Narcissus Road

It is assumed that, like the horizon in antiquity, once English indie musicians reach 30, they automatically drop off the world’s edge, to be consumed by fire or monsters.
Or worse, to become bombastic (but nutritionally void) dad rockers like your Ashcrofts or Wellers.
Where are the UK equivalents of Wilco or Lambchop, we are entitled to ask? Those beat-up but clear-eyed poets of the everyday disappointments and epiphanies found in family life, grief, community. Where are the grown-ups?
Which brings us neatly to The Hours.
Antony Genn and Martin Slattery may not have the names or, indeed, the faces needed these days to launch a thousand fan-sites, but they have something much rarer in their lockers – a history.
Genn is Camden Town’s resident Zelig. A synopsis of his life thus far will include details of a stint in Pulp as a 16-year-old, an onstage streak in front of millions at Glastonbury, a spell with Elastica, a smack habit that cost him most of his teeth, a pivotal role facilitating Joe Strummer’s heroic autumnal comeback, and a short-lived spell as Robbie Williams’ flatmate. Slattery, meanwhile, has worked with Sly and Robbie, Eno, and (most impressive of all) survived a spell with Bez and Shaun in Black Grape.
In the Logan’s Run logic of contemporary pop this pair of (late) 30-somethings should long ago have been culled. But here they are with Narcissus Road, their debut album, and although it’s clumsy and clunky at times – and it rarely dresses in anything other than the Big Music hand-me-downs of The Bunnymen, Coldplay and The Verve – it thunders along with a recurrent sincerity that’s impossible to laugh off. In fact in places it calls to mind none other than, gulp, the great Kevin Rowlands.
It’s an album that isn’t afraid of dealing with bitterness (‘Back When You Were Good’), failure (‘Murder Or Suicide), and even death (‘I Miss You'), and while the lyrics may clunk jarringly in places (“I love you more than Tony Soprano/For those that do not know me that’s a fuck of a lot”) – the conviction is total and, despite initial reservations, you may well find yourself, unexpectedly, moved.
The penultimate track, ‘People Say’ perhaps offers the best example of what this strange record’s about. Railing against those who throughout the years have told Genn to get a proper job, he ends the song with a spoken-word diatribe that includes the lines: “Who was the richest man in Vienna when Mozart was alive?/Who gives a fuck/And who was the guy on the big house in the hill looking down on Van Gough/Who gives a fuck?”. It’s completely ridiculous. But, also – like many of Kev’s finest moments – weirdly endearing. The Hours are well worth spending time with.