The saga of the 1975 is odd and protracted: Once upon a time, in 2011, there was a perfect Jimmy Eat World mall-emo anthem called “Sex” by a Manchester band called the Slowdown. The black-and-white video showed four telegenic people with perfect haircuts performing near a carefully placed Johnny Cash poster, clearly a month or two away from fulfilling their destiny on the cover of several American magazines.
Except that never happened, and, in fact, it seemed that someone had made a number of mistakes—the band may have actually once been called Drive Like I Do, or maybe the Big Sleep, and in fact already might not be called the Slowdown anymore. Anyway, they disappeared immediately—their SoundCloud, their Bandcamp, and even that video came down unceremoniously, all before they had even begun to assume their rightful one-hit wonder status.
A couple years later, we find ourselves facing a complete reboot. Hi, we’re the 1975, and this is our brand-new song “Sex,” this same group of people are now telling us. To which we can only shrug, and say: OK, guys. Emerging from this long, bewildering gestation, they now have the overcompensating brio of a band that is making its first impression for the second time—their band name, album name, and first song are all “The 1975.” “Sex” has even been completely re-recorded and given a new, fumbling-teenagers-in-lust video treatment.
They’ve also retooled their sound. In this incarnation, they have stepped away from third-wave emo and aim for the gleaming, modular synth rock of Wolfgang-era Phoenix and M83’s Hurry Up, We’re Dreaming, which ironically makes them less distinctive now than it would have in 2010. Produced by Mike Crossey, who has worked with Arctic Monkeys and Two Door Cinema Club, their spit-polished full-length is a throwback to the sort of CD-era pop rock album everyone remembers buying at least once: the one with the re-recorded single surrounded mostly by less-developed, vaguely similar stuff.
There are still a handful of serviceable pop-rock singles: “The City,” built on a big, blocky drum loop, has a bit of the forlorn romanticism of Bloc Party circa “I Still Remember.” “Heart Out” opens with a ringing synth figure, punctuated with “hey!”s, that feels like a built-to-scale replica of M83’s “Midnight City.” Matthew Healy’s pinched vocals hit that ice-cream-headache sweet spot between pretty-boy quaver and adenoidal yelp, and the version of “cool” he seems to be gesturing towards feels endearingly carbon-dated and translated from a few different languages into English. There is a lot of overt leering in their lyrics, but no sex or grease or danger anywhere in the music, even on “Sex,” which is here and is still their best song by miles.
The song, along with precious few others on The 1975, boasts a secret weapon sorely missing elsewhere: a middle eight. For such a pop-oriented band, the 1975’s songwriting has turned out remarkably stiff, cloistered, and unimaginative. The production, which is glistening and brilliant, usually points to what the band might have accomplished with more sophisticated chops: The skipping synths and handclaps that open “M.O.N.E.Y.,” or the itchy guitar figure fidgeting near a blocky drum beat in “Talk!,” work up a gently caffeinated fizz. But the songs zip along the tight lines established by their opening seconds and refuse to budge, not a bridge in sight for miles. The fizz fades quickly, and the effect, over the course of the album, is a little like a promising new band introducing and re-re-introducing itself to you. There is some value in figuring out what to say next.
