Blur - Think Tank (Reviewed by Q Magazine) http://www.saunalahti.fi/~hynninen/vblurpage/articles/reviews/albums/think_qreview.htm It's Damon albarn's world beat album. No, come back! Damon albarn has always appeared to thrive on conflict--with the world, with other bands, within his own band, with his own identity. Spiritually, he's both a lover and a fighter, a dewy-eyed romantic who can get competetive over who'e just bought the best baldness-concealing hat. And, musically, much of the creative conflict in blur derived from his relationship with recently departed guitarist Graham Coxon. For a band to lose its guitaris in the early stages of recording a new album could be considered careless, particularly if that guitarist is one of the very best. There's no shining precedent for great bands dumping their mercurial leading musician and carrying on unscathed: remember the Clash's Cut The Crap "comeback" without Mick Jones? But then, recent offerings suggested this once-inspired partnership was playing itself out. On the deeply unlovable Music is My Radar (the new track on 2000's Best Of) they appeared bound together in pointless, bloody-minded one-upmanship; Albarn singing like an addled Mick Jagger while Coxon teased exploding elephants from his guitar because, really, what else was there to do? With Coxon now painfully ejected, the situation has obviously necessitated a rethink and, as we know, Blur do like a good rethink ("britpop? No, not us..." etc). In the four years since last album 13, Albarn hasn't seemes overly pained by Blur's absence. When not dominating the international dance-pop arena with Gorillaz, he's struck a peacealbe, questing figure, taking his melodica round corners of the globe not used to seeing many former Britpop luminaries. The result was 2002's amiable Mali Music project. At times the only thing missing from the post-millennial Peter Gabriel picture was a funny little beard. With session taking place in Marrakech, and Norman Cook and William Orbit assisting Ben Hillier on production duties, everything looks set for Blur's world-dance direction, the mutant offspring of Mali Music and Gorillaz. Actually, though, the pale blue ballads and scratchy grooves on blur's seventh album Think Tank feel endearing, playful, fluent, easy and eccentrically melodic. The songs are dressed up in enough ambient washed, tin-pt loops, keyboard and (gulp!) funky rhythms that, when they arrive at the checkpoint going, "Guitar-pop? No, not us...." you're actually inclined to believe them. There are numerous departures here, the main one being that it's barely ever in-your-face. At times these languid ruminations suggest a walk in the park, but, instead of Parklife's joggers and gutlords, today it's the dewy grass and sunshine that catch the eye. So, sadly for the worls of comedy, Blur never actively realize the ludicrous potential of their new "we got riddim" direction (although onstage dancing remains a worry). There are guitars (Damon revives his rudimentary strumming from the Gorillaz album), but they are rarely central. The beat-driven tracks veer towards the arty, white boy-with-beatbox line of Talking Heads and The Clash (actually, the low-slung hip-pop of Moroccan Peoples Revolutionary Bowls Club even recalls Big Audio Dynamite). Only the trudging, tedious six-minute squib Jets really need taking back to the shops. Opener Ambulance has clattering 80's drum machines, sax, pinging keyboards, inky backing vocals and Damon Albarn declaring with winsome triumph: "I ain't got nothing to be scared of/Cos I love you". After groping tentatively out from the foggy gloom, the song rallies itself into a more processional pulse that almost suggests that post-hip hop space-jazz orchestra that Albarn doubtless imagines. On The Way To The Club, meanwhile, is dubby and mysterious, a glassy-eyed celebration of nocturnal thrills that ends with a cascade of woozy synths. Less astoundingly, Brothers and Sisters suggests the Happy Mondays in stewed Delta blues mode. Never quite finding a killer hook, its stoned momentum remains slyly compelling thanks partly to Alex Jame's bassline. In the absence of those guitars, his loose-limbed lines--funky without trying to join Sly & The Family Stone--centre pretty much everything here. Aside from Gene By Gene (late Clash crammed aboard a clown's jolopy with a pinball machine for company), the album's prime Fatboy Slim moment is come-an-have-a-go rocker Crazy Beat. Coolly effective with an archly yobbish "yeah yeah yeah!" chorus, it's britpop/big beat hybrid take on The Stooges' I Wanna Be Your Dog. Surely a hit. Even those dreaded "world" influences are used lightly: politely pretty single Out of Time tingles with Andulusian strings; the lulling, half-lit Caravan easily inhabits a faintly Eatern European melancholy. Indeed, almost everything coheres around a beaten-up junk-shop fell. Quite appealingly, this album sounds squeaky, like it needs a spot of oil. According to Albarn, the lyrics concern "love and politics". In fact, the allusion to the iniquities of drug policy, blowing up deserts and a world spinning out of time never really register. The "political" intent here essentially amounts to sticking up a hippy V-sign and saying "Peace, brother". Love, though, arrives in abundance. The plainly pretty melodies of these ballads are a real pleasure after 13's small portions. Ignore their self-consciously under-done title--Good Song and Sweet Song spiritually revisit old wonders like Blue Jeans and Badhead, happy-sad tunes about living that might just be the soul of Blur's canon. The former suggests The Beach Boys signed to Twisted Nerve; the latter--with its muted, Erik Satie-like piano, angelic ambience and ambiguous, tugging tune--is even better. Like an injection of pure heartache, it's more touching than any of 13's rather stagy, declamatory love songs. More ambiguous still is bruised finale Battery in Your Leg. Coxon's only appearance, it's and almost-too-good reminder of the hole he's left behind. Over Albarn's pointedly tender salute, the guitarist unveils some head spinning flurries that suggest Kevin Shields toying with exotica. It's a marvellous performance, but it also poses question about where Blur go now. Despite the flaws here--the second half's too variable, the lyrics not sufficiently distinguished--their efforts to fill the guitar gap have produced a likeable, original work that sees them progress while largely avoiding "experimentation". But, without Coxon around, Blur are no longer defined by the rough and tumble, the frayed nerves or--to quote producer William Orbit on the 13 sessions--the sense of blood on the studio floor. Even at it's most troubled, this music exudes an odd calm, a supine surrender to the emotions and sensations. Albarn has apparently hung up his sword and stopped making a scene to concentrate on the love thing instead. This newly tranquil Blur is a genuine novelty and for now, at least, that's enough. (4/5) 　　　　　　 Stever Lowe Q Magazine, May 2003 --

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