At March's SXSW festival, the Charlatans UK (as they've been known in the U.S. for more than a decade) were as ubiquitous as baked beans and tongue-staining energy drinks. While fellow Manchester vet Morrissey zipped in and out of town for a single showcase set, the Charlatans popped up on bill after bill and at party after party, like they had something to prove-- because, even after 16 years and nine albums, they do. The Charlatans survived Madchester, they've survived Britpop, and they've even survived their Madchester/Britpop-survivor phase. Now, with a whole new generation of north-country boys adopting Tim Burgess' streetwise sneer, it would appear to be high time to step up and kick those Monkeys back to the polar ice cap.
But then the Charlatans have always been a touch too well-behaved for such antagonistic displays. As impressive as their SXSW stamina was, on Simpatico, the Charlies just sound like they'd prefer to sit on their asses and listen to dub records all day. Like most Charlatans albums, Simpatico begins big: "Blackened Blue" is an IMAX-sized pomp-rocker that rides the sort of urgent piano riff used to introduce Olympic athletes in opening-ceremony telecasts. Burgess promises "there won't be a dry eye in the house," but the dramatic entrance is quickly undermined by the "Apache"-grooved "NYC (There's No Need to Stop)", which is regrettable for a) Being yet another song by a British band romanticizing Big Apple bustle, and b) Coming off like EMF having their way with the Clash's "Magnificent Seven".
"NYC" at least projects a youthful exuberance that's nowhere to be heard on the rest of the overly measured Simpatico, which could be called the Charlatans' "Jamaican" album, in as much as 1999's Us and Us Only was their "Dylan album" and 2001's Wonderland was their "Studio 54-era Stones album." Like My Morning Jacket on Z, the best moments here-- the dirty grind of "Dead Man's Eye", the late-night romanticism of "When the Lights Go Out in London"-- are more informed by reggae's clipped cadence and suggestion of open space than its regional accent. But far too many tracks here opt for atmosphere over impact: In particular, the interchangeable dubwise ballads-- "City of the Dead", "Road to Paradise", and "The Architect"-- veer perilously into a Club Med cocktail-hour circa 1984, with non-threatening staccato-guitar jabs, piano/synth lines clinking like champagne glasses and Burgess' usually endearing observations obscured by noncommittal attempts at patois and overuse of the word "paradise." It took the Charlies years to shake off the baggy-pants crowd-- do they really want to contend with the hacky-sackers?
