Keane do not, on the face of it, look like ruthless and exploitative types. These three men from Sussex have the air of so many British bands of the past few years: pleasant, compassionate, emotionally literate, unenthralled by the clichés of rock excess that once would have been expected of them. Even the fact that singer Tom Chaplin makes Chris Martin look like Jay-Z is oddly satisfying, proving British rock stars have finally got over the obligation to masquerade as raddled Bohemians or working-class heroes.
"Hopes And Fears", though, is a product so meticulously calculated, so shamelessly designed for the widest possible demographic, so wholeheartedly shallow, you suspect Simon Fuller and Simon Cowell must be dumbstruck in admiration. If Radiohead prototyped a certain kind of stadium-sized, middle class angst-rock with "The Bends" in 1995, and Travis and Coldplay refined – sanitised, perhaps – the formula in their wake, then Keane are the final triumph of selective breeding. "Hopes And Fears" is a masterpiece, of sorts. Generic angst has been diluted into a vague, unoppressive sense of melody. It all sounds the same. Nothing offends. Everything strives to be moving, but never disturbing.
"Emotion keeps my heart running," claims Chaplin in "Can't Stop Now", but it's hard to believe him. Essentially, Keane deal in a simulacrum of emotion, one that retains vague signifiers of pain while rendering them odour-free, socially-acceptable and brutally homogenised. If "Hopes And Fears" fails, it's because Keane lock themselves so firmly into a tradition of rock veracity and fail so completely to make their joy and sadness – their hopes and fears – remotely plausible, let alone infectious.
Those of us who see this as a problem are, of course, in something of a minority. "Hopes And Fears" is packed with enormously catchy songs that frequently conflate the work of Coldplay, Ultravox, U2 and Elton John into brilliantly assimilated pop. Keane's novelty innovation – that there are no guitars in sight – isn't that big a deal; most songs are so blustery and overproduced that you rarely notice their absence. One track out of 12, "Bend And Break", gallops along with such a steely conviction of its own excellence that even a curmudgeon would struggle to resist its wiles. It feels churlish to criticise such accomplished work.
But what the hell. What really rankles about Keane is the way they are so cynically marketed towards an audience for whom integrity, honesty, craftsmanship and an enduring love of 'proper' music are vital qualities. The fact that "Hopes And Fears" is as hollow and contrived a product as the disposable pop that their audience doubtless hates seems to go unnoticed. As a result, Keane emerge not as nice, trustworthy young men, but as nasty, duplicitous hucksters.
They may wear their hearts on their sleeves but, listening to "Hopes And Fears", it's tough to believe they even have a pulse.
