There’s been much noise of late about Supergrass maturing, shedding that youthful skin, forgetting to clean their teeth, that sort of thing. Like playtime’s over or something. But is it not the truth that they’ve already achieved that, notably, as their career ploughed on through four consistently received albums? If the archetypal collective recollection of the band is a giddy, mutton-chopped teen rampage through tracks like ‘Alright’, ‘Caught By the Fuzz’ and ‘Mansize Rooster’, then have moments like the muscular ‘Richard III’ and ‘Sun Hits The Sky’, the dreamy ‘Moving’ and ‘Late In the Day’ and examples of the old formula updated with added experience (‘Grace’ and ‘Kiss Of Life’ to name two), not proved their wider credentials sufficiently? They have shown breadth, foresight and capability, and all without contracting artistic-dementia and demanding an unnecessary divorce with their past.
All things must change, variety is a spice, life is no still photograph. But changes should still be queried surely. And this change seems more like an excuse. In fact it’s less of a change and more just throwing valuable belongings out of the window. It’s an excuse to exercise the selfish artistic trait of wanting to be appreciated. Some bands need to experiment, to keep the hunger thriving. Supergrass, it seems, just wanted away with the noise. To be comfy. And to jam. Extensively. And what we’re left with after they’ve shunted their tightly zipped pop suss and sensible restraint out of the backdoor is a limp (as in unobtrusive and lacking, rather than completely impotent – there is still some capability remaining) sack of musicianship. Excited?
‘Tales of Endurance (Parts 4, 5 and 6)’ opens the record, revolving studiously around a Paul Wellar/Marc Bolan groove, surely designed with an extended Jools Holland alliance in mind, rather than anything as sweaty as a late night set down the Oxford Zodiac. Like much of the album it’s a well-measured jaunt, but the threat of prequels is enough to have you lunging for your copy of ‘I Should Coco’ like a crucifix. There are occasions, specifically the soaring Beatles funk of ‘Roxy’ and the ‘Ticket To Ride’ stealing ‘Kick In the Teeth’ (spotting a pattern?), when the effortless, familiar breeziness breaks through the cracks and it feels like they’re behind the wheel again rather than trying to orienteer with a flask. The helium powered ‘We’re Not Supposed To’ from their debut always sounded like it was on at double speed. Maybe this is what it should have sounded like. In which case, you know where the fast-forward button is.