It's been a long time, not that anyone cares. But those exemplars of pastoralism, the couple that argue in whispers and who defined indie conformism for a generation of indie conformists, Harriet Wheeler and David Gavurin, are back with an album whose Stereolab-esque title is as near as they get to cutting edge. As defiantly unprepossessing as ever, the charisma-free zone that is The Sundays prompts one to ponder just what we actually know about them.
Well, they were obviously in further education during the mid-'80s, they liked the Smiths but haven't really kept up with music much since, though they did dust off their Joni Mitchell albums the other year. Sundays time is rather less hurried than the world in which the rest of us have to live; a bit like the Teletubbies universe. They've built a studio at their home in a pleasant residential district, though their neighbours don't know what they do for a living, with only the occasional late night taxi offering a clue. Oh, and they remain exactly the same in every way: the sound of Young England 1985.
As the '90s become the '80s down to the smallest detail - a right-wing elective dictatorship concealing blatant self-interest, tedious cultural conformity dominated by conspicuous consumption and powder-powered gibberish, Weller and the Bunnymen on the covers of both inkies in the same week - then this curiously dated and blessedly short collection might well find it's own niche. With The Verve's fine "Drugs Don't Work" sounding like an outtake from "The Queen is Dead", and the useless Dubstar and Gene offering their own takes on the Smiths legacy, only that sad case Morrissey, it seems, is incapable of cashing in. But seeing as The Sundays were once touted as rivals to the likes of the Sugarcubes - wonder what happened to their elfin girl singer? - the conservatism of this collection is remarkable.
Wheeler's "Fly, Librarian, Fly!" tones are intact and as touching as ever, but the songs seem to have been written in a snatched moment in their domestic ferment, and recorded very, very quietly so as not to disturb the baby. "Summertime" uses the same chord change as Steely Dan's "Peg" (or De La Soul's "Eye Know") to little effect, its feeble synth-brass stabs sounding comically dated. "When I'm Thinking About You" aspires to the languid feel of Mazzy Star, but ends up resembling "Loaded" as performed by the English department, while "Another Flavour" leaves the stale taste of Lloyd Sodding Cole in the mouth. And these are the highlights!
Honestly, if you hanker for a world before PlayStation, MDMA and Cubase, then this could be the ideal backing music for your theme party. But the rest of us can just leave Harriet Wheeler Badger and David Gavurin Badger to their chosen obscurity. Even Everything But The Girl have left them far behind: and can you ever have imagined saying that straight-faced a couple of years ago? "Static" just about sums them up.
3/10
Jimmy Blackburn