Dropping two albums in as many years isn't the industrious workload it used to be, but then again, it's a refreshing show of vigor for a band that didn't look like it was going to make it past 2003. The underrated but undeniably sullen 12 Memories documented Travis wrestling with capital-I issues personal and political, both which could be were manifested in Fran Healey's decision to wear a beret. But last year, the foursome wisely eschewed Anton Corbijn's artwork and video direction and welcomed Nigel Godrich (and their old font) back into the fold with a comeback-via-throwback, and the warm reception of The Boy With No Name likely has inspired Travis to go back even further into their history with its quick follow-up-- namely, the first song on their first record: "All I Wanna Do Is Rock".
And while Ode to J. Smith was probably the most fun record for the band to make since Good Feeling, it's also the worst one since then-- and its problems are almost exactly the same. Travis aren't the kind of band you spend a lot of time trying to wrap your mindgrapes around ("If we turn/ We might learn/ Learn to turn") and they don't hit at a gut level viscerally. Their best songs tend to go for the spaces in between, the heart, the lump in your throat. Or, more succinctly, Travis don't rock, which is why all the newfangled additions, the edgeless distortion and feedback, the aggressive lyrical themes, the forceful vocal lines, the constipated boogie tempos that are supposed to justify the turgid melodies, are so easily peeled away to reveal sadly generic cores.
If the retreat into simplicity is to be expected from a band that pretty much answers to itself at this point (J. Smith is the first release on their Red Telephone Box label), the decision to self-produce follows as well, but what Godrich understood is that Travis does wide-screen better than high-rise, and as such, a lot of the more immediate songs buckle under the weight of failed experimentation. "Get Up" and "Something Anything" feature Healey retreating from the painfully overt politicking of 12 Memories, pining for a general faith and assertiveness, but they come off more as mere sketched vehicles for clicky desktop drumming and an out-of-nowhere Slash turn, respectively. At least the latter has a hook that could've been a contender if it didn't wear out its welcome. And then there's first single "J. Smith", which is emblematic of where the record fails: It so obviously wants to be the biggest thing Travis has ever done, tacking on piercing guitar bends and an Arcade Fire choir, and each new trick is stitched together by verses of dithering modesty. There are reasons the bands Travis seek to match often find themselves described as "unapologetic."
I suppose it's defeatist to use The Man Who as a comparison-- especially since Travis went so obviously out of their way to make J. Smith sound nothing like it. But trying to forge a new identity doesn't necessarily mean working against your strengths: It's no shock that the most memorable tune here, "Quite Free", features a longing "Knives Out" vocal line. It's understandable that these guys are seeking an escape hatch from competing with Keane, Snow Patrol, and Coldplay, considering that they've spent the past seven years making writers rue those "next Radiohead!" plaudits. But one Stereophonics is more than enough.
