Inspiral Carpets hall from Manchester, England, birthplace of the much-heralded psychedelic-dancemusic scene that British pundits are pronouncing dead even as America is just beginning to fully absorb the belated hype. On their first album, Life, from 1990, the Inspirals zipped through a hardy batch of danceable, catchy pop tunes; the linchpin of the songs was Clint Boon's cheesy-breezy organ, the prototype for which could be heard on dozens of Farfisa-fueled Sixties garage singles. If it wasn't a particularly original formula, at least the band had a dependable feel for a good groove and the ability to construct concise, modern-sounding nuggets for current consumption.

The Inspirals have since all but disowned Life, having decided they now have "something to say." While the lineup and instrumentation (bass, drums, guitar, organ) remain the same, the group now sounds like its fondest dream is to become a synthpop unit. Goodbye Strawberry Alarm Clock, hello Depeche Mode.

Not surprisingly, the best songs on The Beast Inside are those that recall the spirit of Life. "Grip" starts off with an insistent bass line, adds some gnarly guitar and organ and gallops madly toward the album's most transcendent chorus. "Further Away" would have been great at three minutes but drags on and on, its extended, organ-dominated raveup recalling the leaden extrapolations of Iron Butterfly. (Remember the long version of "In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida"?)

Boon's stately, cathedrallike organ almost rescues the moody dreamscape "Niagara." But too much of the album is ruined by some appallingly pretentious arrangements. And the lyrics are often just plain silly. "Yes, a man is no man if he doesn't have the beast inside," croons singer Tom Hingley on the title track, as if he's just discovered the delights of mid-Seventies Genesis, while the tepid-sounding "Please Be Cruel" purports to be a treatise on sadomasochism.

Inspiral Carpets are hardly the first band for which the pursuit of artistic maturity has proved disastrous. Still, the boys play well, and you can still dance to 'em – sometimes. For their crimes, I'd recommend ninety days in the garage, with time off for bad behavior. (RS 610)

TOM SINCLAIR