COWBOY JUNKIES: “Pale Sun, Crescent Moon” (BMG)

“Have you ever seen a sight as beautiful as that of the rain-soaked purple of the white birch in spring?,” enquires Margo Timmins.

Well actually, the sight of that nice young Brett Anderson proffering a sackful of used currency in exchange for a night on the town would probably compare favourably with the most aesthetically-pleasing wet twig, no matter what the season was.

But that’s just me being cynical, and cynicism and the Cowboy Junkies go together like oil and water. If you’re going to get anything out of Pale Sun, Crescent Moon, it helps to be either in love, just out of love, or, failing this, a mood of general unhappiness works nearly as well. It doesn’t really matter what you’re unhappy about; song titles like ‘Cold Tea Blues’ and ‘Floorboard Blues’ show that the band can find a potential subject in just about any household item.

The Junkies’ star seems to have faded a little, but Michael Timmins remains a remarkable lyricist, with an acute insight into the complexities of human relationships. He’s an unashamed romantic, often crossing over into ‘big soppy git’ territory, (“Have you ever felt more fresh or wonderful as when you wake by the side of that boy or girl who has pledged their love to you?” – ‘Anniversary Song’), but he can also write a song like ‘Hunted’, (“Lucy’s outside her home, heading towards the corner store/She stays on well-travelled paths and is always making sure that she doesn’t develop patterns”) and tap straight into the darkest fears. The only real mistake here is their extremely dodgy version of ‘The Post’ by J Mascis of Dinosaur Jr. It sucks. And I mean that in a constructive way.

The Cowboy Junkies have undoubtedly smoothed off the menacing edge that characterised their music. Margo Timmins’ smokey voice is too special to allow them ever to be considered thoroughly bland, but even the toughest songs here, (‘Floorboard Blues’, ‘First Recollection’) could slot cosily into place on a daytime radio show. They’re not exactly MOR yet, but nor are they steering quite so close to the edge of the kerb.

Some people might even throw the words 10,000 Maniacs accusingly at them. Me, I quite like 10,000 Maniacs. . .

• Lorraine Freeney