In Devon,
no-one can hear you scream. MUSE's story is the familiar tale of late-teen
provincial hell and, hailing from the dead-end resort of Teignmouth,
it's no wonder they've fashioned themselves as champions of black-clad
outsider chic. Apathy is not an option, hanging around the common
room looking a bit mysterious is.
Their debut LP is a deadly serious affair then, and inevitably draws
comparisons to Radiohead. John Leckie ('The Bends') produces, serrated
guitars rule and happiness is discarded as a premise only suitable
for emotional retards.
The problem though, after setting up such an academic concept, is
that 'Showbiz' is not as clever as they think it is. True, it never
mopes as morosely as Thom Yorke's lot, but then it doesn't always
have the ability to lift the soul either. So 'Unintended' and the
title track are overwrought, prone to excruciatingly bad pseudo poetry,
and barely escape the tag of being a gothier Strangelove.
But if they sometimes go too far, MUSE's high sense of drama makes
perfect sense elsewhere. Mixing Radiohead with the odd flounce of
early Suede, or the wailing algebraic lunacy of Mansun, they can produce
mini epics. 'Uno' is an Addams Family flamenco, jaggedly wallowing
in unrequited love, just one small step away from an injunction for
stalking, while 'Cave' and 'Fillip' are superior takes on the well-worn
path of brooding guitar pop.
In view of all this, that title is the closest they get to a joke
- because it seems certain MUSE would rather peel back emotional scabs
than actually go whoring down the Met Bar. It's not for the frivolous,
but with a little fine tuning, escape from an oblivious West Country
seems increasingly likely.