Loose Fur - 'Born Again In The USA' (Drag City) Released 13/03/06

How do you chill when you’re part of a top-ranking art-rock outfit whose announcements are subjected to the kind of in-depth scrutiny and analysis usually reserved for art forms more high-brow than even the most evolved off-shoots of rock ‘n’ roll? For Wilco’s Jeff Tweedy and Glen Kotche plus Jim O’Rourke (Sonic Youth, solo artist, über-producer), the route to relaxation is in the formidable formula for ‘supergroup’ formation.

While said handbook for high-profile projects calls for a swift implosion amidst a flurry of warring egos, Loose Fur are not only still with us three years on from their debut, but also on an audibly amiable form. Which might explain both that painful pun of a handle and why the loose jams of the self-titled 2003 platter are reined in to deliver short, sharp and tight doses steeped in knowing winks in the direction of thrift store vinyl-hogging hipsters’ current musical template of choice, 1970’s US radio rock.

But fear not. As befits the usual high standards of the participants, 'Born Again In The USA' is more than just a pot of in-joke pastiches cooked up to provide a few giggles to the musicians involved. The trio might be brandishing cowbells, Thin Lizzy guitar duels and chugging soft-rock grooves like it’s 1976 and they’re all sporting sideburn and whiskers-combos, but they haven’t forgotten to bring their own stash to the party. Thus the record frequently mixes its bonehead boogie bluster with the chin-stroking complexity of Tortoise et al and sly digs at armageddon-courting bible-bashers (Jesus returns as a crack-smoking layabout amidst the gentle country rock stroll of ‘The Ruling Class’, the rollicking 'Thou Shalt Wilt' explores the ten commendments) with grin-inducing results, even if tracks like ‘Apostolic’, the two minutes of which roll forth more moves than a kung-fu flick, exist more as excuses to twiddle than actual tunes.

Elsewhere, the acoustic hypnosis of ‘Answers To Your Questions’, navigated by O’Rourke in warm, weathered tones suggesting a young Tom Waits lured away from the piano stool, is far removed from the riff-laden format, as is the supreme spaced-out epic ‘Wreckroom’. Expanding into an extended coda of hazy echo chamber explorations, it echoes muscular opener ‘Hey Chicken’s refrain by living “rent free in the back of your head” long after this always entertaining mixed bag of an album’s finished.