Mew are Danish. So is certain bacon. And Peter Schmeichal. It's not important here. The pressing issue is Mew's fourth album and its voyage into the murky world of prog.
While bands like Elbow and Mars Volta have tempered their inherent 'proggishness' with, respectively, colloquial observations and explosive dynamism, Mew have chosen to wander further down the route of strangeness. Now, this could be cause for more than a little concern, as nothing suggests a lack of imagination more than a reliance upon the nonsensical.
Despite having a dickish title 'and the glass handed kites' hosts a number of startlingly fine moments. 'Apaocalypso' is both taut and explosive, as if the world ended at some point during the mid-eighties, guitars shuddering like helicopters from a Reagan-era movie with a chorus so big it's visible from space; while single 'Special' boasts a seedy indie disco feel to be proud of.
However, the problem lies in the disjointed and random nature of the dream-inspired lyrics. I'm not insisting on linear narrative or acute observations; all I want is a bit of common sense.
Whatever strange events may occur in Jonas Bjerre's pretty little head, their transition into lyrics leaves me cold. After a few listens, Bjerre's reedy vocals become solely a vessel for melody, and really, there is nothing more boring than other people's dreams.
The Mew sound as a whole is expansive and ambitious and at times manages to sound almost vital. The brief 'Fox Cub' emerges gently and eerily before it is sucked into 'Apocalypso', while the plodding verses of 'The Zookeeper's Boy' propel a subtle but engrossing melody.
But aside from these rare glimmers of hope, most of the songs here seem to collapse under their own weight, and every inch of this record bulges with intense synths and relentless crescendos. Admittedly the band themselves claim this is their most 'difficult' listen to date, but there does come a point where the segueing of successive songs simply reveals their fundamental weakness and the second half of the album drags painfully like snake's testicles on a gravel path.
I'm sure some young souls will delight in over-interpreting the weight of these songs, true geek music as prog is sometimes wont to end up. I on the other hand would be happy to have heard brief highlights of 'and the glass handed kites' and never be bothered by the rest of it's cumbersome noise again. Me, shallow? Well in this case, very much so.
James Harrison
