Mutations

SO YOU'VE HAD ENOUGH FROM the all-you-can-wear trainer buffet, kicked a soda can moodily round the old-skool yard, and whatever the game is, you're pretty damn sure you know the score. Ready for the next round, you genuflect in the direction of the hipsters' Mount Rushmore, from where Yauch, Horowitz, Diamond, and there on the end, young Mr Hansen, stare down unimpeachably. You won't, however, be expecting their winter collection to include velvet tabards and incense, and as for the cacti and spittoons, well, you'd rather eat plaid.



You'd better sit down. 'Mutations' sees Beck replacing the spinning turntable with the acid-rock lightwheel, the concrete streets with the long and winding road, retreating further from glaring expectation into the complex little universe between those fluffy sideburns.



To be fair, Beck insists 'Mutations' isn't the official follow-up to 'Odelay' - that should hit the planet some time next year - but a continuation of the wax-cylinder folk unearthed on 1994's 'One Foot In The Grave'. There's no white-suited, jewel-fingered pirouetting possible here, the singer retreating to a massively unfashionable time where consciousness was peeled raw by hallucinogens, where psychedelia toppled into psychosis and the open spaces of country rock offered fresh air amid the patchouli fumes.



More 'Ohdearlay' than a joyous whoop from a cultural swinger, it's a bleak and gentle record - the opening 'Cold Brains' wobbles like a nervous breakdown on a plate, while the disillusioned 'We Live Again' suggests a man weary of the hip hype. "Dredging the night, drunk libertines", he croons, desolate, "I grow weary of the end". Only cocktail-shaker single 'Tropicalia' fits his now-established image, Antonio Carlos Jobim hanging in the 'hood while preposterous synth scrunching suggests a guest appearance by Ross from Friends. Yet as Beck's ancient voice becomes all the more intimate, the mischievous angel takes a turn for the worse, tapping into a timeless mythology of melancholy. 'Nobody's Fault But My Own' strings its nerves out across those Wichita telegraph poles; 'Sing It Again' is 'Norwegian Wood' tinged with rabbit-skinning pedal steel, while the deceptively cheery honky-tonk of 'O Maria' casts Beck as saloon showgirl, playfully chucking grizzled cowboys under the chin.



Once out on the road, though, Beck soon reins himself back into inner space, passed out on the floor of the Fillmore Ballroom watching his brain go by. The beautiful medieval whimsy of 'Lazy Flies' sounds like Beck was surrounded by jesters and maidens playing finger-cymbals. 'We Live Again' steps back even further to the days when Pink Floyd still had a definite article, but most terrifying is freakout, 'Diamond Bollocks' where booted fairies stomp out the peace-and-love embers. From fly irony to Iron Butterfly is one hell of a leap, and Beck makes it like Neil Armstrong on a helium bender.



You would expect nothing less. 'Mutations' might be the inveterate individualist's way of keeping ahead, but more gladdeningly, it swerves the style diktats and mint-condition rareties in favour of pure emotion. Sure, Beck remains the Midas Of Cool, but most importantly, it's his heart that's made of gold.