Success is a complicated, unpredictable adversary. The Maccabees, we could have been forgiven for thinking, were set fair to follow up ‘Given To The Wild’, a confident record that opened up new, exciting routes for their expansive indie to run along. ‘Marks To Prove It’, their fourth album, is one that has turned its back on that picture. It’s introspective and awkward, created at a time when the band’s world was changing against their will.
Written and recorded in their Elephant and Castle studio space, it’s a collection about time and place. While the continued gentrification of London encroaches on their corner of the capital, there is uncertainty and anxiety writ large across these songs. As Orlando Weeks told the Guardian earlier this year: “It’s like we’re on borrowed time.”
An album whittled from hours and hours of studio time and tampering, ‘Marks To Prove It’ remains a relatively concise piece. Its layered compositions feel compressed and dense, almost as though the weight of the writing process and accompanying uncertainty resulted in a physical change. Where its predecessor was all about wide open spaces, this feels like an album written by a band hemmed in and working with what they’ve got.
That gives its more outward-facing moments greater power. Spit It Out’s refrain tops a gradual build up that isn’t really apparent when the songs are pulled out of context, making it the record’s lynchpin song. Its message is both reassuring and completely uncertain of itself: “Come on, it’s going to get easier. Somehow.”
Hopping from location to location as night ticks towards dawn, time is a constant factor. Whether it’s a day expiring or a life, or a part of a city, the idea is woven throughout. Elephant and Castle is changing minute by minute, but so are the people who flit in and out of the band’s view. Something Like Happiness, dropped in as the album nears its denouement, sounds like the most ebullient lament you could lay fingers on.
As things move towards a conclusion, though, ‘Marks To Prove It’ begins to unravel a little. The guitar stabs of WW1 Portraits are strangely discombobulating despite their melodic weight, while Dawn Chorus is an odd fit as a closer. On an album so tightly wound, such a gentle, free-floating song was always likely to be cut adrift. After the precision of their opening statements, these closing remarks don’t muster the same effect and result in a curious, muddled tone as things wind down.
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