Mew’s brand of bombastic indie-prog is something you either love or hate. You either love the precociousness (e.g., Jonas Bjerre’s soaring falsetto, the nonsensical lyrics, the over-the-top arrangements) or it’s just too much for you. Pitchfork’s Ian Cohen was right to use “twee” to describe Mew.
Indeed, this is their “twee-est” album to date, from the delicate harp strings the usher in “Satellites,” the so-sincere-it-hurts balladry of “The Night Believer,” or the anthemic chorus of “Water Slides” which finds Bjerre singing “For such a long time I didn’t know if I’d find you/Say stop, made up, lying on the bathroom floor.” (No, I’m not really sure what it means either.)
All that being said, there’s still something so starry-eyed and honest about Mew’s pretense that I find it nigh-irresistible, and rather fetching. As much as I want to roll my eyes at some of the album’s twists, turns, and excesses — like some of the lyrics (e.g., “I wanna breathe in a sunlight beam/I wanna be with a girl like she) — I usually find myself incapable of doing so.