Lazy Line Painter Jane
They're simply too comfortable in those second-hand ideas, too enraptured by their own laboured mystique to consider any true leaps forward. The emperor's borrowed clothes, anyone?More on
[a]Belle & Sebastian[/a] may appear to flaunt the nostalgia card casually (none of the 12 tracks sound as if they were recorded after 1971) but their hatred of modernity and, indeed, reality is deeply ingrained. Like The Smiths and Suede before them, B&S have created an alternative world - a petal-scattered retreat where eternal adolescence is lionised and near-obsessive introspection is heralded as an ideal lifestyle choice. But though their predecessors managed to maintain an objective distance from their imagined situations, [a]Belle & Sebastian[/a]'s schtick is both self-congratulatory and, inevitably, self-defeating. It's thus impossible to sympathise with tiresome characters like the emotionally unstable protagonist of 'Dog On Wheels' - a pathetic man-child whose only confidante is the toy of the title. Similarly, 'String Bean Jean' archly deals with another misshaped misfit - this time a woman whose jeans are marked [I]"seven to eight years old"[/I]. This is nursery-level whimsy: awkward pathos that mistakes cartoonish mawkishness for otherworldly charm; cloying and, yup, twee to the nth degree.
Yet if the music that accompanies these vignettes is accordingly out of time, B&S' occasionally magical grasp of melody prevents them from disappearing entirely into the kitsch bin. While 'Dog On Wheels' sets a defiantly old-fashioned precedent (Morricone brass flourishes, cavernous Velvets drums) both "Lazy Line..." and "3... 6... 9... Seconds..." see their sound blossom into grander vistas. So, 'You Made Me Forget My Dreams' is a heartbreaking punt through Simon & Garfunkel's tremulous backwaters, while the uncharacteristically meaty 'Le Pastie De La Bourgeoisie' is B&S' most accessible song to date - a moment of Proper Pop Joy that temporarily knocks the twee tag on its tousled head. Elsewhere, however, the back-breaking deference to their heroes (most notably Murdoch's ever-embarrassing mimicry of Nick Drake's wispy croon) scuppers any chances B&S have of inspiring genuine trailblazing status. They're simply too comfortable in those second-hand ideas, too enraptured by their own laboured mystique to consider any true leaps forward. The emperor's borrowed clothes, anyone?
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