In The Iceman's Back Garden

Only two singles into their history , and the Monsoon Bassoon are already flashing out big red signals to indicate they're more than an agreeably scrambled psychedelic circus. 'In The Iceman's Back Garden' is the ort of epic you'd expect from a band stuck into their fourth album, grown-up, newly spiritual and eager to wrestle with the indifferent savagery of the universe. It's a world away from the cheeky pronky peekaboo of 'Wise Guy', but is no less impressive. If 'Wise Guy' was a firework display, 'Iceman's' the glow on the lip of a volcano.

It starts off as dark embers, slowly fanned and building up to destroying flame. An enormous iron clang; then a foreboding clarinet intoning over the top of the sort of dark, massive, bells-of-doom guitar lattice that'd send most of the goth bands of the world running to mother. And this time there's an almost religious terror in the vocals - a fierce song commemorating the end of something as it has been known, and tinged with fear as to what will happen next. The voices and lyrics are murky: mysterious, entranced. Faces, dirt, hair, stars, cries and eyes creep out of the word-darkness, little clues. In one of the few clear moments, they're keening "He won't tell...". There are a few moments of tumbling vocals, slashing guitars and urgent reeds during which the whole thing seems to whirl, like the spinning treetops on the cover: then the guitars flail and the clarinet screams as a fierce, beautiful, terrible light pours down from above. A final, desperately beautiful chant, then they beat our hearts to death with a riff the size of the sky before bursting into a stream of starry feedback that sweeps all before it. If the apocalypse is going to be this beautiful, roll on Doomsday.

The B-side, 'Pyramid', is the more familiar alphabet soup of puzzling riffs, twisted melodies, Fred Frith guitar quirks and blissful deranged flutes, and lyrics which boast of " a light of which eyes have never seen". But they've already shown it to us. That's why we're standing in shock, oblivious to their dance around us. Some things you just can't follow up like that.

Jimby Walton (Misfit City)