Of all the big British rock bands of the moment, Bloc Party are probably the guys who take themselves the most seriously. As smart people go, they're surprisingly convinced of their own capacity to say something meaningful. They're just as serious about the possibilities of grand, ambitious pop/rock. Whether it's the messianic hooks of U2, the far-reaching drama of Radiohead, or the grandiose sensitivity of Coldplay, most indie rockers approach stepping lightly and sounding self-conscious; Bloc Party come at them with a sincerity that can seem almost naïve, almost teenaged. And with music and image both totally free of the attitude we expect from young, clever bands-- there's no humor, irony, cynicism, or snot, and never a trace of cool-guy apathy-- they seem as earnest and serious-minded as seminarians or door-to-door campaign volunteers.
All of this could have led them down the path to an absolutely dreadful second album: pompous, preachy, overreaching, and still dull. But then there's the other side of their seriousness. Judging by their records, Bloc Party are awfully dedicated to the craft and the details of making this stuff: From their first songs onward, they've been cruising through big tricks with a studied ease that makes you wonder why other bands find it so difficult. If they have the demeanor of rock's teacher's pets, they have the talent and the work ethic, too-- they're attentive, conscientious, and good at what they do. And this keeps them … well, convincing.
And so when A Weekend in the City comes bursting out at you with a gaggle of second-album upgrades-- new tricks, new scope, new arrangements-- the bulk of them sound like good ideas: They've been executed by hard-working professionals. The opener has singer Kele Okerere trying on a sly, potentially embarrassing falsetto, but within a minute the band's starting to kick up dust, on its way to a chorus hook that's loose, energetic, and honestly thrilling: It's the kind of craftsmanship that would sound good coming from nearly anyone. "Hunting for Witches" fakes you out with a sample collage at the top, then takes on xenophobia in a dutiful re-take on the band's first hit, "Banquet". And then there's "Waiting for the 7:18", the best summary yet of the band's personality: unfashionably starry-eyed at the start, then running its way up to huge hooks and guitar heroism that feel a lot more fierce and weighty than you'd think. Through it all, they're upping the technical ante, too-- Matt Tong drumming tricksy rhythms alongside computer programs, Russell Lissack stepping out from between synthesizer choirs with a string of squalling guitar leads. It's darker, broader, and more desperate than their debut, and through its first half-- when they're front-loading the hooks and energy-- it's difficult to imagine what they might have done better.
Okerere's lyrics reach a lot farther, too, which both helps and hurts. Looked at line by line, there's plenty of clumsiness, and the words don't do much to dispel the band's earnest-undergraduate feel. The subject matter and the sentiments, though, are starting to shine brighter, and not on the Big Topics. A pair of rather complicated songs-- "The Prayer" and "On"-- are spent begging both drugs and the powers that be for the power to live out nightlife fantasies: "Tonight make me unstoppable/ And I will charm, I will slice/ I will dazzle them with my wit." Elsewhere, Okerere starts to sing about his own sexuality and love life: This may be the moment where the earnest undergrad, always more comfortable writing about Issues, starts learning to reveal.
But of course there's always the part where it all starts to drag. Bloc Party's sound may have a lot to do with the many bands these days that have been influenced by post-punk, but the truth is that-- sincere young men that they are-- they have none of the punk-bred skepticism or self-censorship of the average indie act. This is, without doubt, a good thing, and a nice change. But at times it really does let the band get pompous and dull: When they go wrong, it almost always comes in the form of easy drama or their visile sappy streak, two things they turn out not to be as skilled with as you'd think. Maybe it's just that the hooks aren't working, but "Uniform", the longest song on the record-- spent taking the kids to task for their "masks of cool and indifference"-- is a chore: Self-serious, schoolmarmish, convinced it's being dramatic when it's mostly just being boring. And the second half of A Weekend in the City keeps falling into similar traps: Drama that's more ponderous than ominous, and ballads that shoot for slick, sensitive pop-chart appeal, but come off fluffy, underinspired, or strangely retro-- stuff that would have felt heavy in 1995, but seems too doe-eyed and green today.
Still, one can't help but be impressed by these guys. They're a rare rock band, after all-- such skilled craftsmen that they can hang on to indie fans even as they aim, with striking earnestness, to be the kind of band who show up on "first album I ever bought" lists.
