Album review: The King Is Dead by The Decemberists

Talented people forget why they were special; make boring music very competently 

I like the Decemberists a hell of a lot.  Probably their music more than their personalities, but I couldn't care less about the latter.  And that's despite Colin Meloy's excellent '33 1/3' book, which is a little bit about The Replacements' wonderful Let It Be (as billed) and an awful lot more about his childhood in Montana.  Anyway, it's been about 18 months since their last album, so I guess they decided it was time to churn out another.  So they went to an isolated farm with no ideas and hordes of celebrity collaborators (including ubiquitous professional celebrity collaborator Peter Buck), and strummed themselves off for the summer.

I can't imagine many people liking this album - I certainly don't.  Decemberists fans like me will buy it in their droves - and quite right too, because funding the next one can only help to rehabilitate them.  But I'd imagine they'll be split into two intensely disappointed camps.  The first camp will wonder where the grand ambition and narrative drive of The Hazards Of Love has disappeared to.  The second camp wasn't that bothered about The Hazards Of Love, but will still wonder why there are no wry, twee, aching songs about pirates, legionnaires, Chinese trapeze artists or even whales - no drama, no strings; where are the indulgences and reveries which defined their music?  Anyone hearing them for the first time will probably think 'gosh, it's pleasant enough, but I hope there are more exciting incarnations of Americana… that bearded, bespectacled indie guy who bought it for me is so very dumped'.  Either that or they'll regret not waiting for the songs to come round on the Decemberists-themed episode of Glee.  I wish they'd at least answer my letters.

It's hard to tell whether the country inflections (HARMONICA?!) are a designed and lasting change of direction.  Maybe Meloy was so hurt by some of the criticism aimed at The Hazards Of Love that he took it to heart and has skulked back to basics.  Or maybe, just maybe, this is his incredibly cunning one-off revenge: hey naysayers, this is what we sound like when all the things you claim to hate are gone.  Yes, much worse.  Now where did I put my encyclopaedic dictionary and big book of Victorian heartbreak stories for boys?  I'd love to overestimate him and assume the latter.

Some of these songs would have been dismissed out-of-hand as Tarkio album tracks.  I assume 'January Hymn' is going to be a (the?) single - releasing it in the next 10 days would probably help.  In any case, it's the only song I can remember after listening to the album three times back-to-back.  Best case scenario, The King Is Dead will prove to have been a parenthetical afterthought to fill a scheduling gap while they plot another masterpiece.  More likely these songs are intended as light, fleet-footed classics - but there's a awfully big ocean between timeless and sparkless; between pastoral and pastiche.

It pains me to say it, but this album has all the hallmarks of a band with no stories left to tell - for now, at least.  The lyrics are still book-fresh, but the intricately carved characters and playful wit of previous albums are gone.  I want to have to listen, not just hear it in the background while doing other things and forget it all instantly.  It's inoffensive and turgid, and I expect far better because they've consistently produced better.  Come back, Chimbley Sweep - all is forgiven.