Pitchfork

Circumstance and pedigree once conspired to march Coldplay and Travis down the aisle of America's radio waves and top ten countdowns hand-in-hand, on the strength of a few catchy singles. Though always mentioned in the same breath-- even to this day-- I find myself wondering now whether the two bands were ever really that similar, or if lazy music journalists (ahem) just conspired to propel a nonexistent movement. If the latter was the case, that movement died at "Hello." The postmillennial Radiohead proved to be-- sorry, boys-- Radiohead.

Travis have done little more on their past three releases than wade contentedly in the wake of all that passed: their music has remained formulaically consistent and oblivious to (probably unfounded) media expectations. 12 Memories finally finds Fran Healy and his Scottish chums deviating a bit from past bequests (and doing so less a few high tides of vigilant UK press or any true semblance of stateside hype), but never really breaking stride enough to chart deeper waters. Mostly, they stumble, spin, and fall awkwardly into a middle ground too contemplative and, in the end, under-realized. Recording this album after suffering through drummer Neil Primrose's near-death diving accident and awakening to the rancorous societal and cultural injustices of our humble globe circa ought-three, Travis have been slapped out of their cheeky levity for good, and have lost nearly all worthwhile traces of their blithe, sing-along balladry-- once their greatest asset.

Healy has an agenda this time around, and too frequently wields it like a cocksure amateur. Of the several anti-war-directed moments, the cumbersome lyrical bludgeoning that is "The Beautiful Occupation" stings the most. Peppered with references to the United Nations, and lines like, "Half a million civilians are going to die today/ So look the other way," the song obstinately shoots blanks. Similarly minded, "Peace the Fuck Out" feels laughably more like a posturing cheerleader giving you the finger than a seriously reflective reminder, with "Please don't give up/ You have a voice, don't lose it/ You have a choice so choose it/ You have a brain so use it." Even the melody lacks color of any kind; a problematic recurrence.

With the carefree, breezy melodies (or even lightly introspective moments) absent, such lyrical misfortunes take center stage, and lay waste to the potential windfall of Healy's falsetto. Instead, we're left with conspicuous déjà-Thom pleas (on "Re-Offender": "You're fooo-oo-lin' yahself") and moth-eaten clichés. Seemingly aware of its bankrupt course, overtly attention-grabbing moments such as the floor stomping romp on "How Many Hearts?" bedaub the record with a new sonic adventurousness, but merely serve to spread the final product thin.

The album's best moments are crafted when the band plays within itself, and are mostly shuffled to the end of the deck. "Somewhere Else" and "Walking Down the Hill" are benign enough, with nicely twisted melodies and some well-needed understatement. The latter shines, if in a brushed-silver sort of way, and harkens back to early-laid blueprints. "Happy to Hang Around" garnishes the mix with a little tastefully spun attitude. But it all comes back to one central issue: each new direction leads into a wall or dies for lack of momentum. In short, nothing here has any edge. It's a problem Travis will need to resolve quickly if they intend on sticking around.