crowned Manc messiahs, and indeed there are echoes of Morrissey's phrasing here and the gobby swagger of Oasis there on the band's debut album St Jude, yet it's not nearly as good as either of these touchstones. And "like Oasis, but not as good" is nothing like a recommendation in my book, I'm afraid.

Pathetically, I'm also in a bit of a sulk that they've invoked the name of St Jude for their album title when I've already written a song with that name - but that's neither here nor there. Does namechecking the patron saint of lost causes mean they're living in hope, or are they proclaiming themselves as saviours of the scene?

Either way, I remain unconvinced. There are some nifty observations in Liam Fray's lyrics (Aftershow, Not Nineteen Forever, Fallowfield Hillbilly) - nifty enough to suggest a canny intelligence at work - but until such a time as the band can outgrow those workaday chord patterns, they seem destined to drive round the same old block until they run out of juice.

Orphan Boy, meanwhile, moved en masse (if three people can be said to constitute "en masse") from Cleethorpes to Manchester and by all accounts applied heart paddles to the live scene with their urgent, sweaty and hungry approach.

For sure, they huff and puff with cross-eyed vigour throughout their debut album Shop Local, to particularly notable effect on the Gang Of Four-derived Kick Junk, Flicknife and Alderley Edge - but again, we've been here before innumerable times.

Again also, the lyrics are sporadically interesting, with each song delivered from a different character's point of view, but the overall narrative voice which emerges seems much like any other in the current indie morass, not that you'd blame any of them - disaffected, bilious, painfully self-aware - which is where Acres Of Dead Space Cadets by Elle Milano comes in.

The debut album by this Brighton-based three-piece promises much and indeed delivers in short bursts, although it's a tad exhausting in one sitting. Adam M Crisp yelps his crafted and crafty lyrics in finest declamatory Metal Box style, the band hammer away with great intent and, again, one is aware that the whole shootin' match is fuelled by a keen and restless intelligence.

It really should be hitting the spot for me, as should the self-titled debut album by US singer/songwriter Sarabeth Tucek, which has even been bestowed with a papal blessing from Bob Dylan himself.

Terrific voice, solemn and beguiling lyrics, understated performances... yet I found myself growing impatient with the album's uniformity of pace (with the notable exception of the sprightly Nobody Cares). There are some genuinely worthy songs on here, and Sarabeth sings like a dark angel, but you can't help craving the odd gear change. I suspect I'm missing the point; or maybe I'm just too old.

10:02am Friday 11th April 2008

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