No matter where you go around the world there is always a heartland of creative talent from different countries that might otherwise be lost in a sludge of electro-pop, Europap, Oz-rock and Top-20 fabrications, were it not for their independent labels and the occasional light on the broadcasting horizon (Whispering Bob; John Peel RIP) and journalistic genius from the pages of The Word.

At the ripe old age of 32 years, Cass McCombs is a North American artist, a Californian cultist, whose sound is steeped uniquely in the warm waters of the San Diego coastline, slightly redolent of a mere handful of American singer-songwriters, packed with the ideology, textural depth and poetic gentility of another era.

This is the art of song-writing sung from the soul, something that will never become the premise of that populist breed of off-the-shelf ditty-scribes that earn money for the creator but lack the spirit earned from personal experiences and observations. McCombs strength lies in his ability to present the song in its purist form, with his own innate sense of purpose and wit. Painlessly beguiling, there is a delicious simplicity to his approach that will capture your imagination and allow you to drift away on a sea of slide guitar and ‘want more’ melodiousness. ‘Catacombs’ is not a dark cave of wistfulness and bony apparitions, although it may be a play on the man’s name, but it is his fifth album and the second time that he has been released by Domino Records, a factor about which I am most pleased for him, because McCombs warrants the larger listening audience that Domino can reach.

There are eleven magical tracks on this album, each of which tells a little story that will either remind you of someone in your life or something that you may have heard. Each manages to be usefully different from the next, which suggests that ‘writer’s block’ is not a condition from which McCombs is likely to suffer. Warm harmonies, good backing and great lyricism constitute a great album that music-lovers will adore.