Travis are, of course, most known for their coding of melodramatic Britpop's drowsy DNA with 1999's Nigel Godrich-piloted "Why Does It Always Rain on Me", but along the way, the band has also shown a tendency to, superficially at least, intellectually distance themselves from their introspective content. The title of their 1999 breakthrough The Man Who is a nod to neurologist Oliver Sachs' noted 1986 book of patient case studies, and its 2001 follow-up The Invisible Band a twist on "invisible hand," Adam Smith's economic theory of self-interest being good for the whole. Continuing that trend is the best moment on The Boy With No Name, "Selfish Jean", a pun on biologist Richard Dawkins' hugely successful book The Selfish Gene. The song's lyrics are, quite literally, nothing new; they're lifted in large part from the band's decade-old B-side "Standing on My Own". The instrumentation, however, is what sticks around: Partly drawn from fellow Glaswegian Stuart Murdoch's pop-soul, but merged with a soft take on "Lust for Life"'s rhythm track, it's the most refreshing song the band's made in quite some time.

Boy's title, however, hides no such wordplay-- quite the opposite, really-- as it came from singer Fran Healy's inability to settle on a name for his recently born son, and much of the album deals with the intricacies of family life, good and bad. First single "Closer", extended-metaphor number "Battleships" ("we're battleships, driftin' in an alley river"), and "My Eyes" are delicate, chiming recollections of a troubled, nearly severed relationship. Fittingly, they sound like bombast-free Coldplay as well, but that, of course, isn't Travis' fault. Their last effort, 2003's Godrich-free 12 Memories, came after Chris Martin and co. had appropriated their gentle angst and transformed it into stadium-size sentimentality, and the record unwisely attempted to channel Blair-era political venom. Four years later, Boy feels like a return to form-of sorts. While it's far from great, and won't come close to flaring up another UK pop revolution, Boy's got more than a few moments that recall Invisible, their highly enjoyable, feather-light post-platinum record, and the most fitting direction for the group after the success of what NME referred to as their "sad, classic record".

Most importantly for all involved, Boy marks the return of Godrich, and his studio sensibilities are now clearly recognizable as second only to Healy's songwriting in terms of indispensibility. "Big Chair" skitters along on a syncopated drum patter that recalls Radiohead's "There There", as Healy's wide melisma glides atop, and "Eyes Wide Open" moves from a tightly-wound stomp to an emotionally and sonically spacious chorus, with multiply layered, echo-laden guitars providing support. To the group's credit, Boy's best songs-- all contained within the first 2/3 of the record-- manage to regain a degree of (and gently tweak) their Invisible mojo, without resorting to pulling ideas from their own pupils. While the first half of the record is promising, however, the band loses steam toward the end, with "One Night" and "Out in Space" are Travis on auto-pilot, and closing New York ode "New Amsterdam" is just too affected to be effective. While more albums like Boy will probably mean that the anonymity of Travis' album titles will turn out to be a self-fulfilling prophecy, variations on the most prominent themes re-established here certainly feel like the proper moniker for the band to adopt.