NME: Ice Cream
YES, SALAD. You must remember. Anglo-Dutch indie quartet? Meandered into the Top 20 with their rather flavourless debut album 'Drink Me' two years ago? Singer used to be an MTV presenter? No? Never mind - it's not important. More to the point is whether their second opus will finally deliver on the mouth-watering promise of their name: a luscious spread of lyrical capers, guitar-powered anchovies, sun-dried indie tomatoes and punky mozzarella attitude, all swimming in the rock'n'roll rocket fuel of extra virgin olive oil...? Ho-hum. Prepare to leave the table hungry.
Once again, soggy lettuce, shrivelled cucumber and dried-up beetroot are on the menu. Because although 'Ice Cream' will fill you up, it lacks spice, sauce, or genuine nourishment. And it tastes of, well, nothing much at all. Oh Salad. Honestly, we want to like you. We yearn to applaud your self-imposed distance from orthodox Britpop grammar - if only you didn't seem so woefully adrift in a silty pond of hand-me-down rock styles as a result. We would love to endorse your awkward, cranky, square-peg lyrics - if only they didn't sound so wilfully obscure and fundamentally hollow. We dream of heaping praise on your impressively three-pronged songwriting formation - if only the end result wasn't so much blatantly committee-built personality-free mulch.
The Salad problem in a nutshell: their essential anonymity. Lacking either the natural flair for hummable tunes, the all-encompassing vision or the sheer megalomania of their premier-league pop peers, they inhabit a pleasantly maintained but otherwise unremarkable cul-de-sac off the unfashionable end of Indie High Street. Consequently, 'Ice Cream' is an album of sensibly-attired, grown-up pop which goes to the gym twice a week and can recommend a good baby-sitter. It can be fluttery and wistful as in 'Broken Bird', but not too morbid. It is fetchingly weird at times, as in robo-pop chugger 'Written By A Man', but never at the expense of its generally moderate outlook.
In fairness, singer Marijne has an expressive range, even if she never seems to actually express anything. Large chunks of Debbie Harry are discernible throughout 'Ice Cream'. Recent single 'Cardboy King' hints at the observations of Louise Sleeper. 'Namedrops' is a burly, blues-tinged bit of PJ Harvey-esque yelping. And fairground pop like 'UV' is that swooping between woozy dislocation and theatrical screeching patented by Alisha's Attic. Only not quite so annoying.
So then, Salad: watered down Blondie, inferior PJ Harvey, second division Sleeper - but better than Alisha's Attic. Cause for celebration round Salad Towers, we reckon. Break out the soggy lettuce and diced cucumber - let's party. 5/10
Stephen Dalton
