You put in hours, if not years, trying to be the most objective, astute listener possible, but all that self-knowledge leads you to realize is that, yes, you're still a total sucker. I don't know what your weakness is, but my ownership of nearly every bit of recorded Cure and Smashing Pumpkins doesn't lie: If I hear a song begin with nothing more than a churning, melodic bassline and anticipatory drum rumble, I'm defenseless. In that sense, 2:54 are "my type." The London duo's earliest singles suggested a band whose repertoire begins and ends with the Cure's "Burn", and even if "You're Early" and "Cold Front" felt much longer on smart stylistic choices than songwriting chops, the sound was so fully formed that you could expect their confidence to truly manifest itself once they knew people were paying attention. But even with transatlantic indie titans Fiction and Fat Possum behind their debut, I'm hard-pressed to find a song that's more interesting at its three-minute mark than it is after 10 seconds: 2:54 exposes a band that knows how to make a good first impression but not a lasting one.
Isn't that part of their job description, though? There's nothing really unfamiliar about the smoky, gothic moods set on 2:54, especially if you've listened to a School of Seven Bells, Ladytron, or even a Garbage record beyond the singles (and though no fault of its own, 2:54 is actually competing with a new Garbage record in real time). They fit comfortably within the lineage of those bands whose charms are unfairly reduced to some sort of ice-queen fantasy, unerringly poised vocals all the more seductive for their congruence with steady, propulsive, and polished beats. This ignores the songcraft, ambition, or lyrical personality that distinguish any of the above from, well, bands like 2:54 whose dispassion sounds like a genetic defect rather than an artistic response to consumer culture, emotional intransigence, or unsatisfactory lovers.
"Revolving" and "You're Early" lead off 2:54 and maintain the promise of the group's initial singles, writhing with coiled tension and implied spiritual yearning with just enough vocal interplay between the Thurlow sisters to verify humanity behind their 10-yard stare. These are typically the kind of songs sequenced as a ramp-up to the moment of pure melodic release, but from there on out, 2:54 sounds drained, of blood, of color, of the vitality that could jar it out of its midtempo yawn. Is it any surprise that the Cure song their additional backmasked and reverbed studio tricks are outsourced from is "Prayers for Rain"? And even though the serpentine "Scarlet" has the record's most insistent melody, as someone whose previous weakness was glammed-up British rock from the 1990s, I'm more interested in deciphering whether Mansun, Space, or Spacehog used it first. It could've been all of them.
But as the second half trudges to beats every bit basic and interchangeable as the monomer titles, "Scarlet" becomes something of a highlight. Guitars drone and eddy in gray pools of dishwater; Collette and Hannah Thurlow's vocals simply nudge at their surroundings, incapable of relaying any relatable emotion, let alone enthusiasm. Forget considering the nuts and bolts of the songwriting, the cold and drab production of Rob Ellis and Alan Moulder, or the stiff melodies, and ask yourself, after hearing "Creeping" or "Ride", can you envision the Thurlow sisters leaving the studio upon their completion truly excited about what they just laid to tape? Can you picture a roomful of Fiction execs leaping out of their chairs upon hearing a band worthy of getting office correspondence on the same letterhead as the Cure? "Play it cool," "leave them wanting more," these are the sort of things you hear from huckster pickup artists, and it's often a good strategy for a band's debut, but 2:54 ultimately makes a fine distinction between sounding effortless and sounding like you couldn't be bothered to put any actual effort in.
