After offering eleven songs on the hilariously titled 10 for the People, Jamie Webster is back. His prose is dull, his album cover appalling, but he’s sprinting around that big ball of fire on Running Around the Sun. Circumstance is everything when it comes to experiencing new music. Webster’s last contribution to the industry was being mocked for that dreadful accident and emergency song. Ironic that a song about pressing issues had no pressure for change and was just an account of what you may or may not see in a waiting room. Webster is not one for metaphors. His clarity is his greatest downfall too because what he observes has neither the magic nor the meanness to stick. He plods along as ever on Running Around the Sun, an album that’d be a sickening listen even if you didn’t feel like you’d had to upend your life for the second time in a year. Webster singing the obvious truth to no new power will be enough to make you want to bawl your eyes out.
Quite the feat. But we’re crying at, not with, Webster. His miserable guitar rock style feels tremendously hollow. It’s odd that it holds so little conviction when he finds himself trying to establish himself as a cultural commentator. He just doesn’t have it in him. Webster’s music is lacking in any commentary that can be observed as a rallying cry or even a considerate undertaking of modern problems. His acoustic, clapping noise on opening song Ode to Me and You is a tribute to himself and whoever wants to slot themselves in place opposite Webster. He still has a fine voice but isn’t offering his talents anything worth singing about. Nothing lyrics will lead you nowhere. Catchy does not mean considerate. Webster has an ear for a decent riff still but his lyrical output is singular. We must take action against issues before the issues become too much. What action? Which issues? Webster is a one-note performer and can’t be bothered to explore his message.
Pointing out the issues of the modern world, be it the landlords or zero-hour contracts as heard on Modern Living Symphony, is not political action. It’s observation and trivial at best. Webster’s failing is not in taking action, but in failing to push the cause further. Small Town Life is a pathetic song. There’s the usual hang-ups about how the local high street had its heart ripped out but no occasion where Webster finds a solution or satisfaction with the new role it plays. If he wants to play politics then he at least needs to know where he stands beyond “this change is bad.” His writing is the core of Running Around the Sun, and it makes it such a miserable listen. His instrumental work isn’t much better. The same plodding and hollow riffs that’ve dominated the guitar rock genre, bar a handful of alternative rock gems, for the last decade.
He’s talking, but people don’t listen; that’s the point of Wherever You Are. The problem is not in those turning away from Webster, but in the lacking wordplay. Faux unity across every song and some gruesome piano notes that are put in place to yank at your heartstrings until tears form through pain, rather than perspective. Just Begun is one of the worst songs you may ever hear. The Gerry Cinnamon stomping with all the political nuance of a bloke six pints of John Smith deep at your local Wetherspoon. Webster says he lost his way and will, hopefully, get it back one day. He hadn’t found his way to begin with, and Running Around the Sun gets him no closer to anywhere special. Flickers of interest on Turning Point are extinguished by Webster’s comical lyrical qualities. He writes as though he’s aware of the real world but isn’t a part of it. His heart is in the right place, but his head is on Mars. Absolute dreck from song to song, with the simplest route taken in every moment. Music for people who unironically say “our kid” when referring to a friend.
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