1975 dared to be too big. Led by frontman and lyricist Mati Healy, the quartet called him a naughty brand of abundance throughout this decade: musically, referentially, emotionally, and all that. Healy pop pills, lick a coke and twirl a revolver before going up to the store and get a shot at the torso, but ultimately completely fine! – in the video for the early hit "Rogues"? He did. Did they share the name I like it when you sleep, because you are so beautiful, but you don’t realize it on their second album, because it was the only thing that was generous enough to fit the physisis of synthetic synthetic materials, plastic guitars and millennial neuroses? Of course. And they prefaced their new LP, Brief information in online relationships, with a 24-page manifesto that includes manic doodles (“THIS IDEA WAS PERFORMED BEFORE”), Healy's picture caressing the dog during the toilet, and a technophobic overview of our modern cluster that concludes: “THE LEFT AND RIGHT MORE THAN APPART BUT YOU CAN ONLY CLICK "ADD TO BASKET". “Yes, yes, and also yes.” To infinity.
Such a riot of excess may cause a casual observer to think: Who the hell are these guys thinking they are ?! It is reasonable. But he is also mistaken. Because 1975 is an incredibly unreasonable group for unreasonable times. Healy, their generation mouthpiece, is a guy who has never encountered contradictions that he could not fully dwell in order to stop the effect.
29-year-old star of a pop star who is passionate about shame and confused. He will play his charismatic role on stage or in an interview, and then immediately flog himself for it, as his incessant inner monologue fights inside his skull. Five years ago, trying to calm his brain, he turned to heroin and then to rehabilitation, and now he is a former drug addict who fears to fascinate the clichés of rock and roll he has survived. He is constantly online and constantly alarmed by what it does to our sense of self, our humanity. He hates Trump, but he knows that it’s boring to talk about Trump's hate. He is the son of two British television stars who in their youth were related to regular family visits such as Sting; he also once said with a smile that his “greatest fear” was “Sting”. He is an atheist who believes in a thing called love.
All these curiosities are spectacular. brief informationThe album is similar to its predecessor in its limitless understanding of style, starting from Afrobeats to a jazz ballad with a matte network on a single track, which sounds like a remix of the trap of a trip to Bon Iver ayahuasca. But then how I like when you sleep sometimes a tick can be too smart and cumbersome, brief information, produced almost entirely by Healy and drummer George Daniel, is more purposeful. Take this well in the style of Bon Iver, “I like America and America I like,” where Healy's voice turns into a smear of self-tuned slogans, an ad block on fritz. But listen carefully, and his bionic cramps begin to sound like the readings of the counters of a society that moves too fast to light up something meaningful. “Am I a liar?” / Will it help me to lie down ?! Healy squeals, too exhausted to dwell on answers too wired to take a nap. It is impossible to determine exactly where his actual voice ends and where the digitized effects are captured.
When it comes to a wider screen filter in 1975 in diseases of culture, as well as personal ones, the album hits a difficult peak with “Love It If We We Made It”. This is a rare hymn for our time, which really does its work: This thing holds the mirror to our collective faces so close that you can see your breath on it. When giant drums clear the way to him, Healey imitates an endless scroll where dead refugees and dead rappers slide along the same time scale. He repeats one of the most accursed tweets of the year – "Thank you, Kanye, very cool!“In one of the best songs of the year, in turn, exposing the current fallen status of Ted, nothing more than just a fleet for the news cycle. Healey repeats the name of the track for a vaguely optimistic hook, but his choking show tells a different story. The song ends with staccato strings that resemble a clock, mercilessly ticking in seconds.
In accordance with brief information, if there is some solution to our current apocalyptic predicament, it assumes to go beyond, risking a broken heart and looking for connections outside the screen. Still, Healy is the first to admit that this is harder than ever: the only marriage of the album is presented as a warning story, read by Siri, about a troll who falls in love with the Internet. "The man who married the robot" acts like a sly sequel to "Fitter Happier", a radiohead’s crazy nightmare from OK ComputerHe is sitting on a bed of alternating pianos, like a crazy parody of Facebook commercial ads that are desperately trying to get you back in. In the end, the troll dies. On the Internet, no.
The members of 1975 began to play together as a emo band in their teens, and they are still interested in snatching out a genuine feeling because of everything they touch. It is the thread that founds even their most dubious imitations, and makes their dilettantism more than a whole trick. At first, with his brilliant synthesizers and a dark tempo, “I can't be more in love” seems like a pure “80th schmaltz”, something that Michael Bolton could cut between yacht trips. But instead of cheering up in the musical ion around him, Healy takes off the sparkle as a challenge and turns into her raw performance for the whole album. Recorded the day before he entered rehabilitation at the end of last year, his vocals failed because he complains about the end of a four-year relationship with the panic of an emergency pilot. When he howls: “How about these feelings I have? “It sounds spontaneously, reworking the emo core into something sharp and new.
The album is booked with several songs that offer some stubborn comfort, nodding to the hometown of the Manchester group and the lives they once led there. “Give Yourself Try” – these are all pinched guitars and static drums, salute to Joy Division’s Mangun colleagues and their singer Jan Curtis, who killed himself at 23. Healy looks back on what he did that he could have done and what would he do otherwise, given the chance. He also mentions a 16-year-old fan in 1975 who took his own life. “Will you not try?” He asks sweetly, again and again.
brief information ends with the words “I always want to die” (sometimes), “the most life-affirming song of 1975 to date. His familiar theatrical performances are reminiscent of Glastonbury’s ability to another of Manchester’s most impressive groups, Oasis. But this is more than a tribute. Healy takes a wide ambition and exultation of the classic Oasis song and turns it inward, with words that recognize that you just need to go through words that can only come from him. “It makes no sense to buy concrete shoes / I will refuse,” he sings, decisively, before giving up another plea: “If you cannot survive; just try. ” Life becomes him.