The Verve / Urban Hymns by Amy Briggs courtesy Virgin Records Summer for my teen years always meant the annual pilgrimage to Dallas Š and the house of my mother's only brother, Uncle Don. With Uncle Don and his wife Retha lived a son who caused them constant distress. Cousin Jeff was revered by the Briggs sisters as a demi-god, a very cool demi-god in Vision StreetWear clothing who blasted eerily soothing music from behind his bedroom door. On one particular occasion, while the 'rents chatted about Texas Instruments and the heat index, the demi-god descended and grudgingly allowed us near his prized record collection. The boy had more vinyl than an all-night diner. (Note: At the time, we were listening to Amy Grant: The Collection, Hooked on Classics, and The Best of Peter, Paul, and Mary; records were something we equated with old age and gramophones). The last time we saw Cousin Jeff -- in a Galaxie 500 shirt with a BIG OPIUM POD on the front -- he tossed us a mix tape he had thrown together. Side A introduced me to The Verve Š and for the first time in my life, I finally comprehended that there was a whole new world of music I was missing. The Verve are survivors of the so-called "Shoegazer Scene," which had its peak in the early nineties with bands such as Slowdive, Mazzy Star, and of course, the permutations of Spacemen 3 (Spiritualized, Spectrum, Sonic Boom, etc Š); all were primarily characterized by slow tempos, lush vocals, and a liberal use of the delay pedal. After three years or so of this, the crowd got tired of looking at their feet. The Verve snapped out of their trance a tad bit too late and attempted to compensate with A Northern Soul. They jumped too far ahead; the album nearly drowned in self-indulgence and Jim Morrison sweat. It took them nearly two years to recuperate from that blow. The healing process definitely gave them a new direction, without compromising their characteristic sound. I admit I was shocked to hear an album as refreshing as Urban Hymns; after being bombarded by band after band of jaded white boys, I was starting to believe the light at the end of the tunnel was 311 tokin' up some doobage. Superimposing layers of guitar, then peeling them off slowly, one by one, The Verve manages to capture on Urban Hymns the finest moments of their past albums. The first track, "Bitter Sweet Symphony," starts off with a beautiful string intro that quietly morphs into a full-blown sonic orchestration. "Catching the Butterfly" and "Space and Time" are especially reminiscent of their classic Storm in Heaven release. "Come On," the final and hardest track of the album, is the closest you'll hear to The Verve rocking out; the other 70 plus minutes incorporate dream-like guitar riffs with Richard Ashcroft's mesmerizing vocals, inducing deep hypnotic states. Brutally honest lyrics reveal more than I ever cared to know, but just enough to keep me wondering ... "Like a cat in a bag waiting to drown / this time I'm coming down...now the drugs don't work / they just make you worse / but I know I'll see your face again." If you saw his face, you would understand; Mr. Ashcroft could pass for a cross between Sick Boy and a young Mick Jagger. But he can sing a hell of a lot better. If you're tired as I am of listening to Brit-pop bands like Oasis, Blur, and Pulp take themselves so seriously, turn your weary head to The Verve. Subject your ears to Urban Hymns; the demi-gods will smile on you.

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