For the past decade, Mystery Jets have proven expert imitators, churning out quirky approximations of The Cars, Radiohead and Syd Barrett-era Pink Floyd. But the UK quartet upped the derivative ante with 2012’s Radlands, a semi-concept LP—featuring characters named Emmerson Lonestar and Sister Everett—which they crafted in a Texas rental house to breathe in that genu-wine Yankee dust. Overall, an awkward (if charming) digression that landed closer to parody than pastiche.
The slower the tempo, the heavier the awkward Chris Martin influence: “1985” is the low point on Curve of the Earth, its naked piano arrangement exposing cringe-worthy lyrics: “For the first time in my life, a space has opened up between tomorrow and tonight,” Harrison flutters, his gaze on the heavens. “Saturn will return us back to 1985, when we was just a spark in star-crossed lovers’ eyes.”
Ballads continuously kill the vibe, and Mystery Jets save the biggest buzzkill for last: Closer “The End Up” pipes in some of Radlands’ lingering folk strum, with Harrison playing the role of a wide-eyed child (or weirdly childlike adult): “How we end up with who we end up / Is it just a question of luck?” he sings, as synths throb in the distance. “Won’t it be strange to see how we change / when we’re all grown up?”
Luckily, when they rev up and cut the cute, Mystery Jets remain a first-rate psychedelic band. “Blood Red Ballon” borrows a lumbering Dark Side gait, stretching out to nearly seven minutes with withered synthesizers. The expansive arrangement of “Saturnine” is part “Great Gig in the Sky,” part “Comfortably Numb,” climaxing with a bluesy, David Gilmour-styled guitar solo. Occasionally, the quartet even seem like they’re having fun: “Bubblegum” shifts toward the dynamic heartland-rock they teased on Radlands, highlighted by a sputtering synth lead.
Curve of the Earth isn’t a complete rebound—there are too many fumbles, too many eye-rolls. But in its fits of brilliance, Mystery Jets reclaim their throne as rock’s savviest copycats.