My Life Story
Joined Up Talking

Respecting the framework proposed by "The Divine Comedy," the small orchestra of My Life Story (composed of 12 members) attempted to make their mark on the British public, without achieving the same success as their aforementioned predecessors. Probably because in the debut year, 1995, "britpop" was literally monopolized by the Oasis vs Blur feud (just think of the respective albums released by the two groups that year), to the point of overshadowing any other UK-made music release.

If we add to this the fact that "The Mornington Crescent" by My Life Story was quite distant from the stereotypes of that time, it becomes even easier to understand the reasons for a difficult rise. Given this premise, it may seem cliché to say, but the most appropriate adjective to describe the sound of the band is "orchestral." The inspiration can be found, in my view, in the pompousness of certain arrangements typical of the '60s; upon first listening, the initial thought goes to tracks like "Eloise" by Barry Ryan. To exaggerate, in some cases, it feels like the classic rhythm guitar parts are replaced by violins. The turning point in 1999. It is not difficult to understand why, but I don't want to delve into sterile criticisms regarding potential commercial choices, in the vein of "this is our job, we have to make a living."

The orchestra is gone, the remaining four members decide, aided by Jake Shillingford's vocal delivery halfway between Marc Almond and Damon Albarn, to aim towards properly "brit" sounds. The result is "Joined Up Talking," a stylistic compromise achieved through a drastic reduction of symphonic incursions in favor of the use of '80s keyboards and conventional, yet enjoyable (sometimes excellent) pop arrangements. If "Empire Line," a sort of bridge, attempts to combine the old sound with future intentions (a slow, orchestral verse and a sunny, hum-in-the-shower chorus), the catchy "If You Can’t Live Without Me Then Why Aren’t You Dead Yet" and "It’s A Girl Thing," in Blur’s repertoire, would have been sure hits.

"Sunday Tongue," a perfect example of a melancholic yet not too much pop song, is simply delightful (the "electric" verse is curious, absolutely out of place, where any other band would have inserted an instrumental interlude). Sooner or later, I expected a drop; unfortunately, it lasts for half the album, due to bland yet catchy tracks like "Walk/Don't Walk" and "The New New Yorker." After "Neverland," a classic boyband ballad, the rock burst of "Stalemate" is an almost unexpected breath of fresh air; the incredibly sophisticated "Two Stars" (does progressive pop exist?) closes the album, managing to make me forget some not-so-bright episodes.

Nothing transcendental, but a casual listen might not displease you.