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December 1997 Just who put the “hype” in “hyperbole”? The British music press, of course -- understatement simply isn’t their style. Take, for instance, the story of The Verve. When this north England five-piece reformed, regrouped and released Urban Hymns (Virgin) a few months back, Britain’s rock hacks broke out their thesauruses. “A triumphant testament to the redemptive power of rock’n’roll,” screamed Melody Maker magazine. Arch rival NME countered with their own headline: “fierce magic spun by a restless, fearless band.” High praise, indeed. Well, doing things in moderation isn’t The Verve’s style, either. Frontman, mouthpiece and key songwriter Richard Ashcroft recently told Rolling Stone that he’s not interested in being someone “who people realize was great 50 years after he’s dead... we want to be a modern-day Led Zeppelin.” Accordingly, this Brit five-piece do not so much write pop tunes as construct eargasms -- widescreen epics that swell and build and then explode, much like the hottest, wildest, most uninhibited romp you’ve ever had. The opening cut of Urban Hymns, “Bitter Sweet Symphony,” sums up their eargasmic style perfectly. Strings soar and swoop like mad birds, while Richard Ashcroft’s piercing, keening vocals -- part Bono breast-beating, part sexy croon -- burst out of the melee, ready to kill you or kiss you. |
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Although a well-publicized battle with the firm of Jagger, Richards and Oldham has tainted the song slightly -- the band lightly sampled the Stones’ “The Last Time” and paid the price -- it’s still a major slab of rock opulence. And their anthem for the disaffected of the world, “The Drugs Don’t Work,” is just as epic, Ashcroft insisting while “the drugs don’t work, I know I’ll see your face again,” as more strings and towering guitars stage a duel in the background. Sad? It’s bloody heartbreaking. | |||
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Coming together in the early 1990s, the core of the band -- Ashcroft, bassist Simon Jones, skin-man Peter Salisbury and guitarist Nick McCabe -- first met in school and were then reunited in the unemployment benefits line. Music was an obvious career choice, as it is for many Northern England dreamers and schemers. “We started with the basics: the Byrds, Buffalo Springfield,” Ashcroft stated. “Then we got into soul, then jazz...John Lennon, Miles Davis, Big Star.” Just as with the epic duo of “Bittersweet” and “Drugs,” the rest of their so-called comeback album (the band split in 1995, clearly unable to cope with the pressure of being Britpop’s next big thing) is equally eclectic -- and electric. 
“Sonnet,” a mellow strum with some squiggly guitar figures thrown in by axemen Nick McCabe and the laid-back “One Day” might use a smaller canvas, yet both swagger under a sense of importance, a stone-cold seriousness. “Can’t you see there’s beauty in life?” Ashcroft asks, as if no one else has ever worked it out before. Like their sonic soulmates Oasis -- who only a few years back actually opened up for The Verve -- it’s not so much what this five-piece say as how they say it. They insist you listen up, even if their message isn’t completely earth-shattering.
In rock’n’roll as in life, however, you can have too much of a good thing. The song “The Rolling People” gets bogged down in flashiness; style wrestling substance into submission. Five minutes is a couple too many in my book; sadly, this track ebbs and flows for seven. “Neon Wilderness” also suffers from seriously heavy legs. “Catching the Butterfly,” however, gets the freaky, funky rhythmic shuffle down more seductively. Its surrender-to-the-groove vibe hints at the much underrated Charlatans UK -- as does “This Time” -- while wah-wah pedals cop a fair workout and Ashcroft slips on his thinking cap, reflecting upon the life he’s lived up until now. “I know there is time,” he chants, mantra-style. Again, it’s not important what Ashcroft says; everything hinges upon the emphatic manner he uses to preach to the perverted. Sure, with their mix of pure pop, dreamy, druggy psychedelia and big-screen lushness, The Verve are a cut’n’paste collage of much of the classic Britpop that has preceded them. You may as well just throw a net over everyone from The Beatles to The Stone Roses, “cause you’ll find traces here.” But rather than imitate, The Verve innovate, crafting a sound that throbs with joy and sobs with sorrow. And, crucially, they don’t forget to rock. A searing riff tears through “Space And Time” like forest fire, playing the perfect foil to Ashcroft’s desperate plea to some miscreant lover. “I just can’t make it alone,” he cries, as McCabe’s guitar threatens full meltdown. In the sweltering closer, “Come On,” Ashcroft yells his instructions from the midst of an explosion of guitars. “Come on, there’s only one life,” he taunts, insistently, madder than a hound in heat. This backs up Ashcroft’s claim to Rolling Stone that “if you come from where we come from, you’ve got to have a Muhammad Ali, we’re-the-greatest attitude.” All goes to prove The Verve are true believers: in themselves, their big sound and their even bigger pop dreams.
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