Rich with falsetto, crescendo, contralto, allegro and, no doubt, pesto and alio y olio, Origin Of Symmetry is an astonishing record. In the not-so-distant past, MUSE were playing Battle Of The Bands contests in their pleasantly somnambulant hometown of Teignmouth on the Devon riviera. Now, still not a man over 23, they sound like this world can barely contain them. Billowing with classical flourishes, sci-fi imagery, post-grunge throb and a pouting sense of rock as national anthem, this record has already been equated to Queen and Nirvana duelling on the surface of some distant alien planet. Which is all pretty much accurate, with one caveat: Origin Of Symmetry is, in some ways, more heroically ludicrous than anything even Freddie Mercury dared orchestrate. It's that good. Tellingly, the three men of MUSE have previously served under such band names as Gothic Plague and Rocket Baby Dolls. Singer Matt Bellamy was born to a mum who regularly contacted departed souls via her ouija board and a dad who played on The Tornados' space race-oriented 1962 transatlantic Number 1, Telstar. Perhaps, then, we should expect the band to seek out fantastical new worlds. With this album, MUSE unashamedly pursue such trajectories.

MUSE's second album is a record where extra-terrestrial fascinations meet the classical world's more unhinged impulses. Bellamy has frequently spoken of his love for the ostentatious orchestral works of Sergey Rachmaninov and Hector Berlioz. With the former's brooding scowl and cadaverous hauteur and the way Berlioz turned his life into a Byronic epic, both these composers embody a madly impassioned classical ideal. The same neurotic aesthetic electrifies this record. Opening track and recent single New Born enters on beguiling piano arpeggios and then abruptly combusts into tight riffing, pinned down by drummer Dominic Howard and bassist Chris Wolstenholme. Add Bellamy's hysterically pitched vocals and a guitar playing Eastern scales in lightning-fast pizzicato style and the recipe becomes one of rare, Epicurean delights.
As with almost every track here, the following Bliss also incorporates those pretty, percolating piano lines. This time they're wed to some Supergrass-style chord crunches and are seemingly computer-sequenced, positioned between ATB's 9pm Till I Come and Bach's Toccata & Fugue In D Minor.

Fans of the equivocal phenomenon that is the orchestral/pop crossover will recall that John Williams's classical-rock "supergroup" Sky also had a go at this Bach composition. However, Origin Of Symmetry is safely removed from the likes of Deep Purple's Concerto For Group & Orchestra and Manowar's staggering solo-bass take on Rimsky-Korsakov's Flight Of The Bumblebee.

Instead of using their classical inclinations as an excuse for vast stretches of pomp and fluting vacuity, MUSE cram their baroque dimensions into a pop template. Admittedly, this 11-strong set of songs does occasionally hit the six-minute mark - Citizen Erased makes it to 7.24 - but the impression isn't one of self-inflation. Rather, these recordings have a brutally compacted design that bursts with ideas and compositional ability, but always brings a sense of taut pop dynamic.

The album flaunts its pop sensibility most outrageously on the former single Plug In Baby. A three-way tie between Rush, Suede and the pneumatically bouncy bassline from Air's Sexy Boy, it's a victorious compact of perverted pop science. However, such excerpts are in the minority. The more typical strategy is one of vaulting, dreadnought intensity. At first listen, the album is overpowering stuff. Micro Cuts employs a terroristic falsetto, establishing a screeching siren call like Diamanda Galas singing alongside ex-Judas Priest frontman Rob Halford.

More typical though are Space Dementia and Citizen Erased. The former fuses piano trills with pulsing rock. And, as with Citizen Erased, sees its more monolithic tendencies balanced by cloistered quietude: like the TV adverts for Hamlet cigars where Bach's soothing Air On A G String soundtracked smouldering tobacco leaves. The net result is a grandiloquent new strand of rock music: kitsch, complex and compelling. Furthering the wealth of intrigue, Space Dementia also features an innovative percussive device: the zip on Bellamy's trousers.

The comparisons with Radiohead that dogged MUSE's early career now seem all but obsolete. While Thom Yorke's Goodtime Medicine Show engineers itself an austere niche midway between Autechre and John Cale, MUSE are seemingly intent on playing immense, swelling crescendos from the top of the Matterhorn. Jeff Buckley - MUSE's other stock comparison - has a little more currency at this point, but more in terms of the out-there unearthliness of his Live At Sin mini-album than his Grace studio debut.

There are more understated moments here, though. There's the Spanish guitar and smokily atmospheric percussion of Screenager and the bits of Darkshines that sound like The Master from Doctor Who doing Jacques Brel. And there's also a cover of Anthony Newley & Leslie Bricusse's Feeling Good, a song most associated with Nina Simone. But even this is a demure concept compared to the core agenda here.
The album's only instance of modest achievement comes with the lyrics. An undistinguished rush of seething computer-age angst, they sound like a collaboration between Clive Barker and Depeche Mode. However, there is some respite. Space Dementia tackles affairs of the heart with all the soothing tristesse of a Bond villain. "I love all the dirty tricks and twisted games you play," it goes. "We'll destroy this world for you/I know you want me to."

Origin Of Symmetry closes with an imperiously sinister grand finale. A single image is suggested: the evil dominatrix Servalan from late-'70s deep space drama Blake's 7 stands on the deck of her intergalactic battlecruiser. She purrs in barely contained psycho-sexual excitement as The Liberator explodes on the horizon and arch-nemesis Blake finally meets his doom. Pleasingly, the reality of the track's creation is scarcely any less outlandish. It was played on a church organ with a statue of Jesus towering above Bellamy. It was originally called Forth & Multiply because, as Matt explains, "It was directed at God's instruction to, Go forth and multiply. What he was really saying there was, Fuck off, wasn't he?" And what title did MUSE actually settle on for this song? Megalomania - which pretty much says it all.