Of the multitude of bands to have surfaced in the last couple of years to pay sincere, un-ironic homage to the early ‘80s, Editors are possibly the proposition with the most long-term promise.
As exciting at their best as The Killers or Kaiser Chiefs and more musically accomplished than either, the band fuse their youthful adoration for Joy Division and Echo and the Bunnymen into a dense, disciplined, searingly powerful sound that’s both broadly evocative and distinctly their own.
Not as gloomy as the Curtis/Echo references might imply, it’s a sound that also carries vague echoes of the martial-sounding stadium-rock favoured by U2 circa War: huge, ringing, anthemic, passionate, full of soaring choruses, as if acid house had never happened.
Nonetheless, they’re understandably keen not to get trapped in a 1983 tribute timewarp. A foursome from various corners of England, refugees from a previous life studying music technology at Stafford University, the band have oddly elected to base in Birmingham (most prominent exports: UB40, Black Sabbath and, eh, Musical Youth).
The strategy seems to be working. Over the course of 2005, their profile soared, mainly down to the release of four killer singles, of which ‘Blood’ and ‘Bullets’ received most attention.
Determined to avoid the terminal Britpop syndrome of instant front-cover fame which lasts the full 15 minutes at best, Editors have largely absented themselves from the meet-and-greet, work-the-room, I-like-your-album-mate circuit in the capital, aware that their fate will stand or fall on the quality of their output rather than the whims of the rock press.
As frontman Tom Smith confirms: “We’ve been conscious of building this thing slowly, playing the long-term game.”
Guitarist Chris Urbanowicz – whose mop-top, Bambi eyes and mild pallor make him resemble a pre-wastage Pete Doherty – concurs, observing: “It’s a myth that Birmingham’s any impediment to success; there’s nothing provincial about it. At the end of the day the industry will go anywhere to see you if you’re worth it. It’s fair to say, historically, that the city isn’t associated with very credible acts. But I think people are less hung up on the ‘all roads through London’ attitude than they used to be. It’s a smaller world.”
Despite their brushes with chart success, Editors appear indifferent to fame, and in the event of being worshipped by millions, would probably wonder where they were going wrong.
“We don’t worry about world domination”, Smith insists, “We want to make records we can be proud of and let the rest fall into place.”
Editors’ almost Dave O’Leary-esque ‘we’re only a little work in progress’ modesty belies a clearly boundless self-confidence. But they’re capable of undiplomatically trash-talking the opposition when the venom’s aroused: “That Nizlopi song is terrible", lamented Smith to a tabloid newspaper. "It sounds like every Christmas song ever released, with added sentiment. If people realised it’s a load of tosh that they’ll get bored with in two weeks, they could save themselves a lot of bother.”
While he’d be ill-advised to cross paths with any speeding JCBs in the aftermath of this observation, Smith seems a genuine and unassuming sort, as does Urbanowicz.
Intriguingly, The Cure are a major reference point for the band. Both acts are literate, apparently dark and difficult, but well aware that without the melodies, ‘moodiness’ lacks any lasting appeal. They’re not natural media performing dogs, still less the most verbose speakers ever to face a Dictaphone. Nonetheless, one suspects Editors will still be thriving when most of their Tears For Fears tribute-band contemporaries are no longer able to get arrested. Watch them go.