Some bands – well, most bands – as good as they are or have been, still have an uncanny ability to make you wince with apprehension, adopting the listening equivalent of the crash position in case of impact, fingers over eyes, elbows over ears, when spinning any new album. There’s always that strong possibility that the stack of expectation amassed since their last acclaimed release will collapse in on itself leaving a pathetic pile of dust, debris and dead hope amongst which the band continue to play as if they’re changing the world, which of course they’re not, the deluded simpletons. Spoon, simply, are no such band.
They’re one of the very few that aren’t. Every album of theirs is guaranteed quake-proof multi-story pop, with no apparent chinks to speak of. They’re the redwood giants of indie. This album, their sixth, from the moment ‘Don’t Make Me A Target’ shuffles on amid rooting drums, pounding piano and a wonky impassioned croon, is of course no exception. It also makes the Cold War Kids’ flailing shtick seem somewhat careless in comparison.
Their recent fulcrum, a backbone of British Invasion 60s pop with new wave tendencies, remains in place, churning with expected constancy. But as with every album there’s a rebounding off into new textures, this time with the softly ingrained full soul emotion of Motown ringing through. ‘You Got Yr Cherry Bomb’ cranks up with ‘Stop In the Name Of Love’ drums, a classic chiming insistency and cranked wall of sound harmonies. Throw in some firm, elastic reggae (the bounding ‘Eddie’d Ragga’), tighten it into ska and throw it back to the 50s (the arm waving ‘The Underdog’) and draw a line somewhere in between Queen in the middle of ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ and Frankie Goes To Hollywood (‘The Ghost Of You Lingers’). This is a joyfully eclectic album with its anchor down and though it might not flip out with such wired kinetic energy as the highlights on ‘Gimme Fiction’ there is more than enough craft and intrigue to keep you transfixed.