Nothing could have been further from the truth. But keeping his cool intact has meant this dour-faced 36-year-old has gone underpaid, never quite reaping the rewards that LCD deserves. It's a pattern of Murphy's: he lost out on millions when he bailed from a soon-to-be-successful Internet startup, and then turned down a chance to write Seinfeld scripts.
So with LCD LP number two, Sound of Silver, he makes a bid for the slightly bigger time with sad songs, slow-burning epics, wolf howls and more peerless dance floor come-hithers. Sublime opener Get Innocuous builds exquisitely, before Murphy's vocals (multi-tracked, Bowie-referencing) descend like a cloud of dank nitrous oxide. Oh block out the sun, comes as another vocal ambush, like Berlin-period Bowie in a cowbell shop this time, on the propulsive Us v Them.
The album's beating heart, however, is All My Friends, where the nostalgic euphoria of the ageing clubber becomes something more authentically soulful. If Murphy truly wanted the big bucks, he would know how to print them. Instead, Sound of Silver tickles the back of the knees while titillating the solar plexus. It should earn him a lasting place on the shelf next to his heroes.
Enter Shikari
Take to the Skies
Released March 19
Enter Shikari are not like other bands. Their music brings grown-ups out in hives; not an easy thing to do in these days of endless middle youth. Last fall, Shikari sold out a major London venue without the muscle of a record contract. They are going to sell lots of records without one, too.
When the A&Rs did come calling, Enter Shikari — four twenty-nothings from Hertfordshire, north of London — turned them all down. They chose to release their debut on their own label. This is the kind of behavior that has the majors nursing ulcers.
Enter Shikari borrows equipment and poses from the swivel-eyed rave scene, and dreamy synth builds from its cheesy cousin, trance. They are, though, a chuntering rock band at heart. Trying to pin a name on Shikari's bi-polar racket is all part of the fun. One music newspaper weekly tried "mosh and glo." It doesn't much matter what we're calling it, as long as the fans dance like gibbons and grown-ups cover their ears.
On OK Time for Plan B, the band roars like hairy oxen, while a perky rave synth beebles away. No Sssweat starts off like mangy oi-punk, before a synth-pop-disco band hijack it. Teenagers have notoriously short attention spans: Enter Shikari alter their time signature every few bars. It's exhilarating on Return to Energizer, but it means they never build a satisfying musical argument.
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