Affable losers do quite well in this world – they’re thought of fondly in books and on television, and Hugh Grant has made an entire career out of this role. Blokes that don’t quite get by in life due to their own awkwardness or misfortune, shunned on the whole by women and forever looking on from the periphery, forever unfashionable, the perennial best friend. Done well, it can be charming, witty and the opposite of the person that they pertain to be. It’s Jarvis is in the ill fitting tweed. It’s cool.
On the other end of the scale is this album, which sets out to be shiny in a self-deprecating way. It feels a little cruel to write anything scathing, because one-man band Keith Harbottle clearly is a nice person, but this collection of songs fails to resonate. On the whole, they are a series of lo-fi synth-led twee pop songs that merge into one mid-tempo melee of grey.
‘Wait’ is the story of the first date and not getting the kiss he desired and you instantly sympathise with the girl. These are specific stories that you don’t want to get involved in. The dour nature of songs like ‘Someone is Missing’ means you stop listening to the lyrics, which is clearly the centrepiece of this album. When someone is reeling off an album of personal anecdotes and snapshots from their lives, you have to make it seem enticing in some way, because then people will listen. We live in a world where people consistently speak over each other, so you really do need to have something interesting to say when you get the chance.
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It can all be summed up by ‘If Success Came My Way,’ a toothless indie-pop number about what would happen if things went right. The vocal performance is one dimensional, melancholic in the extreme with a world-weary optimism disguised underneath. It just sounds tired, and most of the time indistinguishable. ‘Long Distance Friend’ is one turgid song too long, yet another low-key sigh that makes you feel lonely just by listening to it.
It’s like Lightspeed Champion with all the personality sucked out of it. ‘The Road Less Travelled’ literally drains you of energy, a mid-tempo song that conjures up images of an old man swaying on a dance floor on his own in the local conservative club, disco lights on in the background even though the main lights remain on.
A complete wet fart of an album. Less of the dribs, firm emphasis on the drab.
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