Pages tagged “travis”

Fran Healy and company find themselves back on the good foot

As a band, Travis seems have found itself in the shadows—of influences, contemporaries and even its own previous releases. Calling this album an ode seems suiting, then. The record, at various moments, channels Nirvana, The Cure and the half-spoken delivery of Bono. Which is not to say that it is lacking originality. In fact, this may be the furthest Travis has removed itself from its catalog, with lyrics driven by a more outrospective narrative. “J. Smith,” with its Latin choir, carries the mystic of Gregorian chants juxtaposed against screaming electric guitar. “Broken Mirror” is punctuated with the thoughtful use of hi-hat and an unhurried rhythm. Tracks such as “Friends” and “Before You Were Young” have seemingly resulted from the band writing the album completely on electric guitar, a first since its 1997 debut Good Feeling. Consider it, then, an ode to what listeners liked about Travis in the first place.

Listen to Travis' "J. Smith" from Ode to J. Smith:

I’m still trying to figure out how many listens it’ll take for Travis’ fourth LP to kick in. The elements that made 1999’s The Man Who thoroughly engaging and 2002’s The Invisible Band intermittently enjoyable—Fran Healy’s dead-earnest vocals and melodic twists, the players’ sturdy, gimmick-free performances, the earthy authenticity of the music—are present on 12 Memories. Nonetheless, very little coheres or catches the ear. Perhaps the four Scots finally had enough of the endless comparisons to Radiohead and Coldplay—but coming up with an album as lethargic as this one isn’t the smartest way to separate themselves from their distinguished contemporaries.

The approach Travis employs here makes perfect sense on paper; throughout the album, the band hews to ambling tempos set forth by four-square snare patterns and strummed acoustic guitars, sparingly adorned by simple keyboards and vocal harmonies (the sort of approach favored by The Beatles in the mid-’60s), a tactic that would seem to play to the band’s crispness and subtlety. But with spare settings like these, every touch must count and the melodies must lift—in short, something needs to happen—otherwise the results will simply be aimless and dull.

The album opens promisingly enough, as drummer Neil Primrose punches out an emphatic midtempo groove, colored by piano and cello, setting off Healy’s voice with lovely muted tones—but the song proceeds without a discernible hook. The backing vocals are halfhearted and the quicksand metaphor is so shopworn it practically squeaks, causing the tasteful touches to seem random rather than focused. “Beautiful Occupation”—a spring-loaded burst of Bush-directed anger containing an impassioned vocal from Healy, with rousing vocal support from his bandmates in the choruses—suggests Travis is revving up for some serious action. But it’s a false promise. On “Re-Offender,” a heartfelt look at domestic violence, he blunts the impact in the very first verse with the doubled-up clichés “Keeping up with the Joneses … Going through the motions.” Healy should know better. Immediately afterward, the would-be anthem “Peace the F--- Out” is presented with a bewildering lack of urgency; the soccer fans singing the refrain in the coda sound far more committed to the sentiment than the band does. From that point onward, the points of interest are few and far between.

Breaking away from the march of deliberately paced music, the swirling, three-four grooves of “How Many Hearts” and “Love Will Come Through” provide welcome relief, but neither offers a payoff—they just swirl. “Somewhere Else” is dressed in a melodic motif lifted intact (inadvertently, I’m sure) from Seals & Crofts’ “Summer Wind,” of all things, but that’s the song’s only remarkable aspect. Particularly undistinguished are the nearly inert “Paperclips” (too bad, because it has the album’s strongest melody) and the thematically and melodically pedestrian “Mid-Life Krysis” (a really bad idea, from the spelling to the premise). The only track that measures up to Travis’ previous efforts is “Happy to Hang Around,” on which Healy presents a lyric that descends from puppy love to unease and anxiety with edgy conviction, and the welcome dramatic tension he generates is amplified by a ferocious guitar solo from Andy Dunlop. So it’s not like they don’t have it in them any more.

The players aren’t the culprits here; with the previously noted exceptions, the performances of Dunlop, Primrose and bassist Dougie Payne are as spot-on as ever. But they have fewer opportunities to cut loose than in the past and, even if they were called upon to crank it up now and then, it wouldn’t be enough to breathe life into a group of songs puzzlingly short on hummable melodies or satisfying resolutions. It’s downright shocking that Healy, the band’s lone songwriter, who came up with the unforgettable “Why Does It Always Rain on Me” and the infectious “Sing,” brought so little to the party this time.

Believe me, this is not the sort of conclusion I wanted, or expected, to draw about this fundamentally likable band, which once offered such promise. I hope Travis finds its way again, before it’s too late.

Fans familiar with sunny, uplifting melodies like “Driftwood,” “All I Want To Do Is Rock” and “Flowers In The Window” will most likely be stunned by the melancholy tones, descending chords and mournful invocations of 12 Memories, the new head-scratcher from Scottish quartet Travis. Kickoff single “Re-Offender” is a surreal sonic slice that deals with physical abuse, the kind frontman Fran Healy’s mother once suffered at the hands of his father; its violent Anton Corbijn-directed video, which depicts the band members punching each other senseless, has already been edited for British TV. Even darker tracks like “Quicksand,” “The Beautiful Occupation” and “Peace The F--- Out” (which climaxes with an entire London football stadium chanting the title) deal heavily with post-9/11, Iraq-invasion trauma. Why? “Guess what? There are no flowers in the window around the world at the moment,” snaps Healy, lunching in his swank New York hotel suite with band bassist/confidante Dougie Payne. And he ain’t just whistlin’ “Dixie.”

Healy is still mystified by his composing process. “You’d laugh if you saw me writing songs,” he says, in his pudding-thick Glaswegian slur. “I don’t think when I write —I just sit, drop the bucket down the well, leave it there for awhile, pull it back up and then pour it into whatever I’m doing. Then I’m left with a song like ‘Beautiful Occupation,’ and I’m thinking ‘Wow! Where did that come from?’” Call it zeitgeist. Healy — with his lissome, feathery vocals and purple, evocative poetry — has always been one of rock’s most sensitive guys, tapping into the spiritual needs of a young, soul-searching generation with chiming Zen-like missives such as the recent “Side” (“We all live under the same sky / We all will live, we all will die … the circle only has one side”). But now that cold, hard politics have encroached on that spirituality, the artist has no choice but to react accordingly. So the Epic-issued 12 Memories, Healy cedes, “is a very aggressive album. But it’s intrinsically hopeful. The very fact that you’ve written songs about these subjects means that inside, you have hope. There’s hope in you, and hopefully everyone else.”

Over a year ago, Travis drummer Neil Primrose was injured in a hotel mishap; his spine was damaged to the point where doctors swore he’d never walk again. As the band waited for him to recover (which he did), Healy had a sudden revelation: “One day I woke up and went ‘F---! I’m an artist! That’s what I am — I’m not a pop star or a famous person.’ Hallelujah — I woke up to the fact that I’ve actually got something to do, and your job as an artist is to stand in the crow’s nest and call out ‘Iceberg!’ or ‘Land ahoy!’ You shout down to the deck, and they avoid disaster or celebrate new-found land.”

Consequently, Travis proudly became a political animal, baring its fangs on new anti-war, anti-Bush/Blair material. “Politics has retarded us as a species,” Payne says. “It’s holding us back from realizing what’s really going on and keeping us away from the truth.”

Healy agrees. “I was so amazed that on our island of Britain, five million people got off their fat asses and marched to say ‘No — give the weapons inspectors more time in Iraq.’ When you’re a child, the most powerful word is the first one you learn—‘Why?’ ‘Why, Mom?’ And she says ‘Well, because the sun comes up in the morning.’ ‘But why?’ And you keep on saying it. But you should keep right on asking ‘Why?’ Why did they fly planes into the Word Trade Center buildings? Why do we have to go to war? Don’t just follow these politicians off the edge of the precipice like lemmings.”

During an experiment /photo-shoot (another Corbijn assignment), Healy even strolled through the streets of New York a couple of months ago holding a sandwich-board sign that read ‘Peace the f--- out.’ Although one elderly woman chided him for his vulgar language, and absolutely no one recognized him, most responses were positive, he reports. What should Travis fans glean from all this? Healy has a theory. “You know the saying, ‘the glass is half full’ or ‘the glass is half empty?’ Well, any proper piece of art has to be both for the viewer or listener, and they decide which of those two things it is.” “And the viewer’s response is more telling than the actual work concerned,” adds Payne. “It’s almost like art is a barometer of where you’re at, emotionally, when you see or hear a piece of work. Because good art is a blank canvas, really.” “So if people say “Peace The F--- Out” or 12 Memories itself is angry and aggressive, then they’re feeling angry and aggressive,” concludes Healy. “Because for me, they’re both angry and funny. But hey—that’s just me. I’m an artist, up in the crow’s nest.”