Simple Minds
Walk Between Worlds, out Feb 2
Once upon a time, to borrow from their bestselling album, Simple Minds were as big as U2. Both bands were young, male, Celtic and earnest. Jim Kerr and Bono were post-punks with enough ambition to switch to stadium rock, and enough intelligence, when interviewed, to ask questions of their own.
By the end of the Eighties, each had four UK No 1 albums. The difference is that U2 added six more, to Simple Minds’ none. By the early 2000s, Kerr was making less noise with his music than with his hotel in Sicily. But he and Charlie Burchill, Simple Minds’ guitarist, had something the gods smile upon: tenacity. They soldiered on and eventually found their original style – sonorous synths and serious faces – coming back into fashion.
Simple Minds now trouble the Top 20 again, and even please the critics. Mojo, the bible of the balding rock fan, called Big Music (2014) ‘their best album in 30 years’
Simple Minds now trouble the Top 20 again, and even please the critics. Mojo, the bible of the balding rock fan, called Big Music (2014) ‘their best album in 30 years’. Back on the up escalator, they may pass U2 on the way down.
Now, with Walk Between Worlds, Kerr and Burchill don’t mess about: eight tracks, 42 minutes, unwavering energy. The messages are straightforward (‘I believe in magic’, ‘Here comes summer’), the melodies stirring. If you ever sang along to Alive And Kicking, you’ll enjoy Summer – which further endears itself by mentioning bad weather, a strong point ever since Sparkle In The Rain in 1984.
Now, with Walk Between Worlds, Kerr and Burchill don’t mess about: eight tracks, 42 minutes, unwavering energy. The messages are straightforward (‘I believe in magic’, ‘Here comes summer’)
Kerr sings like a man who has been told that if he shows the slightest doubt, he will lose his hotel. Behind him there are slinky basslines and subtle synth hooks. Simple Minds have defrosted their old electro-pop and blended it with the gallivanting grandeur that followed.
With The Signal And The Noise, they turn the title of a bestseller about why predictions fail into a clarion call about finding a voice. ‘Take off those headphones,’ Kerr begins, like a teacher tackling a stroppy teenager, before the lecture swells into an anthem.
On Barrowland Star he serenades the concert hall he grew up in, mixing strings and nostalgia. When he sings it there next month, the roof may well come off.