Though they certainly didn't intend to, the Joy Formidable have captured the trajectory of '90s alternative rock in just three albums. The Welsh trio's bravura 2011 full-length debut The Big Roar recreated the moment when underground rock crashed the mainstream with a sonic boom. It contains the band's only significant radio hit, "Whirring," and it probably could have spawned two of three more of them if it hadn't arrived at a time when the public's appetite for herculean guitar rock was at an all-time low. 2013's Wolf's Law was the group's sprawling "let's put our major label budget to use" record, the work of a band spreading their wings *Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness-*style, attempting even bigger, proggier sounds and hiring a string section just because they could. It was spottier than their debut, but no less exciting, if only because it teased the new directions that might come next.
Unfortunately, that makes their third album the disappointing realization that nothing new comes next. Hitch isn't just a retread of the band's previous work; it's a summation of all the ways the Alternative Nation has under-delivered since the new millennium. It's Billy Corgan throwing everything he has into a new album and coming up with the merely good-enough Oceania. It's the gradual realization that Dave Grohl had always been more into classic rock than he was punk. It's the Toadies securing a prime spot at Lollapalooza because they were the only reunited act of their era playing that year.
It might not be a shock to see Joy Formidable eventually fall into the same pattern of diminishing returns as their predecessors, but it still stings, because they've been one of the genre's brightest young exports. Their magnificently loud yet melodically supple vision of big-tent rock has filled a void, and on their earlier albums their blustery sound paired fabulously with singer/guitarist Ritzy Bryan's relatable songwriting. Her gargantuan riffs could make lyrics about routine personal experiences—miscommunications, slights, and romantic letdowns—sound like they were of enormous cosmic importance. And although it's never defined their image, the group also has a righteous feminist streak. Many of Bryan's songs capture the frustration of being talked over; their sheer volume served as a kind of pushback to every man who presumed to know what she's trying to say without having the consideration to actually listen to what she was saying. Alternative could use more bands like this.
But Hitch finds them in a holding pattern. "Radio Of Lips" is a virtual rewrite of the Wolf's Law lead single "This Ladder Is Ours," right down to its propulsive tempo and fluttery, caffeinated-Cure guitar riff. It could be a knock-out song, if it didn't linger for a full six and a half minutes. "The Last Thing On My Mind" dabbles in Zeppelin-y blues, but similarly outstays its welcome. Bryan's guitars have always been the band's selling point, but in such prolonged exposures they become downright numbing. The band self-recorded the album over 12 months in a self-built studio in their remote hometown Mold. They clearly spent a lot of time cooped up with these songs, and it's as if they want they listener to feel cooped up with them, too.
Wolf's Law had the proggy ambitions to justify its bloat, but Hitch's songs take much longer to do far less. Unsurprisingly, then, one of its highlights is one of its shortest. The song that most directly addresses Bryan's break-up from bassist Rhydian Dafydd—a break-up that could have easily ended a different band—"Fog (Black Windows)" has the tight focus and light bounce of one of Bossanova's torch songs. "These sheets are haunted / Not by you, but by a moment that's long gone," Bryan sings. And though she worries that "a love like you will never come again," she grasps at a silver lining: "Maybe we're not alone after all." It's a sweet moment, a woman grieving a cherished relationship, while the very ex she's singing about coos supportively in the background. Everything that comes after it feels mechanical by comparison.
It's hard hearing a band with this much raw talent pour so much into an album that rarely gets off the ground. At times it almost sounds as if they know they've taken their current sound as far as it can go and seem palpably frustrated they can't figure out their next move. Near the end of the record—well into its 67-minute runtime—there's a song called "Blowing Fire" where Bryan vents about "blowing fire for too long and getting nothing," and the line sums up the band's newfound stagnancy so aptly it's as if they're daring critics not to throw it back at them. Fire still comes easy to the Joy Formidable, but Hitch is the first time they've seemed at a loss for how to use it.
