Howard Devoto: Jerky Versions Of The Dream (Virgin)

I NEVER CARED much for Magazine. They were a group without a style, or at least a group whose style consisted in a profound lack. For me, they had no internal combustion, no musical drama. None of their variously purloined characteristics were satisfactorily woven into a sound. McGeoch was always off on one tangent, Formula on another, and in the middle, smugly winking his insect eyes, sat the goblin Devoto: that voice. Al Stewart careening into Jello Biafra is about the best I can do to describe it.