Middle age can be an unforgiving state, and an equally difficult subject to tackle (and deal with) in pop music. Take the opposing tracks being followed by two former members of Pulp, Jarvis Cocker and Richard Hawley. Cocker has turned into a urbane elder statesman, old enough to appreciate how great things were when he was 22 yet not close to forgoing new conquests. His recent album Further Complications pulses and grinds with the energy, insecurities, and manic wit of someone trying to charm themselves back in time. It's like a twist on Grinderman's "No Pussy Blues"-- instead of slow-building frustration from not getting any, Cocker's want is emboldened after every tryst.
Alternatively, Richard Hawley maintains wistful relationships, with women and with the past. He's resigned to let time shuffle by but never quite ready to let the past disappear, which echoes through his songs like a gentle reverb. One could assemble a walking tour of his Sheffield home from the song titles and references he works into his often-melancholy tunes. On Truelove's Gutter, the guitarist and his throwback lyrical style seem to literally fade away, hovering above a more atmospheric backdrop of drawn-out notes, rich reverb, and waves of echo made in part by obscure instruments like the cristal baschet. The gorgeous, backward-looking beauty of past releases like Coles Corner, drawn in part from details of Hawley's life in the Northern English city, has shifted toward something more dark, ambient, and withdrawn. It may be too slow for many, but it's more measured than it is mundane.
Hawley was reared on Elvis Presley, and is the son of a steelworker who played the blues-- this is heartland material, folks-- but listen to how he deals with faded beauty on "Don't Get Hung Up in Your Soul". He addresses the one-time appeal of the town not with driving rock but slow notes, pedal steel, and sad understanding, his voice cracking when he reaches for the word "baby." He even works in the phrase "darkness on the edge of town."
Consider the promises Hawley makes on "For Your Lover Give Some Time" to his sweet Helene above plaintive, gentle strings, sounding both world-weary and wise. He will maybe drink a little less, come home earlier, complain less, and watch her mend the holes in her dress. Would these bland domestic tidbits ever factor into Cocker's advances upon a young woman? But the subtle, well-timed drop of the title refrain-- "for your lover, give some time"-- and Hawley's promise to drop off flowers from the graveyard, elevates those details of a lived-in relationship with emotional resonance.
Hawley can sound too stripped down this time out, and the two songs that hover near the 10-minute mark overplay the appeal of minimal compositions and Hawley's sweet croon. An album like this, filled with longing and a bit of resignation, may be an uneasy fit for today's mood of uncertainty and diminished opportunities. Hawley's mined a specific vein of emotion for years, and it's a testament to his skill that his hyper-local focus maintains such a broad appeal.
