Damon Albarn’s perspective seems to be firmly placed on Gorillaz, so the arrival of Uncommon Side Effects fills a gap in the market of rapier-sharp and kinetic pop. The album, fronted by Marc Valentine, could easily have been released in 1996, given its bouncy choruses and soaring guitars. Bassist Richie Poynton unveils his inner Alex James, especially on the hybrid art piece “High in the Underground”. Valentine’s imprints are unapologetically British, splashing and dabbling about London nights based on youthful reverie.
Every song stems from an Anglo-centric mindset. The jangly “NY UAP” is the commentary from an outsider looking at the American landmark. “You Are the Jet” – a celebration, perhaps, of Paul McCartney‘s superlative Wings – forms a barrage of propulsive energy that ripples throughout the song. Valentine, like Roy Wood and Jeff Lynne before him, understands the importance of an introduction, allowing the listener to imbibe the tune before a lyric emerges.
“Hanging on a Dream” was purportedly written with the Eurovision Song Contest in mind, which explains the clinical nature of the work. Bass-heavy piece “Temporary Buzz” is vastly more original: firm and purposeful countermelodies pivoting in a direction of their own choosing. The 1990s wash over Uncommon Side Effects, although Valentine focuses his attention on the punk movement with “Loneliest Part”; torrents of guitars are aided and abetted by tasteful strings.
“The Other Side” is similarly formidable: the sheer loudness of the drums edges out the vocals, showcasing a more ragged element. As a project, Uncommon Side Effects feels Larkinesque: fables of decadent follies followed by introspective ruminations on the wider world.
The singer-songwriter’s core philosophy cements “Half Moon Pendant”, etchings of a global critique found beneath the fuzzing arpeggios. “It’s just about enough to get me through,” he sings, a giggle rising from the vocal. Matching the lethargy next to a fiery chord, “Half Moon Pendant” ensnares the audience with decorative counterpoints. It’s refreshing that the record’s most compelling points – an opaque, eerie synthesiser courtesy of bandmate Neil Scully, and pockets of urban, undulating percussive tinges – are spread throughout the entire work, rather than sparing them for the closing numbers.
The closer, “When the Light Has Gone”, ties all the thematic undertones into a giddy climax.
Presenting everything in muted tones is a decision that pays dividends. A sense of muscular confidence parades across Uncommon Side Effects. Occasionally, I found myself searching for clarity in the metaphorical content, yet most of the compositions maintain cohesion.
Poetry has measurements. Ultimately, there’s something oddly comforting about the inevitability of time when explored in an immediate and heartfelt manner. Amid the drama, a commendable quality of musicianship emerges. Poynton’s contributions on bass guitar are particularly transparent, lending contrast and counterpoint to the vocal components. Rik Pratt’s drumming, on the other hand, is the dictionary definition of economy. When so much sonic mania emerges, it detracts from the work, so Valentine and friends wisely square everything down to the core essentials.
From the opening piece onwards, the singing twitches eagerly into action; a bonhomie that welcomes buyers’ participation. British rock traditionally spearheaded new talent by understanding this quasi-adolescent desire to prioritise form over function. Uncommon Side Effects is both an ebullient work and a concise one. The buzzsaw hooks hit their intended goals; the vocal leaps are concrete and aspirational. Much like Albarn and Blur, Marc Valentine packs many ideas into the songs, without overshadowing the basic purpose of the work. Blur struck gold with their third effort, Parklife, and judging by this effort, Valentine should be awarded a similar medal of excellence.