Prefab Sprout
Jordan: The Comeback

The Prefab Sprout are universally recognized as a balm for the contemporary pop scene. They have credibility, but they are not successful. They are almost forgotten, the core of the band disbanded: the leader and mastermind of the project, Patrick Dominic McAloon, more commonly Paddy, has been a solo artist for about fifteen years and, for various reasons, releases something, old recordings, old demos rearranged and remastered, maintaining the project's name whenever some record label allows him. Because ours is compulsive, bulimic: he writes and composes at a frantic pace. He made entire albums on Michael Jackson, Donna Summer, imaginary characters, situations, catastrophes, experiences. A visionary always halfway between the real and the fantastic. The backing singer, Wendy, has been taking care of her family since 1997 and delights us on Twitter, Neil Conti is fundamentally a session drummer, and his brother Martin grows potatoes in Catalonia (kidding: every now and then he pops up on fan-managed portals and gifts some unsolicited gems like the reinterpretation of "When Love Breaks Down" accompanied by the bass, editor's note).

"Jordan: The Comeback", their fifth studio effort, was released in late 1990, gaining consensus but, as the first symptom of the ailment, selling little. This is the curse of the Prefab Sprouts. People like them. Selling, they do not. "Steve McQueen" (1985), which peeks into any list of "albums you absolutely must listen to before you die" or "100 albums that made the history of so-and-so," in relation to the generated echo, sold little, very little.

That's how it is, Paddy. I assure you that I tried: besides purchasing your every product, I spread the word, praised your composer skills halfway between Lennon and McCartney (no sacrilege, eh. I meant: ours has the dreams of the former and the torments of the latter), I talked about your love for music that drives you to continue working even though Ménière’s syndrome is taking away your hearing and sight, I played your albums to knowledgeable and competent people, but the reaction is always the same: great, great. But it ends there.

Let's get back to the album. The Jordan that has to come back, perhaps from the moon, is Elvis. The album is largely dedicated to him, but not only. It's a heterogeneous work that builds its foundations on the masterful production of Thomas Dolby, mastermind of the multi-gold "Steve McQueen" (1985). Prefab hate being monothematic, so aspiring to Elvis’ return fits, but in a context of love, prayer, and memories. The sound is softer compared to other works due to the abundance of keyboards: the album is more akin to its direct predecessor, "From Langley Park To Memphis" (1988), rather than "Steve McQueen". The immeasurable sweetness of "Nightingales", for example, is found in "We Let The Stars Go" (Paddy: "I was supposed to see Michael Jackson, I had tickets, then inspiration struck to write this song, I dropped everything and sat at the piano"). The album tends not to bore the listener because it sets the pace with mastery: the engaging and metaphysical "Looking For Atlantis" gives way to the "quiet Sunday afternoons (without snow will fall, thank God, editor's note)" of "Wild Horses", followed by "Machine Gun Ibiza" that swiftly passes, then lulls us back into a dreamy state with the already mentioned "We Let The Stars Go".

Paddy reintroduces Elvis with sweetness, symphonic purity, dance, and futuristic metrics in "Jordan: The Comeback" (the track), "Jesse James Symphony", "Jesse James: Bolero", and "Moondog". Neil Tennant of the Pet Shop Boys, interviewed during the period, ironically stated: "Oh, no! Him again? (Paddy, editor's note). Enough! But what does this album represent? Will they ever manage to write a hit sooner or later? But can an album with 19 tracks have just one decent one, named, excuse me if I laugh, "Jesse James Bolero"? And then all those references to America ("Hey Manhattan, from "From Langley Park To Memphis", editor's note) but when was he there? Come on, enough… write a hit!". It’s a matter of taste, Uncle Neil: not everyone is genetically predisposed to bona fide hits. Perhaps McAloon's trademark, which many appreciate, is precisely this, never having succumbed to compromise.

After bidding Jordan / Jesse James / Elvis an appropriate farewell, the album relaxes by addressing love, faith ("One Of The Broken" is a direct line to God), announcing the birth of a daughter ("Paris Smith"), writing a little note to Jacko ("Michael") and gradually melting away until the utter peace infused in "Doo Wop in Harlem". In the middle, two notable climaxes: "The Ice Maiden" (damn, Paddy, you do have a voice: whip it out sometimes, come on!) and "Scarlet Nights". "Mercy On Me" and the filler (which fills with the listener's joy and evokes a melancholy smile) "The Wedding March" are appreciated soft pink interludes.

"Jordan" is an atypical concept album, played with uncommon kindness. Even where the rhythm increases ("Carnival 2000" and "Machine Gun Ibiza"), there is a fear of forcing the hand, and the track ends up leaving something in terms of personality. The production by Dolby, combined with McAloon’s tireless vein, is a chemistry that works, but the impression is that they can’t take flight. A serene, contemplative journey, a trip from here to there that, despite the large number of tracks (nineteen), ends quickly. It brings you back exactly where you started from, and the aftertaste is absolutely good, sweet. A small marvel born in a hectic period, where few stopped to take a break and almost no one bothered to shake the Prefab Sprout awake, sending them up there, high, perhaps alongside those U2, Simple Minds, Pet Shop Boys who just raised their voices more than them.