The story of Doves puts lie to the old adage that "it's all about the music, man." Because if it really were all about the music, Jez and Andy Williams would be the most famous brothers to come out of Manchester, Jimi Goodwin would be the go-to Britpop duet partner for Jay-Z and Kanye, and all those "Viva La Vida" ringtones you hear going off at Urban Outfitters would be replaced by a digitized symphony of Doves' "Black and White Town".
But as their back-story includes no tabloid-baiting tales of fraternal fisticuffs or marriages to Hollywood starlets, Doves could be the most unassuming, unsung band to have scored back-to-back UK No. 1 album debuts; on North American shores, their ascent has been somewhat hampered by the fact that their opening bands (the Strokes in 2001, the Rapture in 2002) have blown up bigger than the headliner. And unless one of the Doves starts dating Jennifer Aniston anytime soon, it's unlikely that Kingdom of Rust will radically change their stature. Rather, Doves' fourth album is another sterling example of why the Doves should be household names and why they probably won't ever be: their unwavering flair for producing mountainous, Wembley-worthy pop anthems that are nonetheless invested with a palpable degree of grace and humility.
While the past decade has seen the indie kids go dance and the dance kids go indie, Doves' 1998 formation was ironically predicated on an abrupt, 180-degree break from their former house-production guise as Sub Sub, absconding rhythmic propulsion for a space-rock sway. But more than any previous Doves album, Kingdom of Rust is built for motion and acceleration, leading its songs to unexpected and often exhilarating highs: Slow-percolating opener "Jetstream" counts down to lift-off with a hi-hat-triggered techno bed track that gradually intensifies into a tremorous, tribal clatter; "The Outsiders" blasts potholes into the Autobahn with a brawny Krautrock beat. Even when the band seemingly reverts to its familiar astral balladry on "10:03", the reprieve is short-lived-- Goodwin's sweet, moonlit serenade is eventually upended by a creepy chorus of ghostly voices, launching a psych-rock eruption that suddenly transforms the song from Kingdom of Rust's most elegiac moment into its most unsettling one.
Perhaps this restlessness is indicative of certain frustration on Doves' part in seeing their efforts eclipsed by less imaginative, more mawkish Britpop bands, and in turn, a desire to distance themselves from the sad-sack pack; it's hard to imagine the likes of Elbow turning in something quite as fierce and paranoid as "House of Mirrors", a fuzz-soaked stomper punctuated by jarring, bump-in-the-night sound effects. For a band whose Allmusic.com descriptor list includes the terms "earnest," "reflective," and "lush," Doves are just as effective at being aggressive, to the point where Kingdom of Rust's serene turns feel more listless than usual: the dark, orchestral manoeuvre "Birds Flew Backwards" exposes the limitations of Goodwin's haggard voice, while "Spellbound" feels like an echo of previous capsized lullabies like "Sea Song"..
But then some tricks are worth repeating: Doves' most enduring and admirable quality-- from 2000's "The Cedar Room" to 2002's "There Goes the Fear" to 2005's "Black and White Town"-- has been their ability to render everyday urbanity in joyful, fantastical form, and to this canon we can add Kingdom of Rust's "Winter Hill", a paean to innocent, hand-held romance sent skyward on a pillow of Spiritualized swirls. It's just the sort of song that should earn Doves a return appearance to the UK top 10, but such an accomplishment is ultimately a moot point for these guys: They don't need high chart placements to make them feel like they're on top of the world.
