Again and again on Red, Guillemots singer Fyfe Dangerfield complains that he can't get the words out. He chases the moon, tries another drink to loosen his tongue, and moans about how life would be easier "if I was half-drunk and mad." Words are failing him-- they've got a whole song about it-- and whatever he's feeling, he can't get it out. This from the singer of the effusive, vivacious, and Mercury Prize-nominated Through the Windowpane, where his falsetto wails and declarations of love could not have been less abashed. Dangerfield sang like he already was mad, as if he'd rather play the fool than miss a chance to give pleasure. How did this guy hit a wall?
The simple answer is, Dangerfield has nailed romantic drama-- but this isn't a romantic album. The band has downplayed the sprawling orchestrations-- as well as Aristazabal Hawkes's sensuous upright bass-- to build a tighter, harder, more jarring sound. They're also sharing songwriting duties between all four members. The result is a stylistic trainwreck of psych- and Brit-pop, hectoring beats and shout-alongs, and by-the-book ballads. It's a classic sophomore slump-- and a total mess.
It's not that the songs are stinkers; most are fine, and a couple are fab. But a couple of clunkers and dysfunctional sequencing brings the whole record down. "Kriss Kross" startles the listener to happy attention with slogans and thundering beats, tempered by a dazzling chorus; first single "Get Over It" takes the same strategy to even better effect, changing Dangerfield's barks from a command to an invitation. But the album goes south early with "Big Dog," an R&B nod that trips over its own machismo. And the shrill "Last Kiss" is a total non-sequitor between "Clarion" and "Cockateels", two songs that swing all the way back to the fantastical end of their spectrum.
"Clarion" is a genuine puzzler, with a drippy rainbow palette of synths and beats that pop like psychedelic gum until the only voice of reason comes from a pipa (a Chinese stringed instrument). A killer chorus props up a meandering structure that peters out into a false ending, making it ultimately unsuccessful but totally irresistible the whole way through. "Cockateels", meanwhile, has the dizzy disco effervescence of a "We're Here"-- judging by the train reference, it may even be a leftover from Windowpane-- and the keening, wordless Middle Eastern chant is the album's best hook. (It also proves how deftly they can appropriate any influence except the modern top 40.)
After that it's a slow slide downhill, as the album's wind-down crawls across four songs. To their credit, for all their leftfield ideas-- dig the sudden drum'n'bass break or the closing typewriter sample in "Don't Look Down" -- Guillemots never sound "clever." And instead of winking and laughing their way through 1970s and 80s pop and disco, Guillemots have thoroughly internalized their sources; they don't show a single ironic impulse between them. The problem isn't that the album's too strange or exotic; rather, it's too confining. Guillemots cram themselves into awkward fits, and Dangerfield has to squeeze the hardest-- whether he's tying himself to a straightforward ballad instead of clamoring for the rooftops, or standing up for a fight when he's so much more comfortable slipping into a dream. But kudos to the band for taking the half-baked idea over the easy kill every time; it's reason enough to stay tuned, even when they stumble.
