So while ‘America’ is principally concerned with the US’ cultural influence, there’s a feeling Friends re-runs aren’t its chief concern. ‘Razorlight’ isn’t a concept album, but as with its predecessor’s nocturnal adventures, it proves too tempting not to draw your own narratives between the songs. ‘America’ sees Razorlight both expanding their geography and swapping rock bravado for something deeper, as the song lights up like a vivid LA sunset. With a poetic simplicity he ruefully dismisses the virtues of having “the perfect girl or boy” one by one, but his list is so spot-on it could only have been penned by a true romantic. ‘Who Needs Love?’ cheekily borrows a bar-room piano from Bruce Springsteen, as Johnny tells us he’s down with romance, but he’s not kidding anyone – least of all himself. With Andy Burrows’ drums pounding through the album like voodoo maracas, the opener sets the tone for Razorlight to sound like the classic rock’n’roll band they always imagined in their heads: bigger, bolder, brighter. However, there’s already something in his voice signalling that the singer knows it’s never that simple. “Last night was so much fun”, snaps Johnny, before he quickly wipes the slate clean and declares: “In the morning you know you won’t remember a thing”. Ignoring the overflowing ashtrays and empty beer cans, comeback single ‘In The Morning’ wakes up the house as its twitching country-tonk demonstrates a total disregard for hangovers. Now, though, the alarm clock is ringing and it’s time to face the consequences.
Or maybe your ideal might lie somewhere between the two, with friends, fun and staying up into the wee small hours for the sole reason that you don’t want the moment to end.īut no matter how we party, we all have to face The Morning After: the vacant memories and fuzzy flashbacks, the regrets, the hopes and the coy advances.ĭiving into a darkened world of seedy districts, torn-up dancefloors and chance encounters, Razorlight’s debut ‘Up All Night’ was a head-spinning tour of London’s nightlife, where the next party was always just around the corner. Or, possibly, your perfect bash is just to kick back and discuss the finer points of Chilean interpretive cinema with a bottle of carbonated water – flavoured of course, it is a party, after all. Perhaps your idea of a night on the tiles is to pack your cheeks with pills like a narcotics hamster and gurn your way into oblivion.