Admirably open wordplay has been the driving force for Brett Anderson ever since those early Suede days. His penmanship as both a lyricist and a writer with autobiographical work Coal Black Mornings is a brilliant display of memories without sentiment. Anderson somehow removes the soppy effectiveness of looking back on life. Instead, it makes for brutal and often wilder experiences where the Suede frontman explains his influences and his outlook. His self-titled solo debut is more of the same unique power and tone so easily found in Suede. But no longer backed by a consistent set of bandmates, Anderson sets out, naked and alone, into the depths of his memories. Here are the blueprints of Coal Black Mornings, and still these early works bleed into modern-day Suede offerings.
Love Is Dead may be an overly pop-driven start but the string section and Anderson’s vocal range is a nice blur. It contains the same microscopic experiences of Suede or Dog Man Star, but with the added range of reflections on fame. This self-titled work is very much a process of post-fame shame within an artistic project which Anderson called time on in 2003. Heading back to it now Suede are reformed, punching through with a sound that is, frankly, better than ever, is a bittersweet deal. Anderson details the exact nostalgia we have for those seasoned bands returning to the stage. Languid mornings are given a new perspective a decade removed from the original context. One Lazy Morning has Anderson step up his game, using those string sections sparingly but accompanied by a familiar, crunchy guitar sound. Where religion makes for the core of a few of these songs, it is never about true spirituality. Some of it feels like last-gasp attempts at finding the almighty as a purpose for continuing.
Other parts, like Dust & Rain, feel like underdeveloped attempts at recapturing the magic preceding this self-titled effort. Sexed-up yet sexless stories of ambiguous intent, Anderson holds firm in these moments of excess. Dressed up as glam rock-adjacent pieces, he struggles under the weight of what came before. But there are flickers of expanding and exploring the newer arrangements, the thrills to come from Intimacy, for instance. Stripped-back sounds across this self-titled effort make all the difference. It is not just a chance for Anderson to set himself apart as a solo artist but as a chance to explore new plains. Moments of loss and off-course experiences form the tender best of Anderson’s work here. To the Winter is a remarkably violent yet poetic piece noting those little details which burn with a hyperlocal brilliance.
Much of Anderson’s self-titled effort explores the opportunity to do little with a lot of time. Scorpio Rising promises to not make the most of time shared with lovers and even in the absence of a relationship there is a sense of gestation. A moment not to reflect but to just be. Clangers like The More We Possess the Less We Own of Ourselves are maudlin expressions of consumerism not just of physical objects but of experiences. A dull instrument but a genuine attempt at expressing fear of materialism. That is the key to this self-titled effort. Anderson makes for some genuine and compelling commentaries on his post-Suede worldview, and much of it is a time before the band. Closer Song for My Father is as brutally plain in its intent as it gets. An ambitious set of musical efforts, and much of it filtered through pangs of modern-day interest.
