There comes a point when any endorsement doesn’t have the weight it once did; Bradford (confusingly from across the M62 in Blackburn) were once proclaimed by none other than Morrissey as his favourite band after the release in 1988 of their debut single Skin Storm, the by then solo artist even releasing his own version a few years later.
He wasn’t the only well-known fan either, the erstwhile skinheads joining forces with Smiths producer Stephen Street on their first album, Shouting Quietly.
Unfortunately, as club and terrace moved closer together, many of those who appealed to neither faction were trampled, and the quintet’s politically conscious but soulful indie was cruelly drowned by the tsunami of Madchester.
For a long time it appeared like the book would remain closed: speaking 25 years since their inevitable early 90’s demise, singer Ian H, when asked about the possibility of a reformation, blithely responded by quoting Paul McCartney on the same topic for the Beatles, simply stating: “You can’t re-heat a soufflé.”
It was the lure of working with Street again however that brought them back into the studio, following an initial get together to plot the re-release of a greatly expanded Shouting Quietly.
If their first album occasionally flew too close to The Smiths’ sun for comfort, their second has the benefit of time both as a healer and in lending some perspective; Bright Hours is a record far less conscious of itself.
Not that experience hasn’t shaped it: as well as understandable pathos there are common songwriting threads which embrace humanity, connections, ordinary people lost to circumstances. Opener Like Water is a rumination on ageing and the randomness of life’s flow; Ian’s honeyed voice pipes over a bullied snare and plaintive backdrop, contrasts which won’t be lost on those familiar with the good/bad old days of almost fame.
It would be odd though to just plead ignorance of the 21st century where these characters are concerned; the title-track rolls gamely, the reunited players now in confident mood, the words imploring everyone to count their blessings: “Life is not a download/It’s a beautiful gift we’ve been given.”
These pricks of conscience are a feature that runs between the decades. The Weightlessness Of Pointlessness deals with the futility and damaging consequences of social media bubbles via a banjo and honky-tonk piano, but the now-trio prove they can still dish out surprises with the dub inflected Present Day Array, also making a decent fist of channeling Elvis Costello on My Wet Face.
Perhaps inevitably, one or two of these echoes – This Week Has Made Me Weak, Feathers In The Fire – feel still a little too far rooted in the distant past, but crafted from a poem written by the band’s former manager, the winsome ballad Gave A Time sets a possible course for the future, as intimate and cherished as any skin storm could possibly hope to be.
Having had the world at your feet just to see your opportunity snatched away is a story more than a few musicians will tell if you buy them a drink. Not all of them will have come as close to making it as Bradford did, though you’d need some dusty old newspapers to know that now.
It’s a miracle, given these circumstances, that Bright Hours lacks even a hint of bitterness; in its bones there’s a warmth that needs no outsider’s recognition, one that speaks from the heart, plain and simply for itself.
Well written and awesome! Great read here, thanks for posting!