(Cue 'Points Of View' voiceover) “Why, oh why does everybody want to be part of the rock scene?” Back from the darkest depths of Deptford, return Athlete. The former soundtrack to a sweltering South London heat-wave have obviously marinated their brains in more Simple Minds.
Staring forlornly at grey clouds and rainy windows, they may be “making the most of the true British climate”, but really only razor blade manufacturers will thank them for the change in direction. Has some Artie Fufkin character rattled them into sounding just a little less kooky? The “Mum’s Gone To Iceland” motif of “El Salvador” distinguished them from many a contemporary with their penchant for indie with all the wires showing. Even Joel Potts haircut was distinguishingly angular before (or maybe his barber just slipped).
First albums can quite rightly be misery-fests. Most of them are written on a diet of dog food and desperation. So surely things are the wrong way round here? Major record deal…check…critical acclaim…Mercury nomination…check…Reasons to be the cheerful, ooh 1, 2, 3, at least. “Vehicles & Animals” was crammed with cracking pop tunes about robots and race riots and other things not about the singer having an argument with his girlfriend.
So was “Tourist” written after a holiday in Albania? Not repeating the winning formula is admirable in its way. When Air followed “Moon Safari” with “10,000hz Legend”, a hundred advertising execs probably exploded with shock. But being an artist is surely to do that; to take mad, ridiculous risks with little aforethought for the consequences, with the culling of copywriters merely a not unwelcome bonus.
So why have Athlete retreated into the quagmire of second division Snow Patrol with the HMS Soft-Rocker merely a blip on the horizon? Maybe you wouldn’t want a share a flat with an egomaniacal crack-head like Pete Doherty (he doesn’t seem the type to put the cap back on the toothpaste), but that he lies spread-eagled across the covers of press so regularly does suggest a resurging desire for charisma (and possible mental imbalance) in our icons.
With Becks bottles thrust in the air, the crowd sing-along chipperly about “flying to El Salvador” and having “the style” above the burbling synthesisers. With the new tunes though, they’ve seemingly reinvented shoegazing…but just for the audience this time.
