Mojave

It's been called 'lo-fi swamp'. I tend to think of it as loping prairie music, but hey, you'll find your own words to capture the essence of Willard Grant Conspiracy. Mojave is their fourth album, a shambolic, dazed and confused affair that's guaranteed to hog your stereo if it's quirky, original meanderings you're looking for.

Robert Fisher, WGC's mainman, has steered the band along a path traditionally peopled by the likes of Tindersticks, Neil Young and Nick Cave. Opting for analogue tapes and old tube mics instead of the now regulation astral technology of the recording studio, the Willard Grant Conspiracy are one of the few outfits who haven't been seduced by the technolust that's gripping the industry of late.

Just about as soon as 'Another Lonely Night', the opener, fades into the ether, the scene is set. Often with nothing more than somnolent guitar and harmonica, Mojave stretches its canvas broad and long. Like a soundtrack for a John Lurie film, they sketch the outline and fill in just some of the gaps, leaving plenty of pockets for air and light to whistle through.

Lyrically these displaced Bostonians are preoccupied with the usual themes: relationship knots, the mundanities of a working life, and well, love lost and regained. But it's in the naked arrangements that the Willard Grant Conspiracy really push their collective heads above the parapet. With Fisher's jaded vocals hammocking the rest of the instruments, they've wisely opted for the less-is-more approach to their music.

'Catnap In The Boom Boom Room' is a fine calling card: all rolling, forboding guitars and dissonant harmonies.

Mojave's title is enough to conjure cinematic imagery, but the entire album is imbued with a widescreen sensibility. This is one for the long summer evenings, or failing the weather, an able accompaniment to nothing more than a tequila and a comfy couch. Listen and lope alongside.