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It's clear enough that Elephant have something of an identity problem, as they mooch moodily from fragile, Joy Division-style portentousness ('Buttonhole'), to Numanoid nonchalance ('With A View To The East'), to feedback frenzy ('Serial Fucker'). The constant throughout these songs is the relentlessly grim, po-faced attitude. It's not utterly depressing in a 'Holy Bible' way though, simply because there's no personality here, no-one to empathise with, no real pain to share.
Prostrate at the cobwebbed altar of Ian Curtis, Robert Smith and every other humourless grouch who's ever haunted a recording studio, Elephant fail to find a new angle on such overdone nihilism. With no original insights into the human condition revealed beyond deadpan doom-mongering ("[I]I need to get a grip 'cos the world outside is sick[/I]"), 'Heyday' remains uninvolving and pointless.
Less [I]Dumbo[/I], then, more a particularly dull episode of [I]Babar[/I].
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