Flak Magazine: Belle and Sebastian's Tigermilk, 00.00.00

From the liner notes for Tigermilk: "Sebastian wrote all of his best songs in 1995. In fact, most of his best songs have the words 'Nineteen Ninety-Five' in them. It bothered him a little. What will happen in 1996?"

The reappearance of Belle & Sebastian's (not the real names of anyone in this eight-piece outfit) debut Tigermilk three years after its meager 1996 UK release makes that question a particularly ironic and humorous little knot. Its higher-profile sophomore effort, If You're Feeling Sinister, drew attention on both sides of the pond, establishing B&S as A Band To Watch. (Even Spin said so!)

For those who missed out on the ultra-limited vinyl pressing of Tigermilk, Sinister became the band's first album, a near-perfect concoction of sun-dappled pop sweetness — too effusively witty to be pretentious, too genuine to be mawkish, too world-wise to be forgettably twee and too good to miss. The band's sound crystallized with 1998's The Boy with the Arab Strap, an overly aware, overthought record that diffused Sinister's tender heart into too many insufficiently fruitful directions to retain its affective spirit. Its gaze lifted from its shoes to the crowd gathered around it and lost focus.

Tigermilk, not surprisingly, goes the other way, showing the band's gaze recessed from its shoes to its navel: It's more molten than Sinister. Also, it lacks the second album's assurance. The band moves into more obvious electronic rearrangements in "Electronic Renaissance" and into slower tempo and glummer mood in "We Rule The School," and these variations from its comfortable center stumble, not succeeding as well as both the other tracks here and similar ventures on later albums.

But these are minor complaints. For most of the album, the band's shuffling song-stories are in fine form. Stuart Murdoch's rainy-day voice invariably paints pictures of faltering dreamers in a society that doesn't deserve their optimism but who get on quite well in the end anyway — sadder but wiser, that sort of thing. What's amazing is his versatility: Few songsmiths or vocalists can switch personas (and genders) so effortlessly, which is not to say Murdoch's singing voice changes but that his train of thought jumps tracks and makes nearby three-point landings between every song.

The first four songs, for instance, which will each take up a weeklong residence in the heads of those with any fondness for the band, show this agility, as he hops from a first-person allegory to two realistic portraits of different women to a sassy what's-up-lover riff that’s as universal as the previous three songs were intimate. The breadth is dizzying.

And none of this speaks to the atmospheric-yet-grounded soundscapes the band creates, which sometimes draw attention to themselves but are mostly velvet (and Velvet). Jangly with no rough edges, they're both a quilt and the cool side of the pillow. Sure, the band will every now and then get a little carried away or its members get a little too wrapped up in them, but you'll be so wrapped up with them you’ll be hard-pressed to find fault.

To a certain extent, it's unfortunate: This belated reissue well establishes a band that's already well-established. (Imagine if Chronic Town just materialized out of the ether.) The band's second album is more emotionally whole and more surely felt than this first, and, accordingly, it's more satisfying. But this earlier release nips at its heels, and is recommended for those who want to feel a little more Sinister.

— Sean Weitner (sean@flakmag.com)