Like most people, I hate being bored. I'm shackled to whim, a slave to fancy, perpetually impatient, high strung, and terrified of tedium. As a makeshift cure, I've developed an attention span that rivals a hyperactive prepubescent Christian Scientist. It's not ideal, but at least I'm occupied most of the time. Of course, the key word there is "most." Snags are hit every time I'm forced to stand in hellish lines, endure overlong anecdotes from friends and strangers alike, and withstand multiple listens of records I would otherwise turn off before the first track was finished.
Alpha's sophomore album, The Impossible Thrill, is emblematic of the latter example. If having to write about Bristolian trip-hop is taxing, having to listen to it enough to get to that step is brutal-- especially when the material in question makes unintentional strides toward epitomizing dullness.
By bombarding the listener with innocuousness, Alpha forge a test to determine exactly when the pedestrian becomes excruciating. By the third track, they more or less have their answer. The Impossible Thrill is so pig-headed in its goal to evoke mood that conventions like variation, song structure and memorable songwriting are completely forgone.
The album's redundancy is particularly inappropriate because of its premise. Instead of continuing on a beat-heavy, electronic path to atmosphere, Alpha employ mostly live instrumentation to augment the rich, bluesy arrangements. Layers of strings glaze the songs, and are heavily depended upon to set the dour, spacy tone. The Impossible Thrill sifts through the constituents of pop trip-hop, exploits its darkness, and ultimately lacks any semblance of groove. A song stringed as manipulatively as "Dim" plays like a reject Blaxploitation theme. And, when the occasional dank beat from a drum machine does pop up, like on "South," it only retreads the same sterile fare we've heard a million times before from artists like Hooverphonic and Morcheeba.
The vocalists on the record, Helen White, Wendy Stubbs, and Martin Barnard, only contribute to the drabness. The interchangeable White and Stubbs both exhibit the conviction of mumbling somnambulists. Though aiming to recall a more drugged-out Beth Gibbons, the two never muster anything greater than "wispy." Barnard's approach is more affected, but just as unmoving. With the vocals low in the mix, it's hard to hear exactly what he's (seemingly) complaining about. And, when the rest of the content is taken into account, it's even harder to care.
The Impossible Thrill is utterly pedestrian and overwrought. Though the songs are mostly composed gracefully, with each part impeccably interlocking, this ultimately can't erase the record's inherent mundaneness. But at least the album lives up to its name; with the knowledge that the thrill is indeed unattainable, it's clear that adventure is best sought in virtually any other outlet.
