Joy Division weren't exactly a laugh riot back in their day, and if Editors do anything to distinguish themselves from the numerous JD acolytes that emerged in the middle of this decade, it's that they actively push an image of being the least fun band of the bunch. Nevertheless, their 2005 debut The Back Room had singles like "Blood" and "Munich" that were tightly-coiled enough to honor their post-punk influences while being hooky enough to serve as a good entry-level primer. But like so many of their peers (I'm looking at you, British Sea Power), by album two they didn't let loose so much as get bloated, showing the smug healing powers of victory lap-era U2 without the years of artistic restlessness that earned it. Nonetheless, they play stadiums, so they're hardly the most likely candidates to do a complete about-face this far in. So give 'em credit here for going a long way towards dismantling what we've come to know about Editors. Chris Urbanowicz's windy tremolo riffs are mostly forsaken in favor of defiantly sterile washes of synths, the itchy 16th-note hi-hats are replaced by ticky-tack drum machines, and bass is now a lead instrument. Thanks to Flood's production, In This Light and on This Evening is still arena-aspiring in a early-1980s Depeche Mode sort of way, despite the emphasis on relatively primitive electronics.
But with Tom Smith out front, it's like an early-80s Depeche Mode where "Master and Servant" is a turgid dirge about oppressive shadow governments and the hopes they squash. While we're on the subject of servitude, no matter what goes on behind him, every song is at the mercy of Smith. He's always sounded like a karaoke rendering of "Atrocity Exhibition", but more than ever, his delivery is imbued with a mojo risin' camp which only goes to emphasize lyrics that fall apart under the slightest bit of scrutiny. Which I guess is something of a gift: not everyone delivers your rebellious 15-year old cousin's next Facebook status-- "living out our second-hand clichés"-- completely straightfaced like Smith does on "Like Treasure".
I could spend the rest of this review dropping jewels from "You Don't Know Love", but I key on the kick Smith gives the line "you were the truth... when you lied," a convenient summary of the dominant themes of portent and nonsense. The queasy intro of "The Big Exit" sounds promising enough in its willingness to imbue dissonance to In This Light's otherwise hermetic sound, but midway through, Smith moans "Damn the passing hours/ Damn the summer flowers," before trying to hammer home the rhyme "They took what once was ours," repeating it incessantly as if he's trying to figure out what he himself means by that. "The Boxer" dolls itself up with pretty-in-pink synth dots, and I guess it might be an Editors party song-- Smith at least acknowledges human connection by intoning a silly joke ("This place is a prison/ And its cells are the bars.") But immediately thereafter, "Take me to the town/ I want to dance with the city/ Show me something ugly/ Show me something pretty" is quite possibly the best Interpol parody since Our Love to Admire.
It's sort of a catch-22 that Editors can write songs sticky enough to be memorable in unfortunate ways-- "kicks like a sleep twitch" is the sort of stray line that Juelz Santana might chuckle an ad-lib over, not something you should build your first single around. And yet, while the synth progression of first single "Papillon" cops heavily from "Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This)", the beat drops out completely so Smith can stress that very lyric, warning you that you'll be hearing it a lot more before the song's over. Likewise, a song called "Eat Raw Meat = Blood Drool" pretty much ensures itself a failure; it's got the snappiest hook on the album, but every other part of the song plays out like a half-assed riff on "Myxomatosis". Whether the six-minute "Bricks and Mortar" copped influence from krautrock or just the last Horrors album is beside the point-- as Smith bellows "pour saltwater onto the wound," he's throwing his arms around the world and feeling nothing.
I used the phrase "entry level" earlier, and I keep on thinking of that term when trying to figure out the appeal of Editors. You know that kid in your dorm who took a semester's worth of intro lit and philosophy classes as a license to use the word "Kafka-esque" at every opportunity? In This Light and on This Evening is for that guy.
