The Hold Steady - Heaven Is Wherever

Having been voted Worst Band of The Year in the NME’s 1998 readers poll, Embrace’s Danny MacNamara welcomed the award: "The more people that don’t like us hate us, the more those that like us will love us", he said. Whatever you think of Embrace’s stodgy brand of lighters-aloft arena-rock, it’s hard to argue with the sentiment, and it’s one with which The Hold Steady would surely empathise. This is the ultimate marmite band, their extraordinary mid-period records Separation Sunday and Boys and Girls in America not so much dividing opinion as forcibly splitting music fans into two camps: those baffled that a pub-rock band with tuneless vocals could be heralded as among the best in America, and those for whom The Hold Steady were not so much a band as a way of life. 

This writer falls into the latter: acclaiming rock lyrics as poetry is generally a fool’s errand, but in Craig Finn The Hold Steady had a writer of exceptional quality. His rich, poignant, occasionally surreal and always wonderfully detailed vignettes consistently seemed to me every bit as great as Finn’s literary heroes, American fiction heavyweights such as Richard Ford, Raymond Carver and Charles Bukowski. 

But after a run of four consecutive winners, they come unstuck on album number five. The signs were there on 2008’s Stay Positive that they may have peaked – it was still a great album, but one or two weaker tracks and occasional re-treading of old lyrical themes were indications that it might have been time to sell your shares in The Hold Steady. The weak spots are weaker and more frequent here, and there’s an overwhelming feeling that Finn hasn’t quite put the same immediacy or urgency into his lyrics this time around. They describe this as a "less anthemic" record, and it is, about half the time anyway. They’ve taken Stay Positive’s Dylanesque 'Both Crosses' as their departure point, aiming for a more considered, almost folksy approach, but it lacks in colour and excitement. As it happens, 'Both Crosses' is a track that always had me reaching for the fast-forward button. The departed Franz Nicolay’s keyboard flourishes are undoubtedly missed, while 'Hurricane J’s' story of a girl waiting tables and hanging with the wrong crowd is just old hat for this band. There’s none of the thrilling details or savage violence that made Separation Sunday’s legendary character Holly so utterly fascinating. 

All told, it’s one trip too many to the same well for musical and lyrical inspiration. Craig Finn will have to go off and dream it all up again. Don’t write him off though – he’s certainly too talented not to be able to do so.