Badly Drawn Boy

British music fans owe an enormous debt of gratitude to Manchester, England. The northern industrial city has during the past 25 years produced some of the finest and most influential rock and roll to come out of the United Kingdom, or indeed anywhere. It all started when the Sex Pistols played there twice in 1976, inspiring future members of the Buzzcocks, Joy Division and the Smiths, to name a few. But the first wave is long-gone, and the second wave has slowly dismantled itself during the past 10 years.\nWhich brings us to the new century. Damon Gough, aka Badly Drawn Boy, was of single-digit age when the Pistols rocked Manchester, but with his first LP The Hour of Bewilderbeast, he now stands as one of the leading lights in what the label-happy British music press have dubbed the New Acoustic Movement.\nBewilderbeast is, to use the rock-crit cliché, a "refreshingly self-assured debut," although it's really no surprise: Gough has quietly been releasing EPs in the UK for the past several years, building a buzz that eventually led to this much-heralded full-length. What really sets this record apart from recent strum-fests by Travis and Coldplay is the Boy's willingness to let it all hang out -- opener "The Shining" (fresh from a recent U.S. appearance in a Gap commercial) is all French horn, cello and classic pop melody but is quickly followed up by the edgier "Everybody's Stalking." Gough's not afraid to use loops, drum machines and distorted vocals, blending it seamlessly into the album's texture with the skill of fellow Northerners The Beta Band. \nEngland has seen some astonishing debuts in recent years, from the Betas to last year's other big Manchester success story Doves (who appear as backing band on a few tracks here). But what Gough does so well is classically British: mixing jaw-dropping hooks and melodies (see singles "Another Pearl" and "Once Around the Block") with a slightly off-kilter sensibility that ensures the music doesn't tire easily. The greasy-haired Gough refuses to play the pop star -- one typically self-deprecating lyrical image on the record has him "pissing in the wind" and "dribbling on my chin" -- but a few more rounds of music of this caliber and he's going to find it increasingly difficult to elude major glory.