Keane; who could have foreseen this. A band forcedly made a trio following the departure of a guitarist; for years alone gigging in the bitter wilderness of the North London pub-circuit; and - now - a million-selling uber-ballad force so consistently slated, hated and rated (the latter by their impressive legion of followers, at least) that there seems no stopping them.
And as long as odes as forthright and quietly compelling as 'This Is The Last Time' are continually exerted, it's hard to see how the effect will dampen. An intent vocal from Tom Chaplin that rivals the gusto of a whole school choir and an Abba-friendly piano-arrangement that's both swooning and frustratingly infectious, few do it better, or at all.
