The tortured blokes of Brit-pop -- your Coldplays, your Radioheads, your Keanes -- are friends to the friendless, lovers of the loveless, sad-sack salves for the brokenhearted. These pasty-faced dealers in shimmering soundscapes, chiming guitars and big, bittersweet hooks are in desperate need of a shrink, and yet, at the same time, they adore their goopy vulnerability and unshakable malaise. When Travis's Fran Healy lamented "Why Does It Always Rain on Me?," the 2001 hit song that best typifies the genre, the wee wuss wasn't looking for an answer; he was simply searching for like-minded Eeyores to join him in the puddles.
Blame it on the United Kingdom's drinking water, its dreary weather or maybe even those twisted paramours in the royal fam, but 2005 is shaping up to be a banner year for the sad boys of Brit-pop, a musical movement that has stayed vital while others -- garage rock, electronican -- have struggled to maintain a mainstream audience. This June, Coldplay will release the much-anticipated follow-up to its 2002 smash "A Rush of Blood to the Head." (Although now that head 'Player Chris Martin is husband to Gwynnie and father to Apple, who knows if he'll still have time for the pain.)
And even better news for Brit-pop fans, or people just looking for some pretty and pretty rousing music, is that three lesser-known but no less spellbinding acts have kicked off 2005 with early bids for albums of the year, no matter the genre: Manchester trio the Doves, sulking wunderkind Ed Harcourt and former Blur guitarist Graham Coxon.
Brit-pop was once dominated by the cursin', spittin' goons of Oasis, Pulp and the Verve. They punched and partied as well as they sang and swooned.
The Doves can still beat you up pretty good, too. They just do it with anthems instead of fists. Recorded partially in Loch Ness (ooh, creepy), the trio's new album, "Some Cities," the 11-track follow-up to 2002's sumptuous "Last Broadcast," is another lush chapter in the band's epic quest for hope among the emotional ruins. Now, however, the search party is better equipped with janglier guitars, crisper drums and an electronic trippiness that routinely cuts the mounting tension.
Singer Jimi Goodwin and twin bros Jez (guitar) and Andy Williams (drums) have always had an epic "wall of sound" sensibility; bigger is better with these guys, and there's almost always a buzzy layer of guitars underneath. But here they take their Phil Spector jones one step further. With its hip-thrusting beat and tambourine fills, the opening title track might as well be sung by the Ronettes. The second song and first single, "Black and White Town," also has a '60s girl group vibe, just about swiping the chugga-chugga rhythm section from Martha Reeves and the Vandellas' "Heat Wave."
As well as incorporating curious influences, the Doves also like their sound effects (wind machines, air sirens, digital curlicues and techno bleeps) but never to a point where silliness replaces earnestness. And Lord knows these dudes are earnest. Goodwin sings with his head thrown back and his eyes closed tight, a slightly nasally croon that packs a wallop despite its midrange limitations. His voice even breaks on the album's best cut, the confessional "Walk in Fire," a song about ditching the bottle and taking on life sober. The song grows from synthy fuzz to U2-esque climax, with Jez's Edge-like fleet of guitars, some switchblade sharp, some playfully loopy, doling out the uplift.
Don't go expecting such rah-rah moments from Harcourt. "If I believe in love / Then I believe in hate, too / I'll taste the darker stuff / To find some lasting truth," the 27-year-old sings on the new album "Strangers." Oh yeah, he's a barrel of laughs. Glance at the lyrics to the 13 songs here and you'll find more crying and dying than on "Six Feet Under."
But for all the maudlin sentiment, the up-and-coming Harcourt -- whose 2001 debut, "Here Be Monsters," was nominated for a Mercury Prize (like the Grammys with a cool accent) -- reveals himself to be somewhat changed on "Strangers." First of all, he has a girlfriend now, Rita Langley, who plays violin and sings on a couple of tracks. Let's credit her for the occasional silver linings that sneak in here and there.
Plus, if the 2003 disc "From Every Sphere" was a bloated melange of piano-driven ballads and obtuse musical wanderings (like Elton John's "Yellow Brick Road" made of marshmallows), "Strangers" has more hard turns, more guitar sting and a whole lot of catchy parts that make you feel like you've been singing Ed's tunes in the shower for years. Harcourt still plays an orchestra's worth of instruments (including pump organ, tremolo guitar, Wurlitzer, kazoo and Solina string machine) but here he makes them fit in a tasty pop format. Think Tom Waits, Paul Simon, maybe even Paul McCartney.
On the opener "The Storm Is Coming" -- "This storm will wreak much havoc, bring my sanity to the brink" -- Harcourt frames his words in such a defiant swirl of howling guitar and jaunty piano that the message is clear: For the first time in his life, for better or worse, he's going to face the maelstrom straight on. "I feel so far away from love" he moans at the start of the galloping saloon tune "This One's for You"; but by song's end he's promising "This little story will end so well" and providing a chipper coda perfect for a little tap-tap-tap of the old soft shoe. Harcourt even offers a charming wink-wink at his head-case proclivities: He names the album's happiest-sounding track "Loneliness." Sure, he's miserable ("Loneliness, loneliness what would I do without you?") but it feels so good.
Though Coxon can certainly get in touch with his sensitive side, too, the former Blur guitarist isn't much for constant woe-is-me musings. It's more like woe-is-them. This is a man with a street fighter's spirit, and if there's someone to lead Brit-pop back to its cocky, crotch-grabbing past, it's him.
Back in the '90s, Blur and Oasis were archenemies -- Coxon and band mate Damon Albarn vs. Gallagher boys Liam and Noel -- blue-collar poets engagin' in a war of words, with everyone droppin' their R's and putting up their dukes. At first Oasis was crushing its foes saleswise ("Wonderwall" was the song of 1995), but Blur evened things up with "Song 2" -- you know, the "Woo-hoo!" rocker that's been cranked at every sporting event since 1997.
Soon enough, Coxon and Albarn started butting egos as well, and in 2002 the two parted ways. Albarn kept Blur and experimented with obtuse arrangements and African rhythms, Coxon went solo and kept the band's pop-smart spirit. His new album, "Happiness in Magazines," is the guitar equivalent of a well-choreographed barroom brawl. It's the Ramones with feeling (try "Freakin' Out"), the Clash without the politics ("No Good Time"). And Lord is the disc addictive. (Coxon's tour in support of the album comes to the Black Cat March 30.)
Kickoff cut "Spectacular," about falling in love with a cybervixen, is Hendrixian in sonic oomph. "Hopeless Friend" ("Come inside and drop your coat / Wash your hair, you smell like a goat") and "Don't Be a Stranger" ("Your brain's so dead it's started to stink") are vicious insult songs -- perhaps aimed at old pal Albarn? -- but irresistible pop gems.
Of course, Coxon is a Brit-pop progenitor, so there are a few gauzy washes of pure goodness routinely cutting through the testosterone. The gorgeous ballad "All Over Me" is built on swoony synthetic strings, aw-shucks sentiment ("You speak and my hearing's impaired") and one heck of an echoing John Lennon impression. And "Ribbons and Leaves," the album's piano-and-horns finale (not counting a goofy bonus cut), is a slow-build weeper about war and death and the passage of time. For the song's minimalist chorus, Coxon warbles a pained claim of "Life, I love you." Don't believe him for a second.
