By the fifth play ATHLETE have beaten me into submission and I grudgingly admit that Words is an affecting tune.
Let’s face it, the evidence against is compelling. It sounds like Coldplay, even down to Joel Pott’s phrasing of the word “wires”, which sounds like Chris Martin singing “sparks”. It possesses all the typical markings of this peculiar breed of British rock: sweeping, lush, mid-tempo, acoustic-based, polite, melancholic, tuneful with cross-generational appeal.
How does it manage to sneak passed the cynic in me? Sucker that I am I’ve fallen under the spell of the lyrics. The subject matter is hardly typical: a new-born baby plugged into hospital equipment to help it survive. The self-doubts start with “There’s dry blood on your wrist / Your dry blood on my fingertip”, continue to grow with “got to get to you, got to see this through” until by the time Potts finally sings “First night of your life / curled up on your own / Looking at you now / you would never know” there’s a thud in my stomach and a murmur in my heart and I realise the song means something to me, which doesn’t happen all that often these days.
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I must be getting sentimental in my old age. Someone take me outside and slap me with a copy of NME.
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