Orwell: following days

Orwell
Following Days
Hidden Agenda
2002-08-27

In the mid-’90s, there was promise of a musical revolution, albeit a tuneful one. The remnants of grunge were to be washed away by orch-pop, tastefully arranged tunes that relied more on strings and woodwinds than flannel and feedback. Acolytes of Lennon and McCartney and David and Bacharach were to lead us to sunnier musical pastures.

Evidently, the revolution was cancelled — at least in the English-speaking parts of the world. The French, however, seem to have taken up the cause. Bands like Air, Fugu, and Tahiti 80 make gentle, sophisticated music for those consider Pet Sounds, not Nevermind to be the ultimate album of teenage alienation.

With their first album, following days, Nancy-based band Orwell joins the soft revolution. Like Moon Safari-era Air, the threesome makes ’60s-influenced pop with analogue electronic ornamentations. Orwell is more traditionalist than its compatriots, though; the group eschews Air’s meandering instrumentals for vocal-based songs. Orwell doesn’t share Air’s ironic distance, either, revealing a sincerity that sometimes seems lacking in Gallic retro-pop.

Orwell certainly wears its affection for the past on its sleeve: “Toutes les nouvelles parlent d’hier“, the album’s opener, loosely translates as, “All the news is about yesterday”. The track is a pastiche of ’60s pop sounds, from its percussive handclaps, to its swelling strings and moody psychedelic harmonies.

Throughout the album, Orwell continues to draw on classic pop, creating a dreamy, warm sound that’s comforting and familiar. It’s strange, then, that one of the album’s few missteps is the cover of Gilbert O’Sullivan’s hit, “Clair”, a song from the era the band so clearly adores. The song, a precious (and somewhat creepy) ode to O’Sullivan’s babysitting charge, is overly cloying, and Orwell’s minimal additions of electronic bloops and bleeps do little to enhance its appeal.

Orwell fairs far better when it makes ’60s- and early ’70s-influenced music rather than attempt to remake it. Interestingly, the band reveals some ambivalence about pulling from such well worn sources on the track “Live On”, the second of three English songs on the album. Although the lyrics praise the timelessness of that music (“Through the years it remains”, Jérôme Didelot sings in his breathy tenor), they mourn the loss of its newness. “I recall those golden years when everything was new”, Didelot sings, “Why can’t we live those days again?”

If newness truly is Orwell’s aim, the band has somewhat missed the mark. When Orwell does search for sounds outside of the ’60s, the trio cribs from other retro-minded peers. Touches of Portishead pop up occasionally, albeit in a less sinister form, and the High Llamas seem to have been a major influence, with the horn arrangements on “À nous…” sounding for all the world like they came from Sean O’Hagan’s pen. The two Euro-disco tracks that close out the album (excluding the reprise of “À nous…“), “Comme ceux qui savent poser leurs cheveux dans un angle de lumière” and “Des lendemains“, recall Air and Saint Etienne respectively. While Orwell isn’t able to convincingly pull off Air’s sexy style, the band beats Saint Etienne at its own game, producing a song with a chiming, sweetly anthemic chorus, set to a rock-steady bassline, that’s so winning, you wish it would last long after its fadeout.

Des lendemains” exemplifies following days‘ best qualities. The song, like the rest of the record, won’t stun listeners with its originality, but rather it will win them over with its accomplished craftsmanship. With its wistful melodies, delicate performances and elegant, textured production, and its palette of perfect pop, following days is an eminently listenable, highly likable record. It won’t change anyone’s world, but it will make it a bit prettier for a while. Vive la revolution!