
Ex-Slowdive man Neil Halstead’s Mojave 3 are the kind of band that lend themselves easily to good cop/bad cop criticism. Their fans and champions will applaud a modesty and unpretentiousness bordering on outright humility, while their detractors will rail against the overbearing un-objectionable-ness, whilst listing the broad array of bands from whom they’ve generously lifted phrases, melodies, and textures. Absolutely, Mojave 3 are derivative, formulaic, and only intermittently memorable, but these attributes can serve as strengths or weaknesses depending on the predisposition of any one listener. At various intervals throughout my first listen to Puzzles Like You, I recognized most predominantly the ghost of The Byrds – the lush harmonies, jangly arrangements, and omnipresent summery tambourine – alongside fragments of Manzarek organ, melodies stolen from George Harrison... and so on…
Immediate standout ballad “You Said it All Before” – the title of which could easily serve as acknowledgement to Halstead’s much-plundered cultural heritage – is the most affecting non-cover version of Lou Reed’s “Pale Blue Eyes” I’ve ever heard, and that’s not as flip an observation as it may initially sound. Contrarily, it’s a gross and admiring compliment, for while the song offers little which may be deemed “new,” it occupies a time-honoured sonic-emotional space – the haunting, wistful, slightly languorous lovelorn ballad once so effortlessly peddled by Reed and co. – with such loving respect, that it’s humble revisionism is quite endearing. In the tradition of Reed and history’s coterie of fucked-up neurotic balladeers, Halstead’s lyrically geared toward presenting slices-of-life, miniscule theatres, bursting with lost and failed love (“everyone I’ve ever loved is a fuck-up”), though fittingly lacking Reed’s literary pretensions and street edge. Curiously (and arbitrarily even), the majority of the album’s cast appear to bear names beginning with “J”… Who put the “J” in “Mojave?” Judy, Jenny, and Johnny, apparently.
As a guy who rates Slowdive’s Dagger (used to devastating effect on the soundtrack to last year’s Mysterious Skin) as one of the finest apocalyptic ballads ever recorded, it’s reassuring to note that Halstead’s gift with simple yet touching melodies has survived the transition of its creator from whimsical sub-My Bloody Valentine copyist to whimsical sub-Byrds copyist undiminished, although after 40-plus minutes of such unvarying fuzzed-up prettiness, you may find yourself craving the more substantial crunch of a “To Here Knows When” or and “Eight Miles High.”
“Big Star Baby” may best encapsulate both the mood of the album, and in its lyrics legitimise the aforementioned humility in it’s refrain of “I don’t wanna be a big star, baby,” a fair decision dear Neil, and a reminder that nobody actually is forced to listen to this record. If its generic lack of ambition irritates the hell out of you, remember you reserve the right to switch off.
I’m glad they exist, if only for the critical conundrum they present. Usually, as a punk-ass-bitch reactionary, I’m prone to denouncing unoriginality with searing venom. But with music as unobtrusively pretty as this, I’m inclined toward a live-and-let –live compromise. Musically, it’s expertly arranged, produced, and performed and in an era where every album is heralded as or expected to be revolutionary: it’s quite refreshing to encounter a band so content to respectfully rehash the threads of their heroes. Puzzles Like You is a gentle, breezy, frequently gorgeous – and uncynical – record that may enrich lives as ephemerally as a homemade lemonade on a simmering summer day. It won’t change the world, but it more than deserves a place in it. And for the record, maturing is not synonymous with mellowing. I’m off to listen to some early Boredoms. Ac-c-c-i-i-i-i-d…
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Nick Hudson