When Grandaddy were carving out cult status for themselves with The Sophtware Slump in 2000, it somewhat passed me by. That year, my attention was drawn to the albums of PJ Harvey, Radiohead, Ryan Adams and the angular energy of At The Drive In. Whereas that was probably an oversight on my behalf, I’m not going to beat myself up, as it means that I’m able to approach Last Place without prior conceptions over how it rates against previous Grandaddy material. That said, I will now certainly be trawling the back catalogue, as Last Place is a compelling piece of work.

Opener ‘Way We Won’t’ is a triumphant return with a unique introduction – jittery but engaging; setting up the verse nicely for a big, round and warm sound that slowly shifts through the gears and wraps itself around you like a vintage fur coat – funky smells and all. Its lyrics has Jason Lytle (Grandaddy’s main man) struggling with contradictions. Is he talking about Grandaddy’s return or – like much of the subject matter on this record – his recent divorce?

“Damned if we do / Dumb if we don’t”.

The song fairly chugs along, but the outro is like a big release of joy – fluttering synths and wailing guitars feel like the song is breathing a huge sigh of relief – Grandaddy are back – and they’ve still got it.

‘Brush With The Wild’ follows on; it is similarly mid-tempo, fuzzy and nestles on a big blanket of sound. There are subtleties in the production that keep a straight-down-the-line vibe interesting throughout, and well-observed dips and peaks in the dynamics of the song fuel its momentum. It’s a song of nostalgia and remorse, missing a complex relationship now lost.

“We had a thing whatever it’s called/
And you were a dream, and I was a concrete wall/
There’s a fox in the snow, alone by a fence/
But the fence’s too tall and it’s making me all depressed.”

‘Evermore’ completes a strong opening threesome with trippy sci-fi synths underpinning a dark groove that complements the gloominess of the lyrics. Lytle is dragging over the embers of a broken relationship, trying to find meaning in it all:

“Evermore, gone but not forgotten / Anyway there’s more/
Evermore, lost but not for nothing / Here, but then what for?”

‘Oh She Deleter :(’ works effectively as a signpost – the Moog-led incidental instrumental serves to introduce more experimental cuts, such as ‘The Boat Is In The Barn’ – a plucky, polka-infused number that can’t hide its sadness, and ‘Chek Injin’ with a chorus that sounds like a cross between a panic attack and someone trying to turn over the engine of an ancient Ford pickup.

Whereas there’s perhaps not an explicit darkness to those songs, there’s certainly an air of menace. However, by the time ‘That’s What You Get For Gettin’ Outta Bed’ is introduced, the album definitely takes a turn towards the morose. It’s a plaintive, sad song: sad chord progression, sad strings, sad accordion. Sad, sad lyrics:

“That's what you get for gettin' outta bed / Warming up your heart, and clearing out your head/
Now here's your song, I think I wrote it wrong / I guess that's what you get/
That's what you get for gettin' outta bed.”

It marks a significant change of mood in the album and is followed by ‘This Is The Part’. Much like ‘That’s What You Get…’, it is overtly melancholic with weeping strings, a sagging bassline and relentlessly miserable lyrics where the song is bookended by:

“This is the part that shouldn't had been hard / Where there is peace/
You will not find me.”

Penultimate track ‘A Lost Machine’ provides one of the strongest cuts. Like Queen on Prozac, there’s a touch of pomp, a hint of opera, a sprinkle of pizzazz. It’s a delicious soup of contrary ideas and emotions, lifting the metaphor beyond the lyrics and into the song’s spirit, or in this case, its Holy Ghost.

‘Songbird Son’ is a traditional folk song to finish the album. There’s an intimacy to the performance which is magnified by its contrast to the significant layers of noise prevalent in the rest of the album. The analogue randomness in its instrumental section sounds like Lytle is gently taking off and moving away from the carnage of his divorce, moving on to a brighter future. The chorus sweetly resolves itself with “la la las” offering lightness of touch but also a softening of tone, taking the listener from a particularly dark succession of songs to a gentler, safer, cosier place. It feels like Lytle has worked the blackness out of his system and is happily moving onto something sunnier.

Adam Atkins