According to the [I]Turd Polisher's Handbook[/I], there are two methods of jump-starting a failed early-'90s career in pop music....

ACCORDING TO THE [I]TURD Polisher’s Handbook[/I], there are two methods of jump-starting a failed early-’90s career in pop music. You could change your name, get your bassist’s hair cut, draft in a string section and brace yourself for a tsunami of music press fawning. Or you could stick to your guns, start your own label to pretend you haven’t been dropped and prepare to be shot at dawn as traitors to rock. Morning Swervedriver. Sword or pistol?

Let there be no mistake, this record wafts. While their shoegazey peers have long since vacated the sonic cathedral for run-down country music (hello Moose, howdee Mojave 3), the Swervies are still locked in the crypt, secretly scooping guitar shimmers from Pink Floyd’s ‘Meddle’. But, to their credit, come album three they’ve learnt their lessons from Nirvana, Radiohead and (most blatantly) Teenage Fanclub, and have at least attempted to bung some lazy-eyed melody swoons, Mexican twangs and comatose rock- outs over the trademark billowing whale flatulence.

So ‘These Times’ chugs along in a pleasantly bearded fashion, easing us gently into the joss stick-waving toss of ‘Electric 77’ and ‘Stellar Caprice’. Then ‘Wrong Treats’ crash-lands in your cranium like a blazing asteroid the size and shape of Kevin Shields throwing up enough punkoid thrills to carry us through the psychedelic twattery of ‘Behind The Scenes Of The Sounds And The Times’.

Noodling hippy shite with attitude, then, or Radiohead trapped in a lava lamp. We shall let this one off with a warning, Commandant. Bring me the Milltown Brothers.