Ahh, Supergrass. Those happy-go-lucky Britpop sideburned kids kicked on didn’t they?
They lit up our airwaves with their cheeky lyrics and rollicking melodies, occasionally exploring the darker side before darting back to what they did best. I say did, they’re on one of those indefinite breaks bands take when someone’s had too much to drink.
So, with a window of exploratory opportunity presented, commander-in-chief Gaz Coombes bunkered down with long time Supergrass producer Sam Williams to try and pull together a vision all of his own.
Here Come The Bombs in 2012 is, despite being one of the worst titles for an album ever, full of promise. No one expects a solo album from the singer of a band who’s most notable tracks are so brilliantly cheesy that they couldn’t possibly have been compiled by anyone less silly than their bake-bean lyrics.
Not true. There’s far more to Gaz Coombes (and Supergrass for that matter) than pumping on stereos, whatever that really means.
The opening patter of the title track gives way to a moaning Coombes, deep in a mellow gloom. The dimmed entrance is something we couldn’t really attribute to his past works, so this alone takes the ear further with more than a little intrigue.
Skimming over the distant but upbeat “Hot Fruit” through the slow groove of “Whore” it is ever clearer that Coombes’ voice is the central, driving element. hrashing guitars are cast aside, unveiling the dense undergrowth that always held Supergrass above the also-rans.
Writing credits are shared for half the album with longtime Supergrass producer Sam Williams and this is not to be undervalued. After all, a pampering producer is as useful as a friendly pool deck silver medal-winning swimmer.
Throughout the record there are layered elements, stemming from drum machine beats, crashing cymbals and overdriven bass, brokered with intermittent guitar fills. Delicately piled together, there’s something in there alright, but the cursed mid-album lull takes hold as the overblown “Stimulator” fails to satisfy anyone.
Fitting into the mould that’s become the “indie” status quo seems to have come far more naturally to Coombes than most.
Strands of The XX and Atlas Sound are signs of an appreciation turned to influence, so raising the bar to the pulsating “Break The Silence” is something that may well herald a new dawn for the monkey-grinning Gaz.
If taking a break from the big noises is going to conjure up this sort of result, let the “indefinite break” continue.
– Ciarán Wilcox
