"Every day I wake up and it's Sunday," Fran Healy exhales to begin The Man Who. This lazy day mood stretches throughout Travis' sophomore release. The tunes stay in their sweats and don't get around to showering until 5:45pm-- fifteen minutes before the pizza arrives. The tunes flip through football and golf. Healy sounds like he's spilling his soul to an empty cabin after 13 hours of sleep. Check out a daily planner, though-- Sunday has the least amount of space. This is the least productive day, yet most anticipated. Travis fulfills the musical equivalent of this basic human need for the occasionally mundane. While by no means groundbreaking, The Man Who massages with sincerity and crisp precision.
The production is cool and spacious thanks to Nigel Godrich (of OK Computer fame), and his breath can be seen slowly puffing throughout. Icicle pickings chime over jangling acoustic ballads. Elegent and deceptively simple, like unfinished furniture, the ten songs never rise to a scream, yet the trembling ambience is nonetheless smothering. Your ears will shift focus through translucent layers of sound. Godrich truly is blessed. Fran Healy sounds remarkably like a stable Thom Yorke, and songs like "The Fear" point directly to this influence, but with a more folky, tender approach. Some of his notes will make your cheeks tingle. And eminating from his lungs, the repetition of "Turn" brings goosebumps.
Travis' debut shamelessly prayed to power rock like a British Weezer, and there are still echos of that boyish glee here. Along with Weezer, Travis keep the flame of the righteous guitar solo lit while uninspired, obvious guitarists continue the Tom Pettification of this lost art and continue to piss on it. The ability to imbue solos with any sort of soul and intensity should be cherished.
On The Man Who, power comes from restraint and space. There are enough subtle flourishes buried beneath the pillowy snow to reward repeated listens-- the chimes and ominous keyboard under "As You Are," the wind in "Slide Show," and the sitar strums on the dramatic chorus to "The Last Laugh of the Laughter." The hidden track even rewards those who need to rock with bellowing choruses, gong guitars, and unnerving cymbal ticks.
British bands tend to leave a bad aftertaste with American audiences with their cognizant conceit. If anything, the raw humility of Travis is refreshing. Figures that this has still only seen release in the UK, while Gay Dad is being dumped on us from bombers.
