The Back Room
Just as when a supertrendy handbag or iconic pair of sunglasses comes into fashion and the streets the world over are flooded with cheap knockoffs, the planet-hugging success of a certain dark-hued New York foursome has, unfortunately, inspired a number of bands who may as well be called Interpull, Hinter Pole, Enter Pool, or, perhaps, Intir Pól (local variation).
Kim Porcelli, 24 Aug 2005
Just as when a supertrendy handbag or iconic pair of sunglasses comes into fashion and the streets the world over are flooded with cheap knockoffs, the planet-hugging success of a certain dark-hued New York foursome has, unfortunately, inspired a number of bands who may as well be called Interpull, Hinter Pole, Enter Pool, or, perhaps, Intir Pól (local variation).
Editors, the latest of these and the subject of screechingly positive reviews in every UK paper you will have opened over the last month (all of which run along the lines of “Hooray! They’re Interpol-ish, but English!”), had the sense to sign to smallish indiette Kitchenware and not a bigger company, as a quirky cottage-industry label will be less likely to bin them like last week’s leftovers the second the Joy Revision vogue is (finally) over.
The degree and slavishness of the copycatting is a little depressing. There’s the near-album-wide shambling, breakneck tempo; the tinnily shimmering early-’80s reverb and lead singer Tom Smith’s sonorous baritone; the stark black album sleeve and similarly flashbulb-free band photos; the mega-serious one-word song titles (‘Blood’, ‘Munich’, ‘Bullets’) – and, most teeth-grindingly dismaying of all, there’s that ubiquitous Television-ish double-guitar-stab thing where notes only ever appear in sets of two.
But, ultimately, as with any album, or indeed any piece of art big or small, the obviousness of its lineage wouldn’t matter a damn if there were something beautiful, some original vision, at its heart – and it’s here that Editors would fall short even if Carlos and Paul had never bonded over that pair of Doc Martens. Vocally, you’re left wondering whether Smith’s basso depressivo mightn’t be more than a little laid on; nor is the songwriting up to much. Profundity is attempted (sample chorus: “Blood runs through your veins/That’s where our similarity ends”) and songs swerve to a violent stop in a pantomime of uncontainable passion, but nothing, emotionally speaking, is actually going on.
As is not the case with streetcorner Prada and flea-market Fendi, there’s kind of no reason to purchase The Back Room when a copy of Antics won’t cost you a penny more.
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