The relentless push for originality can be as paralysing as it is focusing. For bands that stake their entire existence on pushing the boundaries sonically, every new release is another chance to be skewered by their own need for clear and evident advancement.
For backwoods blues two-piece The Picturebooks, the need for originality seems driven as much by the inherently rigid confines of their genre as by the quantity of blues-influenced rock band that have succeeded in smashing into the mainstream in recent years. The much-discussed achievements of Zeppelin-devotees Greta Van Fleet, Black Keys, and Royal Blood have revived an appetite for stomp n’ roll that hadn’t been a real concern for decades.
On their last two albums, The Picturebooks made a conscious effort to divest themselves of the sleek production and often overwrought hero-intimation of their contemporaries by returning to the roots of their genre. Their last effort – Home Is A Heartache – accordingly was a fuzzed up and highly enjoyable bayou romp, transporting you to a moonshine slick dive in the Deep South where Creedence is the only band on the jukebox.
Sadly, the wild-eyed howling looseness that made Home such a fun record seems to have been lost somewhere on the road to creating The Hands of Time (Century Media). While Hands… does stay true to The Picturebook’s core backwoods stomp aesthetic, in improving its production and inviting a high profile guest vocalist, you get the feeling that the German duo’s search for progression has diluted what made them such an interesting concern in the first place.
The album wanders between choppy numbers like ‘Lizard’ and ‘Electric Nights’ – which carries strong Rival Sons vibes – and more down-tempo cuts, such as ‘The Day the Thunder Arrives’, but fails to land a meaningful punch. For all of the carefully curated touches like the swirling guitar lines and in-the-background shamanic chants that turn this into an undeniably nice-sounding album, most songs tend to revert to the same pulsing motifs and chanted lyrics.
What is especially disappointing is that there are moments of brilliance on this album that could, but often don’t, turn into something genuinely great. The headlong, off-kilter riff at the start of the previously mentioned ‘Lizard’, the simmering slow-build of ‘The Rising Fall’ and the squalling mouth organ opener of ‘Like My World Explodes’ all hint to an album that could be as good as the sum of its parts. Even Chrissie Hynde’s ever-distinctive vocals fail to elevate the decidedly sluggish cut ‘Can’t Let Go’.
Supporting press material talks about The Picturebooks creating their own instruments for the album and the importance of plying their craft in their motorbike workshop and home studio, but frankly, it’s hard to appreciate the detail paid to their freewheeling aesthetic when it comes at the expense of writing distinctive songs. The Hands Of Time is ultimately a promising record that fails to deliver on its high-aiming intent.
5 / 10
DAVID KEEVILL