Although the American influence is certainly noticeable, they haven't lost sight of what made them such a great band in the first place.
They’ve eschewed synths for a rootsier sound, and although there’s the twang of a country-apeing slide guitar on several tracks – Radlands is quintessentially British, both in execution and themes.
‘Radlands’ is about as authentically Yankee as Christian Bale’s mid-Atlantic drawl, and just dandy for it.
It’s a cruel fate for an initially promising album that loses its lustre the longer it sprawls onwards.
The problem with Radlands is that, armed with the potential to go wild with a new bag of tricks, Mystery Jets often become as conservatively minded as parts of the state whose outline graces the album's cover.
The foundation of Mystery Jets’ sound is cracking, and the band is squabbling over what colour their exterior’s new coat of paint should be.
Most of the album simply falls flat melodically, lyrically, or both.
She borrowed a whole right through your brain, at citrus heights,
Fallen angel of her you made, by first light,
Well aint it sad, when you feel it this bad, and your body burns to know,
The shape of a limb, as the night bird sings, our friend in afterglow,
#39 | / | The Fly |