The Divine Comedy's Neil Hannon openly admits in interviews that he's never actually read the book his band is named after. I've always found this somewhat amusing, especially considering how literate the man is otherwise. Hell, his second album has a track that consists of nothing but him naming off great authors over a baroque arrangement, and his first ends with a Wordsworth poem put to music.
Recently divorced from the Setanta label (amicably), Hannon shows up on Parlophone with a seven-piece band (including himself), apparently ready for a change in direction. For Regeneration, Hannon more or less leaves the orchestras and superhuman wit of past offerings at the door, mostly opting to treat the Divine Comedy as a self-contained band for the first time since their disowned first album, Fanfare for the Comic Muse. Back then, the group was still a guitar/bass/drums trio on the Northern Irish club circuit.
To help realize this relatively stripped-down approach, Hannon and his newly solidified lineup called in über-producer Nigel Godrich, who at the time was fresh off helping Radiohead realize Kid A and Amnesiac. Godrich's recent work actually surfaces in quite a few places on Regeneration, though the little ambient noises and the tape-manipulated wash of sound that close "Eye of the Needle" represent the only time they really come to the fore. Those same atmospheric flourishes color the edges of much of the rest of the album, though, giving it an overall sonic unity and depth that works well in the absence of the usual soundwall present on Divine Comedy records.
The album opens with one of Hannon's reliably depressing musings on life and time, entitled "Timestretched." "There's not enough hours in the day to say all that I want to say," he sings, later offering that "there's not enough lines on the stave to capture the music I crave." His distinctive low baritone sounds as good as ever, and throughout most of the album, he remains considerably more reserved in his delivery than he ever used to, steering clear of the manic yelling of "Charge" or the cheeky operatics of "Sweden." On the one hand, this aids the low-key subject matter he's dealing with here, but on the other, it makes for a rather less interesting listen.
That said, there's not a bad song to be found anywhere on this disc, and it remains engaging for nearly its entire duration, only falling into the background in a few isolated spots. Mostly, though, there's gold a-plenty to be mined from a song like "Perfect Lovesong," which comes close to making good on its title. "Give me your love and I'll give you the perfect lovesong/ With a divine Beatles bassline and a big old Beach Boys sound," he proposes, just as Joby Talbot launches a recorder countermelody sweet enough for "Sloop John B." It's matched by understated glockenspiel and echoing auxiliary percussion, all on top of a loping, easy-going beat that makes it hard not to bob your head.
"Note to Self" follows with slinking guitars and a steady beat before breaking into the crashing bridge, where Hannon cries out "what the fuck is happening?" like he really doesn't know. "Monday/ Restate my assumptions/ Heaven and Hell do not exist," go the song's opening lines, and the band does a fine job of echoing that uneasy sentiment with the music. The mix is densely layered, and multiple listens reveal small blasts of feedback, squirming keyboards and other disconcerting noises which, buried throughout the song, heighten anxiety with their subtle presence.
"Lost Property" plays with imagery, naming off raincoats, tennis rackets, and other lost objects as a metaphor for the passage of time and moments that really matter to us over arpeggiating piano and a subtle string arrangement. The aforementioned "Eye of the Needle" follows, with Stuart Bates' treated trombone blending with electronic effects for an unusual background texture. Hannon reels off some great imagery and commentary with lines like, "The cars in the churchyard/ Are shiny and German/ Distinctly at odds with/ The theme of the sermon." The song's Spartan arrangement and placement in the middle of the album work together to provide some needed variety and segues perfectly into "Love What You Do," the album's most obvious single. The verses are doused in glockenspiel and well-blended synth and recorder, while the chorus positively soars on electric piano ostinatos and fluid bass.
The rest of the album is characterized by somewhat colder textures, like the guitars that don't really sound like guitars on the chorus of "Dumb It Down" and the meandering piano on "Mastermind." The second verse of "Dumb It Down" bends and warps with post-production effects, a surprisingly avant-garde move that works quite well. "Mastermind" is subdued and largely acoustic, aside from sonar-like sound effects. Hannon ends it with the line, "All the dreams that we have had are gonna prove that we're all mad/ And that's okay."
The title track gets even chillier on the verses, with icy piano and hushed vocals, and even refuses to warm up when Ivor Talbot's guitar rips it open for the two bridges. "The Beauty Regime" closes things off on a warmer note, with its 70s R&B-influenced; rhythm section and ultimately inspirational message. Hannon tears into the plethora of modern image-oriented magazines that clog the shelves these days, exhorting the listener to forget everything they've read there and just live life. It's strange how such a ridiculous cliche manages to sound convincing coming at the end of an album like this. The thing is, no matter what he says, Hannon sounds utterly sincere, and that's what really drives his message home.
In the end, Regeneration turns out to be a validating listen, much like the Divine Comedy's past efforts. It's certainly a lot less melodramatic, and that's both a strength and a weakness. The music is great, and the honesty is refreshing, but sometimes I miss the old Hannon-- insecure, but brash nonetheless, and witty as hell. The past aside, Regeneration delivers, and often brilliantly. Dante would be proud, even if Hannon still hasn't read his book.
