Witness the moment in which a person becomes so stupidly, overwhelmingly angry that rational thought dissolves, societal norms become meaningless, and everyone within a 15-foot radius has to very quickly decide whether the proper reaction is to guffaw through their noses or climb under a table: As innocent onlookers see-saw between sniggering into their hands and recognizing a real, imminent danger, said malcontent stomps and huffs, roars and shakes, veins popping and eyes yellowing in a ludicrous display of pumped adrenaline. This kind of dumb, excessive billowing is the single defining force behind most nu-metal, and probably the impetus for a shitload of bloody guitar solos, cymbal crashes, and ridiculous cock-rock binges. Giggle or sprint. Listen or die.
British upstarts Seachange have isolated the fiery barb behind getting retarded-mad and gently smoothed it over, crafting something decidedly more sophisticated (and satisfying) than their chubby, swashbuckling contemporaries. The glitch is that, in the process, they've also started to sound an awful lot like mid-grade Idlewild, watering everything down to a soupy mix of standard alt-rock punches, complete with post-punk guitar zaps, the occasional folk oasis, and a requisite blanket of cloudy booze-and-bummers melancholy. The confounding result: Seachange sound like the slightly better version of every mediocre band you heard eight years ago. But now with a violin!
Seachange formed in Nottingham in the late 90s, and their debut long-player, Lay of the Land, is heavy with the gummy residue of pre-millennial/post-grunge angst, alternately seething and wistful, pressing and distanced. Vocalist Dan Eastop spits typical rock and roll grunts over the band's thick guitar bleating, and his Brit clip and disaffected, vacant delivery tend to make his lyrics sound more like heckles than wishes. Guitarists Dave Gray and Adam Cormack noodle and thrash, while violinist Johanna Woodnutt weaves quivering string melodies in and out, all three players incessantly puttering between frenzied bursts and thoughtful contemplation. Meanwhile, bassist James Vyner and drummer Simon Aldcroft pump out steady rhythmic bits, ably gluing the whole mess together. The resulting clash can be momentarily compelling, but lacks the nuance and character and to really pull it off, which all leaves Seachange huddled on the cusp of something significantly worthwhile, but still a few wild, miscreant swings away.
Ultimately, Seachange's biggest problem is their steadfast refusal to break formula, even for a second: Virtually all of Lay of the Land's 12 tracks indulge the very same schematic (quiet/loud dynamics, guitar/violin tradeoffs, solid midtempo gunning), sometimes to successful ends, and sometimes not. When Seachange are good, they're very, very good-- "The Nightwatch" is a haunting, thunderous success, and "Anglokana" is a violently pleasing burst-- but when Seachange are bad, they're just boring (see the rambling songlessness of "Come on Sister").
Seachange's idea to smarten up the teeth-bared tumult of neo-dude-rock could, in the future, lead to some genuinely impressive feats. For now, though, listeners will have to content themselves with a generous handful of decently textured throwbacks. The verdict: Don't laugh, don't run. Just wait.
