With that whole turn-of-the-century garage rock new world order thing already in its bleak post-apocalyptic stage, the second- and third-tier nu-garage bands are now left fighting for their relevancy and survival. Like failed revivalists Soundtrack of Our Lives, French Kicks and, to a lesser extent, the Raveonettes, Razorlight entered pop's ken with a flourish. They were Up All Night, bestowing us with glimpses of London nightlife at its most chic and youthful. Their shtick, lifeless and constructed from their contemporaries' leftover parts, lacked the originality of the Raveonettes' draconian B flat key signatures but looked purdy enough to the tune of a million-plus records sold. Funny then that this bland self-titled followup finds these guys seemingly disillusioned and full of ennui.
Almost as a defense mechanism for their disproportionate success-to-talent ratio, Razorlight's decided to not only turn their amps down, they're angling to dissociate themselves from the garage-rock scene entirely, playing pensive where they previously partied. There's a lot of attempts at answering the who, what, where, whens, and hows of love-- not to mention a boatload of soul-searching and awkward self-awareness. Even worse, they've jettisoned nearly all their Strokes, Television, and other grab bag post-punk propensities, turning instead to adult alternative as a foundation for this late-20s midlife crisis. I guess if ya can't beat 'em, just quit and make soft rock!
Opener "In the Morning" shows the band toeing the line between sprightly garage rock and "mature," reflective grownup pop. While the band cops a Franz Ferdinand swagger, the crime here lies in frontman Johnny Borrell's woe-is-me pathos, a stab at "so we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past"-levels of profundity. Problem is, in his pot/kettle words it's "The songs on the radio sound the same/ Everybody just looks the same." Plus, on lines like, "Remember when you were young?", the 26-year-old's wistfully recounting the Up All Night days when "every night's still so much fun." Are we supposed to believe Borrell leads a boring life now? "Who Needs Love?" seems to indicate this is the case. It's a limp take on Springsteen's "Hungry Heart" that espouses a totally opposite message. Borrell tweaks his vocals for a bare-boned, Brit Daniel delivery on a song that rejects romance and compassion.
Sadly, those lyrical disasters take place on the album's stronger songs. While not nearly as blasphemous, tracks like "America" and "Fall to Pieces" scrape the bottom of the barrel, the former sounding even tackier than the Neil Diamond song of the same name, while the latter sounds like romantic comedy soundtrack fodder, an amalgamation of 90s "alt-rock" sensations such as Counting Crows and the Rembrandts. What gall then when they update R.E.M.'s classic "Pop Song 89" to "Pop Song 2006", a slapdash salute to the Athens group with the flag at half mast. Of course, such braggadocio's expected when Borrell's actually convinced he's our generation's Dylan. He's right too, although he should've specified Jakob and not Bob.
