Of course, the brogues give it away, but figuring out that We Were Promised Jetpacks come from Scotland requires no effort. The dense production overkill of Glasvegas is there in a diluted form, as is the occasion for somewhat empty balladeering via Snow Patrol, the gruff but twee-ish twinkle of the Twilight Sad, an occasion for angular and anthemic riffs in the vein of Franz Ferdinand, and, in most every conceivable way, the entire sound of Frightened Rabbit. The latter makes sense since the band got their start from a song of theirs posted on FR’s MySpace page, but is it too early for such a dominating love affair? FR is, of course, the dominant one, since WWPJ seems to be cowed by every move. Maybe it’s the hem haw way Adam Thomson goes about the non-sloganeering stuff, but using louder electric guitars in place of the Rabbit’s preference for the acoustic variety seems more desperate than muscle flexing. But there I go comparing—gotta stop doing that. Maybe the problem is that when they go quieter and moodier, I just wish they were Frightened Rabbit.
Now that you’ve been sufficiently psyched out, I can get to the truth. No, I don’t mourn a more Rabbit-y flavor. In fact, it’s usually when they graze the blanker desires that I like ‘em most. The empty balladeering I mentioned rings of that notion, particularly on the likes of “Conductor” and “This Is My House, This Is My Home.” On the former, Thomson achingly sounds out, “You’re a habit, another bad habit. Keep biting my nails in case all else fails for us.” The drums kick in on that part, emphasizing the severity of his emotions; the bass throbs the sentiment. The latter is the sort of trite and soppy introspection that was built for a different model than myself, and when the song thunders at the climax, you can only snicker to relieve the leaden indifference. Speaking of thunder, on the other hand, there’s “It’s Thunder and It’s Lightning” at the leadoff spot, and they deliver what is promised. Basic narrative vague-isms lead ahead (“Right foot/Followed by your left foot/Guide you home before your curfew/And into your bed/Standing on your tiptoes/Peering through open windows/I swear I heard my name”), but it’s the building tension from a buzzing guitar and unsettled drums that actually draw you in. The repeated shouting of bruises is as shapeless as anything else, but it makes for a forgiving hook.
And there lies the secret—at this stage of the band’s development, nothing Thomson bleats about will give you pause (except for the occasional facepalm), but he does better with the emo-lite shouting than the emo-heavy moping. Wearing the ol’ heart on the sleeve is always a gamble, and it’s not paying out here. But when they go for the thunder, applause follows more often than not. They outpace themselves early on; following “Thunder” are “Ships with Holes Will Sink” and “Roll up Your Sleeves,” a pair of vacant charmers prone to frenetic bursts of guitar verve on top of mountainous percussion (Sean Smith’s bass is mighty impressive during this stretch). But once “Conductor” clicks into view, the good times falter and we’re left without a captain to steer the ship.
The midsection isn’t only morass, thankfully, but the bright moments are fleeting even during their single song span. “Quiet Little Voices” has some of the beefiest hooks on the entire record, but “Moving Clocks Run Slow” is at least a minute too long, charging through show-off denouement dynamite which adds nothing but the running time. As for “A Half Built House,” superfluous doesn’t begin to describe it; sandwiching it between “Conductor” and “Home” suggests they’re insisting to the listener that they haven’t gone completely to the dark side, but squelching sonic soup doesn’t indicate a surfeit of ideas, merely a lack of good ones. Luckily, they’re back on track by the home stretch. Listen to Darren Lackie’s cavernous drums on “Short Bursts,” elevating the ordinary to near superhuman heights. And stick around for all eight minutes of “Keeping Warm,” as it’s one of the few tracks to surprise us beyond mere tempo/volume surge. Or even check out “An Almighty Thud,” which manages to sidestep easy puns by being the most rewarding quiet track (though the castle/battle metaphors are a little too European even for these Scots).
The lessons We Were Promised Jetpacks have picked up seem to come from two schools: twinkling indie pop derived from Krautrock two-note strands and arena-friendly shout-alongs from the post-post-post-punk crowd (or are we past that phase now?). They’re not bad classes to attend, but they don’t mesh particularly comfortably, and their interminable pairings reveal the lack of eclecticism these guys ought to specialize in. There’s very little on These Four Walls that’s musically routine, but that doesn’t mean it all works either. Scotland’s quite the little hot bed of buzz bands these days but the similarities are dispiriting. Nevertheless, timing isn’t really the problem; it’s that vaguely catchy will only get you so far so long as the words are vaguely dull and the innovations are repeated almost every time. Love the band name, though. They’d make for a great double bill with a math rock quintet calling themselves And Robot Servants Too.
