The first album die-hards hate it. They whisper on their blogs about the new direction, speaking in expletives and emoticons with the smiley face turned upside down. Clap Your Hands Say Yeah’s internet fan-base, the people who made the band, are coming after them; chasing them down memory lane, their high hopes and preconceptions firmly in hand.

In ways they are right – Some Loud Thunder is a new direction. Gone is the snap-your-fingers gratification of the self-titled debut, in its place a darker, more openly adventurous album. The slick catchiness of Clap Your Hands art-rock is still here, it’s just not laid on our lap. But it’s there; slightly out of reach – a fingernail away from accessibility.

The album-titled opener is immediate in establishing this distinction. While it is said to take seven seconds for someone to form an opinion of you, most Some Loud Thunder listeners will have about four seconds to spare in judgement of this release. The difference is this stark. The production has lost all gloss, so much so that it makes early White Stripes recordings seem luxurious. The bouncy, 80s-pop-rock is now smothered under a hazy, grainy cloud. First impressions suggest that we are listening to an early garage recording of Talking Heads, captured and preserved by some long lost Betamax recording. It is instantly annoying, you cannot understand the lyrics and the melody comes out battered beyond recognition. But somehow, after just a handful of listens, its dirt and grime approach becomes infectious and pleasing.

‘Emily Jean Stock’ is a much more welcoming and gracious host, as a distinctively Kinks-ish and Zombie-like, ‘60s-psychedelia is unveiled. The hand claps, harmonies and bells and whistles prop the listener on a giant pop cloud. Still not content, the bass-heavy middle section steers ‘Emily Jean Stock’ down yet another course, one similar to the substance-driven deviation of The Flaming Lips. Clap Your Hands tap into their wide influences and churn out an original and memorable pop product.

 ‘Mama, Won’t You Keep Them Castles In The Air And Burning?’ is the first visible sign of Some Loud Thunder’s darker edges. Switching back to odd-bodied art-rock, lead singer Alec Ounsworth evokes the hysteria of David Byrne and the white-boy-funkiness and general refusal to adhere to pop conventions of Byrne’s former band: Talking Heads. But it’s Ounsworth’s unique blend of absurdity: “Dead king/Dead swing/Ali look out!”, realism; “Big house and a morning paper/Good fences that make good neighbours” and dread: “I lost my glove/To bloody fists and harder drugs” that makes this wordy exercise so addictive.

Bang! Another direction; the plodding piano and sparse introduction of ‘Love Song No. 7’ reek of Supergrass’ Road To Rouen. But Clap Your Hands Say Yeah are the birds that got away – you had them in the cage, all pigeonholed, but in the morning there are holes as big as reasons for pulling out of Iraq, and you’re left with feathers and crap for your troubles. ‘Love Song No.7’ escapes via the OK Computer-ish paranoia that drapes itself over the ambient whistles and accordion mash: “We’re safe and sound/So safe for now.”

‘Satan Said Dance’ juts again towards the unexpected and we’re not safe at all. As the unrelenting disco pulse of the song mutates, the groggy saloon piano, Parliament-funk guitar and grating organ create the sound of a room getting smaller. This song is the near terror of a rollercoaster – partly fun, but with the edge of fear that suggests we may shit ourselves at any given moment. Built from a driving rhythm, the track juxtaposes the sounds of computers attacking, modems starting and buildings crumbling. It is the sound of panic: “My hair turns white and my face turns green/But my feet are still moving.” Much like ‘Some Loud Thunder’, the stature of ‘Satan Said Dance’ grows with exposure and becomes a more lucid piece of the 11-song puzzle with further exploration.

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Intermission

‘Upon Encountering The Crippled Elephant’

Scene: A boisterous drunken party at a French patisserie. The head chef, retiring, drinks with his comrades for the last time. Melancholy, joy and frivolity ensue.

Music: Warped organ and wandering accordion.

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Perhaps closest to the misguided comparisons to Neutral Milk Hotel, ‘Goodbye To Mother And The Cove’ sounds like a cheap steel dinghy on violent waves. Ounsworth’s voice is at its most searching. It is full of heartache. Complemented by the sliding bass and melodic organ, there is a harrowing sorrow that hangs thickly over the song. Marching band snare drums enter and the harmonies grow. The waves rise and the song is gone.

The brave and sudden directional changes of Some Loud Thunder are not for the faint-hearted. These changes initially require a leap of faith. They crave fortitude and an ability to allow sorrow and beauty to unfold – rather than roasting it over hot coals in the first seven seconds. Some Loud Thunder needs your trust. It needs the type of listener who thinks of an album as an investment, not just the sixth album they’ve downloaded today.  But with patience comes great reward, as Some Loud Thunder is magnificent in scope.