Gene
Olympian

THE REVIEW

There are bands that profoundly mark a moment, a historical period, capturing through their songs the "face" of a generation, and then they disappear into nothingness, swallowed by the inevitable cliché of the "trademark," becoming irreversibly imitators of themselves. There are others instead who build their careers in small steps, patiently waiting for the harvest of their artistic maturity, indifferent to the rush and pressure of the music industry and the fashionable compromises dictated by the media and trends. This is the case of Gene, a band that has accumulated in 10 years an interesting "cult" following, but that has never really broken through even within its own context, almost as if wanting to maintain that shy and intimate attitude that paradoxically has long safeguarded their basic identity. When "Olympian" was released in February 1995, the British press did not hesitate to call it a purely "derivative" album (in this case, similar to the Oasis/Beatles comparison, the model of reference was identified in the Smiths) and to frame it in the then nascent Britpop movement. While admitting that these judgments are not absolutely misleading, I equally find that Martin Rossiter's Gene is still one of the most unjustly underrated and snubbed bands in the recent past of English pop rock. This debut album would fully justify my statement, starting from the beautiful cover (as indeed all those of this band), a darkened and painted frame, I think "in ink," that reminds me of a beautiful music video by the aforementioned Smiths, precisely that of "There Is A Light That Never Goes Out." The comparisons with the historic band from Manchester do not end here, but I find this is only a starting point to understand that "Olympian" is the natural chapter that follows the breakup of Morrissey & Co.

It is, by necessity, a particularly "English," nocturnal, and melancholic album that evokes atmospheres of other times. Rossiter's lyrics tackle themes such as the obsessive dependency on love and alcohol, approached with the fatalism of an Ian Curtis yet at the same time emanating that subtle beam of light that allows the listener to breathe, and hope. It's so that the effect each track provokes in the listener is similar to that of an antidepressant, a sort of massage now soft and alluring, now vigorous and assertive: the anthem "Haunted By You," which plays on a good melody beautifully rendered by the contrast of organ/jingle jangle guitars/Rossiter's voice, certainly belongs to this latter "category." But then the sounds are covered in velvet, the lights dim, and one is entranced by the obsession of "Your Love, It Lies," the chanting sweetness of "Truth, Rest Your Head" interrupted by the emphatic and dramatic refrain, the engaging nostalgia of "Car That Sped." You reach this point of the album, and you light your first cigarette: the rest is taken care of by the dirty and restless rock of "Left Handed," the poignant grace of "London, Can You Wait?," the tense "To The City" (the track most reminiscent of the Smiths), the "nervous quiet" of "Still Can't Find The Phone," the comfort of "Sleep Well Tonight."
The subdued and reassuring piano of the title-track guides us to the final farewells, with the concluding song leaving us with the, perhaps naive, hope that "We'll Find Our Own Way": Steve Mason's guitar and Martin Rossiter's voice embrace you one last time, and you feel better, much better. Whether Gene has truly found their path is a question I cannot answer: perhaps this was the journey they wanted to undertake from the beginning. I only know that when I remove this CD from the player, I can truly fall asleep serene and confident for Our Life. Goodnight.