More about: Blur

The new blur album, I’m delighted to say, is an absolute bloody corker. A blast from start to finish. It honestly felt, to me, putting it on at home, like bumping into an old mate I hadn’t caught up with in years.

‘St Charles Square’, you know, the single, is surely up there among the all-time pantheon of indie bangers – marinated in blur’s distinctly melodic Essex-geezer secret sauce. Get a load of that rollicking cry of ‘Oi!’ at the start, its screaming, caterwauling chorus, and Graham Coxon’s staggering zig-zag riff. Lovely jubbly.

"The sheer level of inventiveness, of brio, of uncut artistic vitality on show throughout The Ballad Of Darren is downright inspiring."

For a bunch of lads in their fifties, who’d be forgiven for kicking back and just touring the greatest hits, the sheer level of inventiveness, of brio, of uncut artistic vitality on show throughout The Ballad Of Darren is downright inspiring.

‘Barbaric’, which I think is probably a breakup song, has the most irresistible golden-age indie chorus I’ve heard in yonks. So very Britpop, blessed with a sunny seaside sensibility. The most potent emotional seam running through The Ballad Of Darren is that of wistfulness. Apparently, according to Damon Albarn, this right here is an ‘aftershock’ record. So the boys have been through some stuff. These aren’t the same lippy lads that rose to fame mocking bourgeois cul-de-sac townies back in the day. These songs seem wiser, more thoughtful – yet still positively bristling with wit, crammed full of hooks to spare.

‘Faraway Island’ is a gorgeous little waltz, all whimsy and filigree. ‘The Everglades’ is as lush a ballad as they ever recorded, sweet as cider, refreshing as summer rain. On ‘Russian Strings’ the band veer uncannily close to that lounge sound Arctic Monkeys get so much grief for imposing on us these days – same producer, James Ford, innit – but somehow blur pull it off with so much more grace.

How so? Albarn’s voice, instead of sounding strained and affected with age, lopes around the place, luxuriantly shabby, like an old pair of Reeboks you wouldn’t dream of chucking out.

“What’s the point in building Avalon / If you can’t be happy when it’s done?” he asks us on ‘Avalon’. What’s he getting at there then, eh? Getting old and feeling pretty zen about what you’ve achieved? As well he might, turning out tunes of this heft and quality, consistently – earlier this year he got to number one with Gorillaz, remember – since way back when Thatcher was prime minister.

Even when this LP is wistful, which it is quite a lot, it’s never mawkish. Blur genuinely sound like they’re having a good laugh here. And when it’s really cooking, like on ’Narcissus’, it’s no exaggeration to say listening is a spiritual experience.

And in case you forgot how bloody yonks before blur became an established force in English heritage rock they were basically just four pisshead art school iconoclasts, closing tune ‘The Heights’ crescendos into an ugly, mischievous swell of moody guitar pedals, then just cuts off to a dead silence. A gnarly avant-garde middle finger in the face of their critics. Too fucking right mate.

Grab your copy of the Gigwise print magazine here.

More about: Blur