Bloc Party – Anatomy of a Brief Romance Review
Bloc Party’s new album is catchy in the worst possible way: strange, irritating and hard to shake for all the wrong reasons.
Rumours by Fleetwood Mac, Rid of Me by PJ Harvey, Bon Iver’s For Emma, Forever Ago, Bob Dylan’s Blood on the Tracks, Back to Black by Amy Winehouse. What do these albums have in common? They’re all inspired by the trials and tribulations of heartbreak, and they’re all amazing. In fact, the devastation caused by going through a break-up is arguably the most potent catalyst for writing an album. Only the nice bit that precedes it surpasses its influence.
And so we come to Bloc Party’s Anatomy of a Brief Romance. An album through which lead singer Kele Okereke aims to channel the ups and downs of falling in and out of love, from sunny beginnings to gloomy endings. It’s all here, in very, very literal detail.
I’ve been following the social media uproar concerning this album for some time now. Ever since Bloc Party started uploading fragments of their new songs, the online response has been venomous, to say the least. On first seeing and hearing the band’s TikTok channel showcasing songs like ‘Pigwig’ and ‘Love Bombs’, with short videos of Kele and the band looking slightly bewildered in front of the camera, fans and non-fans alike have genuinely wondered whether they were being serious, or whether it was some strange, albeit effective, marketing ploy designed to farm as much interaction as possible.
Well, it appears they are serious. And things really are that bad.
The album opens with ‘22.01.22’, which tells us, in almost comical fashion, how Okereke met the subject of this brief love affair at his local gym. “Our eyes connect between the reps,” he sings, and immediately the cracks begin to appear.
I genuinely enjoyed the first 19 seconds of the next track, ‘Coming On Strong’, but it doesn’t take long for it to fall into the same trap. “He likes the cut of my jib, he likes my extra skinny fit.” Oh dear.
There’s nothing wrong with being a bit literal with your lyrics. People like Jarvis Cocker, Mike Skinner and Morrissey do this kind of thing all the time to great effect. It’s just that this kind of delivery doesn’t suit Okereke at all. To get away with it, you need to know when to have your tongue firmly in cheek, but Okereke comes across as far too earnest, meaning much of the album ends up being unintentionally funny.
The aforementioned ‘Love Bombs’ and ‘Pigwig’ are next. Two songs that careen headlong into children’s TV territory. They’re the kind of melodies you’d expect someone to sing while prancing around in front of a camera, wearing dungarees and a silly hat.
The thing is, it’s not that anything here is boring, quite the opposite. Often, the songs are actually quite catchy. I mean, I had ‘Pigwig’ stuck in my head for about five days straight (it felt longer). The problem is, they’re catchy in the way a radio jingle or song from an advert is catchy. Much of what’s on offer here has more in common with that diarrhoea Pepto-Bismol ad than it does a genuinely heart-wrenching break-up song.
‘Lagoon Blue’ fares slightly better. However, it does contain a bizarre key change that does little to elevate the song beyond ‘okay’ territory. The band are clearly reaching for a sophisticated pop sound or “disco heartbreak”, as they describe it, but unfortunately it falls way short and often ends up sounding a bit like an amateur musical down at the local theatre club.
Producer Trevor Horn only seems to make things worse. None of the musicianship feels alive; instead, everything sounds a bit bland and flat. When the distorted guitars kick in on ‘Worst Birthday Ever’, you’re aware you’re supposed to be feeling something but, again, nothing.
By the time I got to ‘Rotherhithe’ and ‘Stories’, I actually started to miss ‘Pigwig’, such was the level of Stockholm Syndrome. ‘Stories’ has a few decent ideas musically, but again, these are lost behind Okereke’s bizarre lyrical choices and the karaoke-esque production.
There’s a moment on penultimate track ‘Moving On’ where Okereke sings, “I used to be good at this”, and it’s hard not to feel a sense of sadness. ‘Eulogy’ ends things as you might imagine. Again, there are some nice ideas, but it all just seems vapid and stale.
What makes things worse is that we know Okereke is capable of so much more. There was something so utterly heartbreaking on first hearing lyrics like “I caught a glimpse, but it’s been forgotten” on debut album Silent Alarm’s excellent ‘So Here We Are’. The perfect balance of relatable and poetic. Now we’re expected to get on board with lyrics like “I met the real you on the last day of our love. On the worst birthday ever, sat on your parents’ farm”.
Songs like ‘Banquet’, ‘Helicopter’ and ‘Hunting for Witches’ helped redefine the UK indie scene, bridging the gap between the chaotic romance of bands like the Libertines and the cerebral nihilism of bands like Radiohead. It’s hard to make the connection between the effortless verve of 2005’s Bloc Party and the present-day TikTok edition.
I’ll always have a soft spot for Bloc Party. I saw them at Sheffield Leadmill when they first burst onto the UK indie scene. Not only did they play an incredible set, but Okereke helped me get my jacket back from the cloakroom after I’d lost my ticket and the attendant was being a bit of a dick. So I really hope whatever comes next is a significant step up from Anatomy of a Brief Romance.
On a positive note, it’s got people talking about them again. If they can channel this into something more creatively satisfying for their next release, then perhaps we’ll look back on Anatomy of a Brief Romance as a strange blip in Bloc Party’s discography rather than the career-ending catastrophe some people are predicting.
Only time will tell.
Until then, I’m off to listen to Rumours.