Like Kasabian, who singularly lack the giddy eccentricities of the Happy Mondays, the silk-lined soul of The Stone Roses and the convincing future-anarchy of Prml Scrm, but nonetheless pack an efficient punch in their efforts to emulate, Editors are tied tightly to an influence but still come out seeming impressively bullet-proof. They should in theory be easy to write off, their spread of inspirations are even narrower than Kasabian’s, their own personality subtle, their ambitions unclear. But what ‘The Back Room’ delivers perfectly, and with little waste, is a focussed tribute to the attributes that made Joy Division’s memory so enduring, fashioned by industrious craftsmen, executed with tight flair.
The sound is obviously rooted in bleak, jagged mannerisms from all quarters, but comes fired from a much more contemporary pop canon, soaring and socking. It immediately invites comparisons with Doves’ back catalogue, from a production point of view generally and more particularly on the creeping, atmospheric ‘Open Your Arms’.
It is Tom Smith’s icy, looming, laconic monotone that does the most prominent work in defining the band. It has a slight touch of theatre to it, in that it feels like a performance piece, a study of character that could only be attributed to one very particular subject of great infamy. Of course where it differs is that it doesn’t constantly feel like a bad line direct to the depths of the human psyche, as it did with Ian Curtis. The lyrics are of stock merit, there are no great insights, but they have some effective turns. It’s really the fact that everything fits into place just so.
The capabilities they display throughout these 11 tracks of thoughtful, subtly climactic songwriting take them a step further than mere homage though. ‘Fall’ builds immensely out of a brooding muse towards a juxtaposition of supporting harmonies and ominous, piercing shards of guitar. ‘Fingers In The Factories’ and ‘Blood’ have all the dynamics and creative twists that made the first Interpol album so intoxicating, and the second which didn’t less so, only more elastic. And ‘Bullets’ and ‘Munich’ are stocked with pure piston-firing energy, oiled to perfection. Where imitation normally loses out to the original untamed expression, this is played so perfectly and with enough understanding that it successfully bucks the trend.