First, the facts. Everything Picture is 102 minutes of music spread over two CDs, an audacious debut from an encouragingly unconventional Newcastle-originated quintet with a long and tumultuous history of in-fighting.

Sonically, the band cover the whole spectrum, from anti-everything combos like The Residents and Throbbing Gristle, to Can, The Who and Pink Floyd. Indeed, many unlikely touchstones poke their peaks above the surface here, the most illogical being the Smashing Pumpkins if they'd relocated from Chicago to the north of England, and majored in Psychic TV rather than Roger Dean-designed metallurgy. Think on it; the epical, ungainly arrangements, attrition in the ranks, Andrew "Tiny" Woods' cheesegrater voice counterpointed by bassist Vanessa Best's backing vocals.

Despite the scope though, the record lacks one element which might've made it better than good: melodic clarity. This is compensated for by some devilishly clever arrangements - witness the ensemble muscle of tracks like 'Suckle', or, taken to the nth degree, the 21-minute holocaustal collage of the title tune, after which the listener is left with the sense of having undergone an unforgettable ordeal and a life-altering epiphany.

So, despite the toil and error (the band went through two producers, including Nigel Godrich of Mutations and OK Computer repute, before settling on Nick Terry), sometimes they come within spitting distance of transcendence - like on the relatively easeful 'Aire And Calder' or the mini-operetta 'Dawn To Dusk'. Hearing tracks like these, one appreciates what strange, angular figures Ultrasound cut across the ice-encrusted charts.

This listener has always favoured bands who err on the side of grandiosity rather than caginess, and given that some of the best music of 1999 has evolved out of some outrageous conceits (Blur's 13, God Speed You Black Emperor!'s new EP, The Art Of Noise) it would seem ill-advised to chide Tiny and co. for over-reaching. Ultrasound have made a flawed first album, but they're well capable of the kind of outright madness previously exhibited by classic cranks like Pere Ubu or The Butthole Surfers. They're on the threshold, all they need to do is leap into the abyss.

And I'll bet they don't half burn rubber live.