The Pop Corporation

Whether Arcade Fire like it or not, there won’t be many reviews about their new LP that fails to mention the accusations against Win Butler’s alleged sexual misconduct.

As its been so well reported elsewhere, we’re going to focus on the music contained within latest releas, ‘Pink Elephant’, even if there’s a nagging send of this album being thoroughly unimportant, in the scheme of things.

And while Butler is literally in the group with his wife and are no doubt working some shit out, for which Arcade Fire die-hards may be able to pick apart and pore over, the fact is, on the strength of the music alone, without the rather bleak backdrop to it, you have to wonder why anyone would bother.

The album drafted in Daniel Lanois, who is known for his subtle, great Western soundcape production jobs, which on their day, sound like a million bucks.

Here, it’s a meek and feeble dribble over some songs that lack, say, the rousing quality of ‘Joshua Tree’ period U2, or the claustrophobic gorgeousness of Emmylou’s ‘Wrecking Ball’. You’d think, would you, that should this band have a point to prove, some detractors to take issue with, or even a heartfelt mea culpa, they’d write an album that sounded like everything was riding on it.

Instead, you’re largely faced with one of the weediest set of songs dressed up as anthemic you’re ever likely to hear.

See, we’re in a funny period in rock music where stadium sized bands have lost their way. Those great washes of sound designed to be enjoyed by people wearing glow-up bracelets and imagining a sea of flags at festival headline slot, now sound less like blissful, if benign good times, and instead, flabby, lazy and at odds with the agitprop groups being threatened with having their visas revoked or shithousing everyone like Fontaines DC and Geordie Greep do.

Coldplay might be playing the biggest shows of their career and rubbing shoulders with Beyoncé, but their better work is behind them while they wheel out new songs while dressed like preschool TV presenters.

And Arcade Fire fall into this category, appearing on SNL in silly clothes, posturing like they’re Van Halen, but emitting a sound that is pure wallpaper, and feels so at odds with the moment.

At least Chris Martin and Co seem like a nice bunch of lads.

Listening to ‘Year of the Snake’ and it’s “try something new” and “tried to be good” refrains, it’s a painfully pedestrian listen. Even when ‘Alien Nation’ cranks the volume up and has a go at a bit of chaos, it lacks the devastating beauty of My Bloody Valentine, or the bug-eyed catharsis of someone like Sonic Youth.

It’s just all so flabby and boring. In the past, a song like ‘The Suburbs’, you understood it’s appeal and they’d bothered to write a song in all that production. And while a track like ‘Wake Up’ is symptomatic of the nadir of post Millennial anthem-rock, at least there was some joy to be had watching people have a good time to such cynical fluff.

And now, with this first postshitstorm LP out, we’re met with a brightly coloured smiled slapped across an album that seems to lack the sincerity of rebirth, or hamming up the artifice like some tragicomedy.

Is this whole thing performative redemption? Is it interesting to try and eavesdrop into a band with a real life couple in it, working it’s shit out on record?

None of this matters, because it’s just too boring, too unfocused, and a mess of a record that chews the scenery throughout.

Whatever reason you find most compelling to avoid this record, go with your gut.