While being labelled with the tag "critics' choice" may seem complimentary, such musical categorisation often shadows a far more sinister and hollow sub-text: that of commercial starvation.
Such was the case with the now defunct Boo Radleys, a Scouse psychedelic noise superhighway regaled with effusive praise for their adventurous ideal, but bereft - save Top Ten single 'Wake Up!' - of serious selling clout.
Having taken the obviously painful decision to split the Boo Radleys in 1999 after ten years together, helmsman Martin Carr has now returned as Brave Captain, and, as hoped, his solo work carries that still flickering torch towards the light of sonic invention.
Working alongside Gorwel Owen – Super Furry Animals' and Gorky's producer' – mini LP 'The Fingertip Saint Sessions Vol 1' captures a kind of 21st century Brian Wilson figure, burrowing not just with rich melodies and romantic naivety, but random noise, incoherent expression and near visionary ambition.
The record starts grandly, with 'Raining Stones', a wash of opulent strings, an 'envelope generator' and deep basking saxophone. Carr's voice is distinctly reminiscent of The Beach Boys' lush hum but this, despite a slumbering plod, is no High Llamas re-hash.
Lyrically, 'Raining Stones' perhaps best captures Carr's ruptured personality, which has a wilful habit of veering from maximum elation to bottomless despair in seconds. Indeed, as the album progresses, it becomes clear how he has wrestled himself from destructive obscurity and back with a vision.
Such personal prophecies are captured on the likes of 'Third Unattended Bag On The Right' when, from within the airless, Beatles vibe, Carr explains "something good has gone". As the regret is washed away, amidst hypochondriac musings and acidic guitars - a rare pleasure on this record - the rites of passage is unveiled - "Nearly got myself a job, but I got myself reborn."
Sonically, 'Third Unattended Bag' is typical of the album, which is a triumph of cryptic arrangements. The scuttling creepy landscape and dextrous harmonium melodies of 'Big Red Control Machine' – replete with William Blake pilfered lyrics - is similarly diverse, meshed in an unwieldy sheen.
However, particularly effective, while at completely different ends of the musical spectrum, are the stark acoustic blubbings of 'Starfish' and the startling, runaway looped and layered powerhouse of 'Little Buddha', the album's centrepiece.
So, a triumphant comeback, as yet another critic bows down at the feet of Martin Carr. But can you hear the stampede of bloodthirsty feet charging for the nearest record store? Once, again, I think not.
