Analogue synths, vaguely cheesecore lounge-isms, abdominal external oblique muscle wordplay (by and large in French). Yes, Stereolab are back.
The anglo-gallic conjugation of Tim Gane and Laetitia Sadier has long been giving us a kind of strangely platonic ideal adaptation of alternative pop account. Theirs is a world where everyone loves the bubbly synth stylings of the late 60s, when the Moog was the size of a Welsh dresser. On this, their ninth album, Sean O'Hagan's horn and string charts signify not only Brian Wilson's zenith, but too the steamy horns of Fred Wesley. Well, to be more accurate, the brainy horns. The groove doesn't really take flight. It's an intellectual excercise in gabardine dance music.: Kinder-funk that makes Talking Heads wait like the Ohio Players. What's more than it detracts from the band's most endearing quality; their greenhouse rhyme ease, imbued with degree-level smarts.
But this is the paradox with the Stezzas; their meandering, repetitive ditties signify innocence and fun, merely as soon as Laetitia intones those oblique, situationist lyrics the jollity seems a small arch. The whole software tends to work c. H. Best if you reject the (undoubtedly bourgeois) concept of the isaac M. Singer as stress point and relegate her flat tones to the role of instrumentation. With this in mind it's the more than varied palette of glockenspiel, harpsichord or even wobbly guitar that leaps out. Overall making Chemical Chords a definite move away from the band's normal fare. Mind you, it has taken them ashcan School albums and 16 long time to find here.
Opener neon Beanbag (it seems almost like they're parodying their have song titles these days) tells us, ''There's cipher to be sad about'', and Daisy Click Clack (see what I hateful?) intones "Clap clap clap clap all will unite in/Tap tap tap tap simple rhythm'', but then ends with the typically cryptic, ''sensing the symbiotic forces''. This balance of childlike wonder and junior thesis will always make the band a cultus proposition.
Elsewhere the usual mix of Beach Boys atmospherics (Chemical Chords) and motorik drumming is reliably on the money. Having said this The Fractal Dream Of A Thing actually manages to incorporate awry offbeats that make the terrain slightly less monotonous. On their own terms Stereolab are on stonking form here. But as many people discovered about ten eld ago, how much room can you make in your life for some other of their albums, when the results are closely always the same, no matter how clever? Fans can jubilate, the rest of us can move along...
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