The songs come first

AS yet another of his finely-honed rock-pop gems shines lustrously in

the British top 20, the man with rock's most literate sideboards sits

back and winnows past from future. It's not that he's particularly prone

to sitting back and winnowing past from future, mind. It's just that

I've asked him to. So, as he's an infinitely pleasant sort of a

Glaswegian rock-star dude, Justin Currie does.

Del Amitri. Nigh on 11 years they've been together, Justin and Iain

Harvie. Boyhood into manhood. Starting off reckoning you're the Beatles.

Early peaks and troughs. Radio sessions for indie guru John Peel.

Bust-ups with first label, resulting in 18 grim, deal-less months.

Justin waiting at table in a city restaurant, succoured from afar by

American fans.

''They were our only positive impetus at a time when we'd been

trounced, totally mushed by the music papers, and released by the label.

Our American fan club organised a six-week US tour. 'You can come and

stay with us,' they said. So we did. Little gigs in record stores and

radio stations.

''Folk gave us petrol money. We stayed with people's bemused parents,

curtailing Led Zeppery in family living-rooms. What kept us going from

1984 to 1986 was the fan club. People had been genuinely affected by our

first LP. It appealed to a neurotic section of society . . . while I was

fiercely proud of it at the time, I now simply don't know the folk who

made it.''

Lots of Americans currently know exactly who Del Amitri are. The band

spent most of 1992 there; touring for a bit, oiling the promotional

treadmill for longer, earning a second big US hit single for their

classy, witty radio-friendly rock. Justin nevertheless insists that

''breaking the US market isn't a priority, selling millions and millions

rather than hundreds of thousands, and A&M aren't good at pressurising

people.

''They're affable and intelligent, and leave you alone when it

matters. Similarly, we're not confrontational and childish, as we had

been at Chrysalis. You grow up. You relate to people day by day without

being desperate. I also learnt PR skills as a waiter: smile nicely at

the people you most hate . . . and then run away into the kitchen, and

piss in their coffee.''

And you'll need to give a, erm . . . different flavour to your next

LP, won't you?

''Waking Hours raised expectations, and in Change Everything, we

tended to play safe. So I'm not interested in another LP of melancholic

love songs with nice choruses. We're at a critical stage . . . 'that

difficult third LP.' '' Whatever Justin does next, he'll do it with a

welcome sense of irony.

''People who end up doing well at what they like get pompous and

arrogant -- 'I just jolly well went out and did it.' The self-made

person syndrome, ignoring all the luck, the happy accidents. It wasn't

that I wanted it so much, I made it happen. I know more talented people

than me who can't make it happen. I've always had time to work at

getting better. You want to hear someone who's worked at it, rather than

effortless expression.

''I haven't Re-invented Myself Through My Art, either, although that's

probably the way to major success. I'd be too embarrassed. I always

wanted to be a glam-rock character called Scott Fame and have a band

with a name that was ridiculously long -- but then my friends wouldn't

talk to me, so I couldn't do it.

''The depressing thing is that the new breed of group is too cautious.

I admire U2 for doing what they've done, but it's so self-conscious.

John Lennon and David Bowie both plainly once felt there was no limit to

their freedom. Even if on occasion it was the freedom to make fools of

themselves.

''We need another punk-rock revolution. It's time for mannered singing

and wide English vowel sounds again, not wishy-washy Stone Roses stuff.

I feel some Del Amitri death-metal songs are on the cards, in fact.

''You see, some bands whine: 'We want to play Wembley Arena', and then

do the songs to get them there. We do the songs first, and then decide

whether or not to do the animated video and wear make-up. Or in other

words, I've no idea what songs I'm going to write in the future.''

And I'm left to ponder that Justin has already come up with lines as

singular as ''And computer terminals report some gains on the values of

copper and tin/ while American businessmen snap up van Goghs for the

price of a hospital wing.'' So he'll do more, better, differently, on

the Dels' next album (order your copy now). A nation of rocksters waits

expectantly, without irony.

RECORD REVIEWS

Elvis Costello and the Brodsky Quartet, The Juliet Letters (Warners)

-- after the fuss made by dismayed non-classical scribes and excited

un-rock critics, the whole world knows that this ''song sequence for

string quartet and voice'' is based on a Veronese academic's replies to

letters addressed to a Ms Julia Capulet. Vibed-up rock-totties are

annoyed because they reckon ol' El is seeking

credibility-by-association.

Meanwhile, stringy old classix jossers laud the disc as an attempt to

bring Proper Music to the masses, apparently having confused this Elvis

with that Elvis. Abjuring both camps, all I say is that it's a solid LP,

although what it most brings to mind is what you'd get if Elvis Costello

were to sing with the Brodsky Quartet: in other words, no surprises. In

fact, for a real eye-opener, just you wait till me and Runrig finish

recording The Taggart Missives together.

Apache Indian, No Reservations (Island) -- this is more what you need

if you're after some mind-expanding cross-cultural fertilisation: Apache

Indian is the first dance-hall DJ from outta India (by way of

Birmingham, Inglan, and Kingston, Jamaica). Mix Afro-Caribbean ragga

groovery with lilting Anglo-Asian electro-bhangra and rap pungency.

Add an ironic urge to subvert colonialist stereotyping, as evinced by

the lyrics to Don Raja (''Don Raja a come! Straight from Delhi on magic

carpet! With a million watts of hockey stick!''). Liberally sprinkle

with a new hybrid Punjabi patois. What ya got? A shockingly brilliant

new dancefloor mode.

Digable Planets, Rebirth of Slick (Elektra) -- following in the

whimsical roots-rap footsteps of De La Soul and Arrested Development,

Digable Planets are a propulsive blend of sinuous bass, lazy rhythm, and

cool Blue Note jazz vibing. Their use of extended metaphor -- insects

and space-cowboys loom large in their lyrics -- does not lessen the bite

of their political militancy. Their arguments are sophisticated; their

grasp of musical history acute. The only thing in their disfavour is

that over the next few weeks the metropolitan music press will be loudly

hailing them as modern music's saviours (which almost certainly means

that they aren't).

Neverthless, Rebirth of Slick (Cool Like Dat) is a fine single, and

their debut LP, Reachin' (A New Refutation of Time and Space), should be

an immediate purchase upon its release on February 15.