Everything about 'Eat Raw Meat = Blood Drool', the penultimate track on Editors' third studio album, 'In This Light And On This Evening' is intentionally provocative. First, there's the Portishead-meets-The Knife haunting melodrama that surrounds Tom Smith's dramatic vocals which, andthis brings me to my second point, contain lyrics with expletives and the line "You're chewing with an open mouth. Raw meat. The blood drool attracts the flies". Smith and co. could not be more aware that there is a certain pre-set opinion that their band are nothing but hopeless stadium wannabes, capable only of producing uplifting but strikingly limited guitar anthems. Experimentation is their only option. The music they listen to is lauded by critics, the music they make is mocked by the same people.
'Eat Raw Meat...' is the album's high-point and had it been placed at the start of the record, most listeners would have immediately darted for the CD packaging to check they hadn't accidentally bought some avant-garde record by a French band going by the name of The Editeurs. If the core aim of this album is to adjust opinions and boundaries, then this very song would have immediately flip-reversed the prejudice, just like The Horrors managed to achieve with 'Primary Colours'. And you have to mention The Horrors as a parallel because both them and Editors knew they were up against it and clearly made an album that they knew most wouldn't be expecting.
But this is the downfall of 'In This Light And On This Evening': Editors seem as though they're not sure who they should be catering for, be it the critics, the haters, the loyal fans or the lorry drivers with Radio 1 blasting from 9-5. Accessible anthems meet daring experimentation and they clash, horns locked. Had this album been devoted to leftfield melancholy such as that found on 'The Big Exit' or the opposite; had it delivered ten 'Bricks And Mortar''s, endearing pop songs, then we'd have a fantastic record on our hands. But Editors ambitiously attempt to mould the two together and it makes for an indecisive, albeit fairly gutsy record. But there's not enough guts. Tom Smith seems phased at the thought of hanging from the edge, taking such a risk.
It's difficult to blame him. Editors have a lot going for them; high up on festival bills, having sold hundreds of thousands of records worldwide - they really do have plenty to please. But they were genuinely on to something with this album. Something quite significant could have been achieved. They'll be wanting humankind to claim this as a diverse triumph, blending soaring synthetics on 'Papillon' with touching notions of love on 'Like Treasure' but the horrible truth is, what comes across is the sound of a band finding their muse, pushing and testing themselves and then retreating at the last moment. They now find themselves stuck in a rut even more so.
