How little music must one have been exposed to in order to actually enjoy the recent comeback single from this Lucky Man?
Surely this drivel would appeal only to those who are so culturally compliant that their favourite TV programme is The Real Housewives Of Vacuityville. As for the paintings on their living room walls? ‘Nice Set Of Pins #236 (working title)’ by Jack Vettriano. Rest in peace, big man. Or, as he was also known, Pabno Picassno. Their favourite novel of the year so far? Dan Brown’s airport bothering The Secretest Secret Of Most Secretive Secretions. The spiciest meal consumed by such incurious philistines? Gino’s carbonara. Seasoning? Flavour? Substance? Adventure? Freshness? That stuff is for highfalutin aesthetes. In a word, snobs.
C’est moi.
Let’s be honest for at least a sentence. The first single ‘Lover’ couldn’t be any more dogshit if it had been squeezed from the lampshade-wide and bright crimson sphincter of Clifford himself.
David Baddiel is, lest we forget, an alumnus of King’s College, Cambridge. This 90s funnyman says Richard Ashcroft is “still the Scott Walker of Britpop”. Leaving much to be desired is his grasp of the terms “Scott”, “Walker”, “Richard Ashcroft”, “Britpop”, “the”, “of” and “still”.
Who is this Baddiel, anyway? He’s a public intellectual of the decidedly English variety who’s admired by lads-turned-dads-slash-grandads who miss ogling Melinda Messenger in Loaded spreads while listening to real bloody music like those bloody legends Cast and the Stereobloodyphonics. It is unfair to dismiss David Baddiel for making a career out of standing next to funnier comics. Sometimes he was seated next to them.
Regarding the fantasy footballer’s revelation in his popular pamphlet The God Desire, most of us terminally miserable atheists had that conclusion figured out by circa puberty. It doesn’t mean anyone should listen to him (or me) about spiritual matters or, failing that, his views on the enduring reputation of ex-Verve crooners.
Does he know the first thing about Scott Walker or did Baddiel just hear ‘Duchess’ on Radio 2 that one time? Because by the time he was Ashcroft’s current age, Walker had put commercial aspirations behind him and had taken to recording idiosyncratic avant-classical epics with an industrial tinge. This involved, among other nutty ideas, instructing his percussionist to replicate “the sound of claws scratching against the inside of an eggshell” and wrapping his baritone throat around cryptic thoughts concerning Bolivian refugees, the plight of American buffalo, unscrupulous arms dealers, Pier Paolo Pasolini’s horrible death, post-coital dysphoria and Adolf Eichmann.
Still we wait for Ashcroft to come within a gigaparsec of that kind of unbridled creativity. His latest response:
“I’m like lover, oh-oh, maybe we just birds of a feather / It’s like lover, oh yeah, I’m the chillest type…”
Why is ‘Lover’ quite so offensive? For one thing, it’s called ‘Lover’. The title needily echoes one of Ashcroft’s prior solo hits. His first, in fact: ‘A Song For The Lovers’. Second, ‘Lover’ shamelessly samples a superior song. Who knows how Ricky A (or his current enablers) cooked up that idea? It isn’t The Rolling Stones this time. That didn’t work out so well, financially, for a while. This time it’s Joan Armatrading. Presumably permissions were granted in advance. They shouldn’t have been because it doesn’t really work.
The pop production update applied to Ashcroft on ‘Lover’ comes off as strangely dated. The song and its accompanying video have a distinctly 90s boy band quality as the singer dances around going “ooh ooh” and asking “why we so strong together?” One of the higher brow comparisons suggests that the object of his wooing has “da Vinci eyes”. On hearing this ode she might prefer the ears of Van Gogh.
It doesn’t seem as though Ricardo Ashcroftioni is trying to appeal to a younger audience, exactly. That’d require having himself animated as a cartoon K-Pop singer or tattooing most of the skin up his neck. No, ‘Lover’ seems to be targeting listeners who are the same (middle) age as his usual demographic, only now the net is being cast (even) wider so it might also grab fans of music even worse than his own, such as 911’s hits or those of 5ive.
Ashcroft’s last solo album, 2018’s unsuitably named Natural Rebel, treaded water more dully than the nation’s premier puddle podcast, The Rest Is Splash. “He’s so comfortable in his well-worn big ballad rut that he almost sounds like a pastiche of himself,” concluded NME.com’s Mark Beaumont, accurately. That’s still where Dicky To The Asher’s heart lies and what he remains good at if you enjoy that sort of thing. The rest of Lovin’ You alternates between more of those signature, string-laden, slow and sorrowful pieces and giggle-inducing efforts in the purportedly modernising manner of ‘Lover’.
As far as the former are concerned, it’s so easy to predict exactly how the whole verse, chorus and guitar solo will go within the first 30 seconds of hearing each one, you might as well stick on the comfortingly familiar Urban Hymns instead. ‘Out Of These Blues’ adds a country twang to the formula. ‘Live With Hope’ uses a gospel choir. A couple of others are more stripped back and equally forgettable.
And then there are the dreaded bangerz.
‘Heavy News’ has a tepid dance-rock quality reminiscent of U2’s ‘Discothèque’ or Primal Scream’s ‘Beautiful Future’, albeit with better vocals to give it some credit. The ‘Classical Gas’-sampling title track is so awkwardly upbeat it recalls Chris Cornell’s poorly received Timbaland moment. “This is amazing!” Ashcroft tries to convince himself (and his listeners) on the chorus, inadvertently evoking the misguided musical enthusiasms of Jez Usbourne and Super Hans. It’s less yacht to Ibiza than a leaky peddle boat ride in Battersea Park.
Then there’s ‘I’m A Rebel’. (Alternative take: No, you’re not. Drop it now. Bucket hats are no more transgressive than BrewDog.) It’s mostly sung (or AutoTuned) in a piercing Bee Gees falsetto which isn’t exactly playing to the strengths of Mr Lover Lover. The music, meanwhile, resembles an early demo rescued from Daft Punk’s neon dustbin. The overall effect is so odd it might otherwise have come across as tongue-in-cheek. Alas, Ashcroft’s head barely has any cheekroom in which to press a fleshy tray of tastebuds.
Oasis are back from the dead. They’ve resurrected their old support act along with them. Now he has his own arena tour booked. The tickets will sell. The merch money will pile high, digitally, via chip-and-PIN.
History repeats itself; first as tragedy and second as farce. Big pungent farce, of the strength Jim Royle would expel after a particularly sprouty Xmas dinner.
Richard Ashcroft is as much the Scott Walker of Britpop as David Baddiel is the Spike Milligan of comedy is the new rock ‘n’ roll.
You’d think someone who is a million different people from one day to the next would have more than a couple of ideas in that busy noggin of his.
