The Cooper Temple Clause are no doubt currently sketched over most proposed “best albums of 2003“ lists, with an anticipated backdraft of a prog rock revival.

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The cause? Their second album, Kick Up The Fire And Let The Flames Break Loose. I’m not going to try and define what makes “prog” here but instead try a simple comparative judgement. With (e.g.) Radiohead currently raising the banner for arty experimentation and the likes of Muse flying the flag of grandstanding FX rock, do TCTC have the kind of credentials to head up a new agenda, or are they more likely to end up as a sub-paragraph, section C? Let the minutes commence.

The Same Mistakes hovers into earshot with a grounded bassline and the kind of atmosphere you’d expect in an out-take from the Kid A sessions. A panned horror film strings sample, Joshua Tree guitars in the minor and a modal key vocal line that parallels the bass make for ambulatory listening, especially with the clipped refrain: “you can’t keep making the same mistakes.” All the parts become more sustained and forceful with a mash of cymbals dictating the beat, and when the song abruptly ends I’m still wondering where, among all these epic pleasantries, is the “prog” bit.

Promises, promises, indeed. The assault of nu-metal percussive guitars again goes against the album’s billing, but then again the angsty lyrics might gratify many a sullen teenager. There’s some spot-on coruscating guitar behind the more obvious elements of the mix, however, and as this breaks through at the close it seems things are looking up.

Ah, yes. The band have found some New Toys – specifically music box electric piano (see also track 8.) a TR-808, and a reverb oscillator synth. As a stark vocal line hangs amongst these (I must say that Ben Gautrey’s flimsy voice doesn’t especially do it for me), some high strings anticipate the chorus, featuring a disjointed bassline and some close vocal harmonies. The track has an overall sense of suppressed urgency, supplied by its busy rhythms and the fact that for its whole duration there never seems to be less than three or four things going on at once. There is an intriguing synth breakdown which meanders between the stereo poles till we hit full stop with the sounds of a prepared piano. Now this, although seemingly an afterthought, is more like it.

Things then go decidedly skewed. The subtle opening of Talking To A Brick Wall cultivates a Halloween handclap, accordion & Victorian piano mood for a Rocky Horror Show verse, when the ghost of Liam Gallagher’s past (in drag, presumably) rips his larynx all over the chorus. Some transitory synth tweaking later, the verse is regurgitated with a quivering side of heckle-raising organ and a distorted power kit. I’m sorry. I just can’t take this track seriously, although obviously the band does. Consider the unimaginative or wacky lyrics.

Exhibit A: “if at first you don’t succeed / try again for me.”
Exhibit B: “the flowers look like glitter / but so do you my dear.”

On reading, these may appear ambivalent, but hear them in their deadpan context and it’s not good. Despite this, the producer does well to rein in the many components for the creaky piano to reappear before a rather clumsy repeated refrain ending.

So, to track 5. Into My Arms opens with electric piano, lazy guitar strums and a harmonica that proceed to carry a plaintive vocal line. This sounds a lot like Spiritualized in one of their quieter moments. As the vocals bemoan having too little of too much of a good thing, and the all too audible breaths become annoying, some synth lines come darting all over the speakers like a couple of fireflies, there’s a Pink Floyd tribute tape loop and then bang! A hefty beat-slice of industrial power drums. A banal track is saved, although perhaps a little too late.

Heard in intended order, the U2 bassline entry of new single Blind Pilots is a bit of a mood breaker, as it gets melded to Sum 41 guitars and a hollering chorus. There is little worth commenting on in the transition from soft to loud to softer to soft to loud to soft…

A.I.M. by contrast, livens things up considerably with some miscellaneous interplay between a bassy, Aphex Twin-like loop and a solid rock drum beat. A new age vocal for the verse mutates to a sinusoidal melodic trajectory for the chorus (betraying more than hints of Kelly Jones from the Stereophonics). Then there is a good dose of heavy riffage with enough Waspy oscillator fiddling to maintain momentum. It doesn’t exactly push the experimental envelope but gets close enough to be the best of the bunch so far.

Out of an atmospheric primordial sonic ooze, Music Box emerges with echoed electric piano, a brush kit, then washed clean guitar and some genuinely affecting vocals (for a change). Programmed hissing and some tom beats (of the “now where have I heard those before?” variety for T.Yorke and co.) lead to gradual strengthening of all parts until bursting point arrives with a tantalising moment of clear the decks silence. The punchy down-tuned riff that results is enlivened enough but is rather quickly subjected to diminuendo until we’re left with the sounds of the eponymous box itself. Like you couldn’t see that coming.

The floating detuned dreamworld of In Your Prime can’t help but seem anything more like a late intermission with all the other tracks (bar no. 2.) topping four minutes.

So here we are at the end of this particular meeting, and the apology to be accepted comes in written form, apparently. So who was absent from this gathering? Ah, with that subtle John Barry orchestration, fret squeak guitar and reverb piano, and the 10.12min track duration, can it be the proper spirit of prog at last, rather than one of his underlings? I think so. Bear with me, as the footstomps and handclaps enforce a build-up to a strong rock-out chorus, and toleration of the lead vocal is still necessary (“We love the way you move”? Please.). But then, halfway in, it’s the ‘Floyd, man! And they’ve been playing with a TR-808! And there’s the dark bassline from the chorus again, someone’s found the organ pedals! What ensues is an entertaining foray into Richard D. James-esque challenges for sub-woofers everywhere. This keeps dissipating and then pulling you back in for more a few times, before finally adjourning up its own rear socket.

Where to sign the line under the The Cooper Temple Clause? They’re not as willing to let go of their guitars as the aforementioned band from Oxford, but also like a good bit of nerdy knob fiddling, more so than Matt Bellamy’s lot. In this, they have a lot more in common with the likes of Super Furry Animals who appear to take themselves less seriously but often compliment their string-plucking with electronic devices.

TCTC are worth a listen as a band trying to tow the fine line between throwing generic rock shapes and the stomping grounds of dance music.

It’s a line that has been trodden before, and although this album doesn’t achieve the trailblazing promise of its title, it certainly highlights an area in which to generate progression. D. Rose

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