Divine Comedy
Rock bands get away with murder: plenty of us love the music these artists make, and even sing along, without really knowing what they’re saying. But when I put on a record by a singer-songwriter, I find that I demand more from the lyrics. It’s not that I don’t appreciate it when a troubadour comes up with a surprising chord progression, a clever arrangement, or a haunting melody, but I won’t get attached to his work if I can’t relate to what he’s singing about at a personal level.
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I started listening to the Divine Comedy after reading ecstatic reviews of 1993’s Liberation in the British music press. Grunge was still going strong in the States and abroad, but Hannon flew grandly in the face of fashion: witty, eccentric, and effusively literate, Liberation was stripped of rock trappings, influenced instead by the English music hall and by suave songwriters like Noel Coward and Jacques Brel.
In the couple years leading up to Regeneration’s release, Hannon had turned 30, married, and become an expectant father. I can only speculate about the effect these changes might’ve had on his music, but it’s hardly going out on a limb to say that new parents tend to think less about themselves. Maybe after Hannon chose to start a family, he found that writing songs about the libertine lifestyle had lost some of its luster.
All I can do is promise to come home to you
The bulk of Absent Friends consists of musical character sketches. These have been a staple in Hannon’s work over the years, but in the past he often mocked the foibles and aspirations of the wastrels and coquettes who populated his songs. Now he seems to want us to feel sympathy and compassion for his characters: he skillfully renders the thoughts and feelings of a wide range of oddballs, all of whom are desperately struggling to find a little happiness.
And that shit takes my breath away
