Windmill Puddle City Racing Lights

Windmill's most obvious comparison is to Danielson Family. For some, that'll be all the introduction they need. These characters are to be found at opposite ends of the US indie-rock spectrum; those who adore the charming antics of the nurse-outfitted, Albini-sponsored, squeaky-voiced evangelicals; and those who find the entire concept grates like chewing cotton wool.

The bulk of this - possibly unfair - assessment is based on Matthew Thomas Dillon's... let's say, idiosyncratic voice, another screecher in Bro. Danielson's vein. Dillon himself clearly has great confidence in it; at times, Puddle City Racing Lights' sound is extremely stark and relies very much indeed on this controversial frontispiece. This is tempered by the other half of the record, with it's rich, triumphant full-band backing, an ensemble clearly instructed to make the most of the dynamic shifts in songs such as Fluorescent Lights.

Actually, I defy you to find fault with this record musically: if you can bring yourself in the smallest way to admire the quirkier end of the US indie spectrum - the likes of Polyphonic Spree, for instance - then you'll adore the piano-led symphonies, ranging from loud to soft, light to shade, sad and meandering to triumphant and direct. The Planning Stopped is dramatic, and a little harrowing; opener Tokyo Moon on the other hand is cheery and fun.

As wonderful as the songs are, you'll have to get past Dillon first, and this is no mean feat. I've given this album a lot of time, and I've still to come to a definitive decision about it. I like the record very much - while not really up there as a record of the year contender, it's certainly an enjoyable and interesting way to spend three-quarters of an hour. Some of the songs are fantastic, and would be great to sing along with should you wake up one day in possession of a Geddy Lee-esqe falsetto; and I can really get into the sway of the emotive music, which really does pick you up and move you. But I still don't know if I like the man's voice. Often, I think I do. I should have nothing against it: as Frank Zappa once said, "in this business you've either got to play the blues, or sing in a high voice." Robert Plant, Michael Jackson, or Mercury Rev's Jonathan Donahue could each give Dillon a lesson on pitching a castrato voicing, yet there's something peculiar about listening to an Englishman affect such a middle-American whine that makes it difficult to concentrate on the otherwise excellent songs.

So unfortunately, although I do have to give Puddle City Racing Lights a rating, it's fairly arbitrary - I've given you the reference points that I can, but if you want to know whether this is a good record, I'm afraid you're going to have to listen to it yourself.