Mayoclinic.com tells me its natural for men to experience a drastic decline in their sex drive as a consequence of aging. This is basically also what Brett Anderson tells me with the release of his first solo record. Granted, in the pantheon of Britpop-era sex gods (there's a scary visual), Anderson seemed the most impotent of the bunch; witness his now-famous quip about being a bisexual who'd never had a homosexual experience. Nonetheless, there was a time where Anderson's sexuality was his main currency, and it was powerful enough-- even in its messiness-- to provide the charge for two, maybe even three, great albums.
That ember's charcoal now, and has been for a while. Suede ended its run about three years too late, in 2002, with an absolute cannonball of a record. Optimistically titled A New Morning, it was the sound of them morphing into their own, second-rate cover band. In addition to providing just enough warmed-over guitar shapes and dutifully regurgitated SuedeWords™ with which to fill their own grave, it also cast further doubts on Anderson's waning vocal ability. Some speculated that he needed time out of Suede to get back to form; others held out for a far more unlikely scenario-- a reunion with his estranged creative partner, guitarist (and half-Gelfling) Bernard Butler.
Flash forward five years later, and both have come to pass. Unfortunately, the Anderson of old appears to have been definitively replaced by the Anderson of Old, the one whose creakier voice we forgive as the least of his crimes. Issued on the heels of Anderson and Butler's underwhelming reunion album as the Tears, this eponymous record marks the singer's first solo release, and demonstrates handily why its taken him this long to do something on his own.
Like the Tears record, this is being couched as an off-the-cuff release, less a definitive statement than a modest collection of songs. That low-stakes strategy is savvy, because on his lonesome Anderson is oppressively unimaginative. From his songwriting (verse-chorus-autopilot) to his sounds (a couple of which-- I'm looking at you, "Scorpio Rising" and "Colour of the Night"-- are demo song cheesy) to his lyrics (phoned in as ever), Anderson remains completely eluded by the alien vision that mark his own favorite records. What's worse is that the sexual vigor that used to spark those early Suede songs has been swapped out with straight lethargy; the playful guitar wriggles and flailing energy a thing of the distant past. These days, Anderson is more likely to sing haughtily and preciously about his deceased father, or about the evils of consumerism, or indeed, about nothing much at all.
Aside from a lot of filler and a few genuinely horrendous/hilarious missteps (the aforementioned anti-capitalist morality play "The More We Possess the Less We Own Ourselves" makes Anne Geddes look like a master of nuance), a few things here are worth sampling. Despite a characteristically silly lyric, "The Infinite Kiss" does a reasonable job recalling the epic, lovelorn thing that used to be Suede's stock in trade; "One Lazy Morning" is a sweet enough Sunday-morning ballad; and opening track and lead single "Love Is Dead" constitutes a nice little comeback moment. "Nothing ever flows in my life," sighs Anderson, "Love is dead." Sadly, it's the only metaphor here that works-- who knows if it was even intentional?
