History probably won’t remember the Super Furry Animals.
Judging by Seven Ages Of Rock, a recent po-faced BBC2 series on the development of ‘alternative music’ – this most adventurous, subtly thought-provoking, and elegantly tuneful of bands have already been banished, like so many before them, to the fog-bound margins.
Laughably, The Libertines were prominent, while SFA (the best singles band of their generation?) were not even deemed clip-worthy.
Any members of the group tuning in could have been forgiven for shivering under a chill of premonition.
Their future position in the grand scheme of things was laid out bare: cherished by their fans; but likely only to be called up in wider debates as a footnote on ‘The Great Welsh Indie Revival’, or, worse, cited as evidence for the prosecution when the commercial sanity of Alan McGee’s kid-in-a-toy-shop post-Oasis signing spree is brought into question.
Which is a depressing prospect.
However, given the recurrent SFA M.O. – I’d suspect that our viewer(s) wouldn’t actually give a toot.
This is the crowd, remember, who just as they looked ready to make their great cross-over leap, decided to release a (brilliant) Welsh language album (Mwng) instead.
The man don’t give a fuck, of course. But, as far as careerist aspirations go, SFA have never seemed that bothered either.
In fact, there are few bands who have shown such kamikaze disregard for chasing the big time.
If they did, surely they would have spent more effort smoothing off the strange contours of their work, and less fitting subsonic equipment onto military vehicles, or dressing like cartoon characters on stage, or even inviting Paul McCartney to guest on a record and then asking him to sit in the background and chew celery.
No, if the last 10 years have taught us anything, it’s that Super Furry Animals march resolutely to their own quixotic beat.
And looking back over a career spanning eight LPs, with not a duffer to be found, they’d be justified in feeling proud.
It’s a cause for mild celebration then to report that album number nine is in no danger of breaking that run. If anything, with its strummed, heartfelt anthems; its up-to-scratch garage stompers; its general tenderness – it’s a stirring throw-back to their Radiator/Guerilla glory days.
As always, there’s a story behind Hey Venus. At least, they are claiming there’s a story. Apparently the record traces the story of our titular heroine as she moves away from an unhappy home in the country, and tries to forge a new life in a bustling metropolis. And running with that is, I suppose, as good a way as any to approach the eleven tracks. You’ll start off with the Spector-esque ‘Run Away’, “A true story,” Gruff Rhys informs us, “and rather autobiographical”. It’s also pretty teary – “We may have fought with teeth and nails but I still recall your banking details”. You’ll be on Venus’s side from the off.
From there on a lovely, low-lit warmth kicks in. ‘Show Your Hand’ and ‘The Gift That Keeps Giving’ are so lovely, and gloriously understated they could slip comfortably onto The Beach Boys’ Holland.
‘Noo Consumer’ and ‘Into The Night’ lift the pace – a pair of terrific, psychedelic chargers in the ‘God, show me magic’ mould. While pausing at ‘Baby Ate My Eightball’, for a mid-record lull, we’re brought home with ‘Carbon Dating’, ‘Suckers’ and ‘Let The Wolves Howl At The Moon’ – a trio of stirring, camp-fire beauties that creep up stealthily, linger awhile, and all of a sudden are zipped up in the sleeping bag beside you.
History may well forget this most cherishable of bands. But, frankly, that’s history’s loss.