I wanted to like this album, this upfront personal account, this dreary autobiography with too many shitty details, this anti-rock, anti-poetry low for Bloc Party. I wanted to like Anatomy of a Brief Romance because of what it represents. It is an ultra-confessional, unshielded breakup album, radical and revolutionary in its own candour, spirited by the riches to rags of a gay relationship.
A pivotal moment occurs on Worst Birthday Ever: “your dad got his wish; his gay son’s no longer in love”. If this were surrounded by music with a few sharp edges that captures the complexity of a doomed relationship, if it were surrounded by accounts that weren’t so shit-eating in their literalism, it would elicit a strong emotional response.
Instead, it’s surrounded by one of the album’s nastiest germs; tiny spoken-word moments that make Kele Okereke sound like a right fopdoodle. A minute-or-so prior, he asks “what…you don’t remember? Well, I remember” in a manner so corny, its belongs on a cob. It might be even worse than the “but there’s something I need to ask you” / “so it’s important you don’t lie to me right now” excerpts of Muscleworks, or his interrupting his singing to say “beggar…belief” on Clark Kent.
His general vocal style is a mix of forced flamboyancy and an impression of stereotypical ‘00s Brit-indie singers. Maybe Kele always sang this way; maybe the stain travels as far back as Helicopter and I’m only just noticing. But at least back then he didn’t conclude songs as if reading a children’s story, like he does on 22.01.22.
The new ‘unstoppable force meets unmovable object’ is Kele’s vocal style colliding repulsively with some pretty dreadful lyrics. He drills his “flamboyancy” into Love Bombs, spearheading a “TMI” illustration of wishing to rough lover up, crawl all over him, before confessing to “thinking about framing the napkin you bled on and mounting it on my wall” in an awakening of love and lust that I wouldn’t have minded not being privy to. Points for attempting Streets of Rage club music.
He laments not seeing his boyfriend’s “favourite Bond” on Eulogy. He cheekily recounts his boyfriend’s jokester ways on Pigwig, as if his audience is to be amused by this rapscallion playing dead. What a guy. The pre-chorus goes “every day is such a vibe, every day that we’re alive”. I repeat, the pre-chorus goes “every day is such a vibe, every day that we’re alive”. Perhaps Kele intended it an ode to love and joy dizzying one to the point of such words sufficing.
But as far as that level of intent is concerned, I’m not really sure where Kele is going with all of this anyway. What’s he trying to tell us? Or is he just simply telling us what happened and he expects our jaws to drop in unison? Seldom does he pump any otherworldly meaning or feeling into these songs, though there are some examples to the contrary…
Coming On Strong features a harrowing instrumental, bursting with manic textural pileups – sinister bass, stray snare fills and unexpected classic rock guitar runs – like a bunch of heaving innards eager to blast through a man’s body. Then there’s the sophisticated, empowering and Killers-esque chorus of Lagoon Blue – “I choose you with grace / I choose you with sensitivity”. Moving On doesn’t scratch the exact same itch, but it’s another passionate one that at least tries to salvage something by attempting a penultimate track fever pitch, it’s just, kind of, missing the actual fever pitch.
The sonic aspect is a strange one. I called it anti-rock, though it isn’t the worst snubbing of rock music in the ‘indie band goes a bit ‘tronic’ sphere – you know, I’ve listened to Catfish and the Bottlemen. It isn’t quite a synthpop album, though it was produced by ‘80s pop icon Trevor Horn, who seldom holds his end of the bargain. Even the synth arpeggios of Now We Can’t Be Friends are watery and flat. There is little life in any of this. He pushes all life over the cliffside on Stories; just bad 2010s pop with those foul, glossy guitar templates so many mainstream songs contained. How dare Kele make a Daniel Johnston reference on this of all songs.
It’s strange to think just how much better Intimacy now holds up. Intimacy was also a breakup album, though much less deranged, and better remembered for its foray into electronic music – which it did better than Anatomy does – rather than its identity as a breakup album. It felt like a mean departure for Bloc Party, but not embarrassing. Anatomy is embarrassing.
I wanted to like it, but didn’t, because Kele Okereke – and, to some extent, the rest of Bloc Party – has been unfair to his own artistic capabilities. He was once a standout in a crowded sea of bandwagoning indie rock flavours of the month, who the NME would briefly laud before forgetting about. He knew he was a standout; he knew the scene was bullshit.
But there is a link. Bloc Party had guts in 2005 – albeit garage-y, post-punk revivalist guts that Razorlight would half-heartedly piggyback on – and it takes guts to make an album like Anatomy of a Brief Romance. It is but a silly album, full of asinine lyrics, musical flaccidity, and the level of performance I would’ve expected from a much worse, much less sincere, band.
Best tracks – Coming On Strong – Lagoon Blue.
Rating – 3 out of 10
