Sparklehorse

Mark Linkous shot himself in the heart. There, I said it. Got it out of the way so I don't have to mention it again. As if.

Sadly, the 47 year old's self inflicted demise is inextricably bound to the freaky magnificence of his band, Sparklehorse. However, in as far as suicidal singer songwriters go, Linkous's output is almost uplifting. There is none of the scarcely contained fury, or caustic angst of Elliott Smith, say, in Likous's luminous legacy.

The tone of Sparklehorse can perhaps be best gauged by Linkous's fragile vocals. A cross between Wayne Coyne and a whisper, they float in and out of the mix, as if their source doesn't really care whether the words are audible or not. The effect is not so much hushed confessional as somnambulant mumble. 'The owls have been talking to me, but I'm bound to secrecy....If I had a home it'd be in a slide trombone' (Spirit Ditch) are just two of countless couplets that follow Linkous' typical dream logic lyrical style. If they signify anything, his lyrics point to a rueful acceptance of events, or simply fey escapism, tinged with occasional moments of hope. But it's never less than pretty.  Such nonchalance belies the often polished perfection of his four startlingly consistent albums as Sparklehorse.

Indeed, Linkous emerged from the punk scene (like Smith) with a melodic and emotional sensibility that confounded his roots. A skilled producer, with a gift for surreal imagery, Linkous could just as easily turn his hand to ambient moodscapes (Its A Wonderful Life) as SST channelling hardcore ( 'Tears On A Fresh Fruit' from Viva..) or even lo fi dream pop ('Saturday' also from Viva..).  The strength of his first album Vivadixiesubmarinetransmissionplot won him a 1997 tour with Radiohead, and it's easy to see common ground between the intricate, thoughtful arrangements of Sparklehorse and Thom Yorke's output.

Unlike the often gritty realism of Radiohead and their (albeit oblique) political engagement, Sparklehorse's music floated above the everyday world of numbing routine, and even personal relationships in a solipsistic narcotic haze. Recalling the slowness of Low or East River Pipe, Sparklehorse inhabit a twilight world between waking and sleep.

The king is dead, long live the king.