A summer playing to US stadia packed with pretzel-chewing greasers baying for Pearl Jam has opened Idlewild’s eyes to the lure of the A-list. Screw worrying whether we should get teaching jobs, said the Scottish five-piece - let’s supersize everything. Now EMI’s annual profits have plummeted with Coldplay on extended leave, let’s show the boss those pasty Sassenachs aren’t the only ones who can put a platinum disc on his office wall.
Recorded in LA with producer Tony Hoffer (Beck, Air, Phoenix ), this puréed blend of acoustic folk-rock and heavier college-rock cuts sees Roddy Woomble and co move still further away from their original punky roots – a stylistic shuffle they’ve been perfecting since 2002’s breakthrough "The Remote Part". It’s also the first album to be written by – gulp - the group as a whole. This fact alone sets alarm bells jangling: composition by committee is a ghastly idea, yielding gutless musical porridge that thrills no-one but the drummer’s bank manager. This isn’t quite that bad, but it’ll disappoint any red-blooded rock lover expecting a cavalry charge.
Opening track "Love Steals Us From Loneliness" is t-shirt sloganeering Yank emo, setting the LP’s unrelentingly sober tone; it blends seamlessly into acoustic folk rocker "Welcome Home", a flawless piece of corporate angst and kissing cousin to Green Day’s "Boulevard Of Broken Dreams". "I Want A Warning"’s melody and rhythm recalls The Dandy Warhol’s "Bohemian Like You" but without its wit or subversive campness, while Caledonian rockers like "The Space Between All Things" heave along as though awaiting the arrival of a kilted session bagpiper.
Woomble’s lyrics, while literate, are never quite as clever as his supporters would like to believe. "El Capitan"’s “By the harbour, I harbour the strangest memories” is just one example of horribly contrived ink-spillage. And while the glowing comparisons to REM that they’ve always attracted – nowhere more evident here than on the twirling "I Understand It" which could be a "Green" off-cut – are generally deserved, only the most frothing-at-the-mouth fan could claim Idlewild share their mentor’s humour, rigour or vision. This is crestfallen scenery-chewing with a sly, beady eye on market share.
