Yahoo! Music Review

Released on 26/03/07
Label: Drowned In Sound

When Morrissey accused Brett Anderson of being a "deeply boring young man with Mr Kipling's crumbs under his bed" in 1993, it seemed the bitter retaliation of a has-been watching Suede steal his mordant wit and star-dazzled romanticism and adding a druggy sexiness he couldn't hope for. Fast forward 14 years, and Morrissey has just delivered one of his most intriguing and sexually charged album in years while Brett has delivered his third dud in a row.

If Morrissey's verdict is doubtful now, it's only because Anderson is no longer young and probably has a cleaner to worry about the crumbs. But it's almost pointless to bring the glory of early Suede up in relation to this string-soaked solo debut, since it might as well have been made by an entirely different human being. It's not that Anderson should be recycling the gutter-dwelling hedonism of old - and indeed, that would be a little sad in a wealthy man pushing forty - it's just that he so clearly has nothing else to say.

So over the course of this record, Brett leaves answerphone messages (the deep-bassed, languid "One Lazy Morning"), plays with his girlfriend's hair (a growling but inconsequential "Dust And Rain"), worries about capitalism (the horribly clumsy "The More We Posess The Less We Own Of Ourselves") and considers taking up Christianity. This sounds like the diary of a middle ranking civil servant's mid-life crisis, and not even a terribly insightful or memorable one at that.

Sadly, it isn't just the lyrics which are banal. The single "Love Is Dead" takes some unpromising musical elements - drip drip percussion, maudlin strings and some scratchy guitars - but forges something truly moving and beautiful from them. Along with the mournful, piano-led "Colour Of The Night" and the graceful, tender eulogy for his late father, "Song For My Father", it's one of the few genuine highlights here.

Elsewhere, the album is rarely less than understated and pretty, but far too rarely any more than that. "The Infinite Kiss" manages to make sexual obsession sound as overpowering and dramatic as remembering you've left the iron on at home, while by the time "Ebony" comes around the languid vocals and fluttering minor chords have all blurred into one Ikea-shaded blur. If you aren't aware what Anderson was once capable of, you may not be disappointed. If you are aware, then you'll be all too used to it.

    by Jaime Gill