With tickling slo-mo beats and smooth hushed vocals 'Dry Cleaning Ray' saunters along cleverly and seedily, only breaking its stride when the Muslimgauze mix of Punished For Being Born kicks and screams its way onto the scene. Alluring and strangely mystical, No-Man have forged a valued link between dance and rock that will unfortunately probably go unappreciated until Charlton Heston discovers a subsided Statue Of Liberty."
- Stevo, GIG CENTRAL

"For those who did stay, the story continues. While Ray may be doomed to spin in ever-decreasing circles, 'Dry Cleaning Ray' itself has spawned a second album: 'Wild Opera's hidden twin (part remixes, part companion songs) as revealed by a deep, dark distorting mirror. More diffuse than 'Wild Opera', and less coherent, it pushes restlessly at the pop envelope, anticipating perhaps the quibbles of those who might consider that for all their experimental claims, No-Man float too close to the mainstream. For those people, then, the high-speed aural beat-surgery of Punished For Being Born (a mass of conflicting planes of percussion and pings; a reinvention of Housewives... perpetrated by the enigmatic and uncompromising Muslimgauze) and the dark dub remix Diet Mothers (in which Pretty Genius sets sail on an isolated channel redolent with ghosts). Or, for more blissed moments, the delirious slow-motion loop-the-loop of Kightlinger - a blunted, heavy-eyed blat of snare, sticky contrails of guitar, and eerie falsetto croons and syllables from Tim breaking through Steven's swimmy sonic hallucinogens.

Songwise, things seem more relaxed, more playful, though their mordant, brilliantly melodramatic cover of Serge Gainsbourg's Evelyn (Song Of Slurs) - a pungent, quarrelsome dialogue between two lovers utterly devoid of mutual understanding - suggests that their sense of humour is as dark as ever. Sweetside Silver Night could be an ironic, panther-languorous sideswipe at Britpop, assembling seamless modern pop out of a web of classic-sounding rock samples, while Tim airily sings "The road to hell is paved with the souls of failed old singers, / the wild wild eyes, the non-stop whys, the dreadful songs they bring us. / Their get-up-and-go makes me lie down and die, / their pug-ugly din makes the little ones cry..." while simultaneously defending subtler ways of songcraft ("It's in the colour of her hair... / It's in the way she never cares..."). But the spirit of desperation prevalent on 'Wild Opera' still breaks through. Urban Disco's electric swamp of dancefloor sounds and Fripp soundscape samples is populated by no-marks smoking and shagging their way towards oblivion, turning their backs on the world outside, denying involvement and attempting to blot out conscience: "You wonder what's inside of you, you keep yourself well-fed, / but every time you try to speak, real life gets in your head." The showbiz icon portrayed in the guitar-heavy Jack The Sax (slap-and-drag acoustics, filthy trawling electrics) is coming apart at the seams, trapped in a chilly landscape of lonely hotel bedrooms and phone-booths.

The keystone of 'Dry Cleaning Ray' is the closer, Sicknote - nine minutes of suppressed Will-Oldham-meets-Talk-Talk-in-hell psychotic horror. A sub-bassy, volcanic rumble; a funereal pace; musical boxes pursuing a damaged, atonal melody; a lone contused guitar spilling out stark bluesy lines or splurges of screaming datafuck. A dry, stricken vocal from Tim, going from daze to keening to dispossessed whisper. An impenetrable lyric of dazzle and dystopia. It's like watching, through slowly darkening glass, someone turn their back and walk away for the last time..."
- Dann Chinn, MISFIT CITY

"Swirling poptastic keyboards and a simplistic backbeat of drums and bass see No-Man launch into the daydreamy title track of this fine LP. Quirky, satirical, emotional and dramatic. Some of it sounds a bit like Prefab Sprout, some of it's trip-hop, and some of it makes you want to swing your head like a nodding dog on the back shelf of a car. So it's nice and varied. "
- unknown reviewer, UNDERGROOVE

"This is a strange kettle of fish. Why anyone would want to write a song about their dry cleaner, let alone name their album after him, is beyond me. Dry Cleaning Ray is a laid-back, easy listening song, whereas Jack The Sax is creepy, intense for a song with just vocal and acoustic guitar, with just a hint of keyboards. The lyrics could have been written by Tom Waits. From then on it gets weirder, with loops, samples and synths producing a trippy, slow, trancey effect. Muslimgauze mixed one of the songs, it shows. The album gets spacier and stranger, it's as if the band discovered acid and effects pedals halfway through. I think I'd need to be spaced out of my face to really get into this."
- unknown reviewer, FULL MOON

"I always start to review records like this with some pessimistic expectations already in tow, but that's just my nature I suppose. I just don't think I can really review this sensibly as it's the kind of music I really hate and would never listen to in ordinary life, but basically it's got wimpy vocals, "glistening" keyboards and the odd guitar piece. File under "use as backing music on 'Cracker'"..."
- unknown reviewer, MAD MONKS MAGAZINES

"More proof that life is just so unfair. Back in their early days No-Man were part of something beautiful that happened in the lives of the few of us who allow lovely pop music to straddle our bodies. Their 'Loveblows & Lovecries' LP... the track Lovecry... that gtr/violin/whatever which mwaaaahs away so deliciously towards the end... the most perfect 60 seconds in music? Their 'Flowermouth' album was perfect in a different way - maybe too perfect. Its first seven tracks... blub. But a group must get disheartened when they release such tune-dense music and no-one buys. No-Man grew exasperated and started filling the studio with horrible electric gtr shite, which reduced them to being legends in their own lavatories. Tim and Steven, babes, you've just gotta accept that the world doesn't want/understand beauty. They want the lottery and Oasis and malls and tattiness. Let them fuck themselves between the thighs, the sheets, any way they can, just to forget that they're alive. No-Man are returning. Three tracks of loveliness (1,2, and 7) on this not-recommended mini-album. And some of the worst Genesis-do-their-wibbly-bit stretches of the year. It's not No-Man's fault. It's the Great British Public's."
- Simon, D.D.D.

"Tim Bowness and Steven Wilson steer through urban south-east London, in search of the new cabaret, locating it in the most unlikely places. The twitching-curtain pop of 'Diet Mothers' and the slippery grooves on 'Evelyn (The Song Of Slurs)' display real ambition, but the sensual angst of 'Sicknote' is something else again."
- Max Bell, LONDON EVENING STANDARD

IO PAGES
- in preparation