Pitchfork

I'd like to begin this review by congratulating Tindersticks on making it for over a decade with the same six members. Most bands don't even make it the full ten years, much less with all members intact. I've been trying to think of other bands who have done it and after a few minutes of staring around at my record collection, Fugazi, Radiohead, and REM are the only names I've come up with, and even REM doesn't have Bill Berry anymore.

Aside from those, you have revolving doors like Yes and Fleetwood Mac, both of whom have had over twenty members over the years, and short-lived outfits like the Sex Pistols, who couldn't stay together long enough to complete their first US tour. So, it's a testament to the strength of the band that Tindersticks are still at it after all these years, democratically crafting some of the best music in Britain. And it's equally impressive that their quality has hardly suffered at all in the process.

The music of Tindersticks has changed a lot in the last few years, absorbing 70's soul into their signature gutter ballads, and dropping the "melo" prefix from the drama. Gone are the 70 minute-plus double-albums and ear-rattling dissonance that characterized their early music, replaced instead by concise, slow-core R&B with an inky black center. Still, it would impossible to mistake this for any other band, and old fans will likely be delighted with what they hear.

The opener, "Dying Slowly," is the most direct musical link to the band's past, recalling the string-drenched pining of their third album, Curtains. Stuart Staples' murky baritone calls out the refrain, "This dying slowly/ It seemed better than shooting myself," with characteristic exhaustion. The strings swell and subside like the conversation in a crowded bar. It's an elegant introduction to an album that finds Tindersticks further embracing the soul influences they first toyed with on 1999's Simple Pleasure.

A case in point is the title track, a bubbling stew of wah-wah guitars, Hammond organ and passionate vocals that plays like Marvin Gaye's "Let's Get It On" at half-speed, only with Here, My Dear sentiments in the lyrics. Even after all this time, Stuart Staples can't seem to win at the game of love.

"Sweet Release," the album's eight-minute centerpiece, follows, displaying the band's uncanny ability to play an extremely long song and make it feel too short. Dickon Hinchliffe's violin swirls around Staples' molasses-thick vocal and David Boulter's gorgeous organ lines, as the twelve-member string section comments from the wings. It makes for a song that easily lives up to its title.

Part of what makes Tindersticks so easy to connect to is the way they manage to make even the most minute suffering and pain seem universal. When Staples sighs, he's sighing with you, and when he says "I," it could be anybody who's ever been through a messy breakup or felt the sting of rejection. And that's why his plea of "Don't ever get tired of waiting for me" on "Don't Ever Get Tired" hits a nerve-- everyone needs someone they can depend on, and Staples just wants it to be the woman he loves.

"People Keep Comin' Around," a duet between Staples and Hinchliffe, offers perhaps a little insight into why Tindersticks have been able to last so long-- all six members are genuinely unselfish musicians. Bassist Mark Colwill and drummer Alasdair Macaulay lay down a relaxed but funky groove as Boulter and guitarist Neil Fraser lay back, playing only when necessary. Hinchliffe's higher octave is animated, but never hogs the spotlight, letting the band ride the groove, while Hinchliffe's rich string and horn arrangements fill in the gaps. It's telling that the band offers equal billing to the string and horn players in the album credits, acknowledging their contributions as equal to the end result.

In fact, the only faltering point on the entire album actually comes when Staples strikes out on his own for the puzzling "Tricklin'," a two-minute vocal round with minimalist organ accompaniment that doesn't really serve as much more than filler. But when the whole band is engaged, the results are frequently stunning, and always engaging.

The final twist on Can Our Love... comes with the closer, "Chilitetime," where, for once, hope seems to be the order of the day. "She has my love/ She needs something more/ But time is mine," Staples sings as Hinchliffe's violin cries out behind him. And that's where the ellipsis in the album title comes in, I think. It leaves the thought "Can our love..." incomplete and allows you draw your own conclusions. While things are definitely bad, there may yet be a way out.

Despite the open-ended nature of its sentiments, "Chilitetime" pulls the album to a strong close, effectively capping this latest journey through the dark folds of the brain and the heart. At 45 minutes, Can Our Love... is Tindersticks' most concise album yet, and it sacrifices nothing in content. Eight songs may not seem like much for a full album, but it's all this band needs to make a fully rewarding listen that only gets richer the more you visit.