THE LODGER are Ben Siddall with Bruce Renshaw (drums) and Joe Margetts (bass). They have been spoken well of in The NME, The Guardian and many points in between. Their first album "Grown Ups" had me swinging the superlatives round my head like a madman in 2007. It charted in the UK, sold well in in Japan and had the band touring in the US.
It's a great delight to report, then, that this second album is an even richer example of indie pop miniatures whose delights go on sounding good after dozens of plays. It has weight, balance, melodic treats, lyrical assurance and instrumental inventiveness that all go beyond the achievements of "Grown Ups". And beyond "Grown Ups" is a very long way. Here is a band coming into their pomp.
The production was shared between the band and Sheffield's Alan Smyth. The careful unity of the album benefits from minimum instrumentation used with maximum variability and a studious avoidance of waste, repetition or standard tricks.
It also develops as a single work that yields the most pleasure when listened to in one sitting, played loud on good speakers. The fact that many of the songs can also be danced to makes it a bit of an indie disco classic, ready to be mined for a long time to come.
Track-at-a-time, the process works as follows.
"My Finest Hour" starts chirpy and straight away I notice the richer, more confident voice that the last couple years have developed. The verse-chorus structure is neatly done, with trademark sing-along quality making an early appearance. There's a subtle development as additional touches (and Sarah Williams sneaking in on backing vocals) lift the song right to the end. This is promising!
When the fizzy excitement of "The Good Old Days" bursts in like a sunny Spring day there's no way you're not going to want to hear the whole album. I just can't get enough of the chiming guitar and octave leaping bass: crazy, joyous irresistible. And like classic Smiths, the acidity of some of the lyrical content just sharpens the thrill.
"Falling Down", with its opening 12 string guitar and minor key feel slows things down. "It's a cruel cruel world, you're a cruel, cruel girl" cements the album's persistent theme of disappointed love and the urgency of higher things. It still can't help giving way to a long rolling chorus that makes all the misery worth it. And then, dammit, it dances like it was 1982 with in a middle section before that 12 string comes back in with Roger McGuinn memories.
"Honey" finds a another fascinating way to start a song, with acoustic guitar, a hint of holiday love interest, and then a torrent of Siddall-vintage words on love misplaced. There are string sounds and distinctly romantic possibilities, but somehow ... "why are you always hurting me honey" is how its bound to end.
"The Conversation" picks up the tempo. It's urgent - there's still someone holding him back, but here is stuff to do! "I don't want to fall in love". The breathless haste, the clutched sleeve, the guilty shrug .... changes are rung. It finishes on the near-despairing ambition of "I just wanna rise above!"
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"A Hero's Welcome" has a knowing touch of Johnny Marr about the band sound. Siddall's voice is noticeably agile and sinewy. There's yet another singable chorus. "Try to be nice, and this is what I get in return". The melancholy hasn't gone yet, clearly. "You'll never get a hero's welcome and that's something that you have to learn" is pretty damning, but there's a rueful ambiguity about who this applies to.
"A Year Since Last Summer"'s up-tempo skiffly opening usher in old friends and old flames. Simple truths are simply played. Bruce Renshaw makes cornball drum part sound exactly as it should. It; s compressed, neat, perfect. The lyric is nagged by an unsettling ex-lover's accusation. An unsolved mystery.
"An Unwelcome Guest" does a swift change into a confessional acoustic song that bounces off a bass part into something more dreamy and on to Tim Corbridge's lap steel guitar. "I'm feeling like an unwelcome guest." Poor old Ben. He really is the awkward one in any company (like all us blokes). But (we hope) he stays appealing and lovable. We hope for ourselves too.
"Running Low" has an ominous start and an ominous title. Have things taken a turn for the depressive, just when hope seemed possible? "I guess it helps to have a back-up plan in case". And then it gets more complex, with added keyboards and some artful twists and turns in the melody. Like a a reflective show tune two thirds through the story as things take a turn for the sinister.
But fear not! "Nothing Left (To Say)" bubbles from note one. This is a classic Siddall voice/tune switchback, with a tricky little chorus rushing along in double quick time. It's nearly the end as he warns us: "I've nothing left to say". Urgency wins and soft love is put back in the box.
It's nearly curtain time as "Famous Last Words" starts like a blues /soul classic denouement. Our hero is all tore down and there's nowhere left to go. Here we are at closing time, with one more drink and one more throw of the dice. The swaying tune gradually picks up, the voices get stronger "grab your spotlight! don't you hide! and the waltz tune rings out into the dark as if credits roll and we wipe the tears from our delighted eyes, planing to come right back and sit through it all just as soon as we can.
The guitar sound fills and builds, echoing with mournful love as we walk down the long corridor to the exit. The singing stops and as the last credits shine into an empty auditorium the crescendo dies.
What a lovely record.
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