Despite such sci-fi loner trappings, there's nothing self-pitying about Lytle's alienation, so ignore that facile "American Radiohead" tag that's been slapped like a "kick me" sign on Grandaddy's collective rump. Like Modest Mouse, Grandaddy march to a beat of quiet desperation keyed in to the rhythms of the fading suburbs. In the post-hardcore Eighties, those plastic outposts were something to be railed against, empty green expanses of privilege. But just as the alt-rock expressway has paved indie's main street, so the wages of sprawl have rerouted the suburban idyll. Now you can shout out your bedroom window all you want. With windows rolled up, no one on the freeway can hear you anyhow. Best you can do is play these discs loud and hope for an echo.