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Welcome back The Beta Band, ripe for rediscovery. Experiencing déjà vu, Jim Irvin.

Let it B: The Beta Band (from left) Robin Jones, John MacLean, Steve Mason and Richard Greentree usher in their champion sound, 1997.

ABOUT 27 years ago, we could be nothing. There was a punk ethic behind it, found waxing enthusiastically about an element of wanting to rip up the rule book. a group of newly arrived Scottish At the time, Britpop had been, it felt to me, outliers gleefully swimming against the a very reactionary way of making music, prevailing current. The Beta Band’s debut, which wasn’t pushing anything on. It wasn’t The Three E.P.’s ★★★★ (Because Music), was art, but a very capitalistic way of making a multi-faceted collection of, you guessed it, music. I wanted to bring the art back. three EPs, whose idiosyncrasy had created “I marched into Parlophone at our second a stir, and were, frontman Steve Mason tells meeting and said, We don’t really want MOJO, always intended to be gathered as an anything from you except the money. We album. Dormant since 2005, The Beta Band don’t want your input. We don’t care what you recently announced they were re-forming to think about what we’re doing. We’ll just go off perform this album live. The dates – in Britain and do it, and we’ll make something amazing. and New York – sold out immediately, It was that purity, that pure suggesting there’s plenty of residual affection artistic vision, which we for them. all shared, that we didn’t Quite rightly, because, hearing the album want anyone else messing again after all this time, it’s immediately around with.” apparent how distinctive and ambitious it On second EP The Patty remains. First EP Champion Versions kicked Patty Sound, their freewheeling, collage writing approach off their career with a definitive moment, Dry The Rain, starting like a singer-songwriter was underlined in its curious throwback with hints of slide guitar before a blend of campfire improv, loud hip-hop drum beat arrives, a squall of Lee Perry and musique psychedelic guitar, then a mournful brass concrète. The 15-minute part ushering in a singalong Hey Jude-like Monolith, a symphony for ending. The sleepy B+A lays out dubby bass, percussion, bird calls and breakbeat drums, handclaps and washes of cut-up beats is somewhere cymbal while the band play a mile away. Dogs between The Beatles’ Revolution 9 and Pink Floyd’s Echoes. Good luck replicating this live, lads!.