Athlete - 'Tourist' (Parlophone)
3/5
By: Toby L
'Tourist': in which 21st Century do-good poppers Athlete are suggested to 'do a Snow Patrol, or Keane', and make 2005 theirs. It could happen.
In fact, it probably will happen. All the ingredients are here: a long line of updated, credible influences - the accompanying press-release references the band's new-found inspiration in The Flaming Lips, Massive Attack, Beck in 'Sea Change'; the kind of sky-scraping balladry that Chris Martin yearns for in his sleep; and the outward exterior of four humble, Deptford lads that look pretty bloody ordinary. Game: set: match.
In their eyes, apparently, making a pop album 'wasn't enough' this time around. Following 2003's Mercury-nominated 'Vehicles & Animals', you can see why; 250,000 sales, general acclaim and a rabid fanbase, yet the sort of nagging reputation abound that you're not essentially shifting the planet. 'Tourist' is the conceited revolt. A band adaptively consolidating their position by reinventing the wheel. Gone are the gimmicks, the inane lyricism, and in its place - a big, twatting load of indie soul.
And more weird noises. Two songs in, we've heard SFA-worthy samples, flutes, strings, and the sort of widescreen production usually reserved for the million-sellers. 'Chances' is weepingly epic, toweringly gargantuan, not entirely avoiding the Lips' ethic of 'more is more' in alarming obedience, 'Half Light' - despite the drop-off ending - is a hark to the band's less earnest moments, the title-track is orchestral and lazy, 'Trading Air' is distantly, otherworldly romantic, piano-dripping and delicate, and breakthrough smash 'Wires' is, well, the one everyone knows.
It's all well and good by mid-way point, exposing a real modern beauty in a sense, but its lack of humour or shift of tone makes 'Tourist' quite a woeful experience. It's more serious than any other album we've heard all year. And we're not saying a few moments of larking about here or there would suffice... actually, yes, we are. Athlete: we don't question your sincerity, but we must pry; where did all the good times go?
For the remainder of the experience - the hippy-ish starkness of 'I Love'; self-questioning 'Yesterday Threw Everything At Me', et al - the journey seldom progresses, merely becomes easier to deal with, softer, slightly less massive. And by the time it slippingly draws to a close, that hanging sense of relief that you've reached your final destination makes for an overpowering rush. You suspect, however, it's one that'll be greeted equally with as much despair as euphoria dependent on the passenger.
Artists in this article: Athlete
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