The latest postcard from The Chills’ epic journey is an album about
“consolidation, re-grouping, acceptance and mortality,” claims the chief
Chill. “Hopefully a kind of Carole King ‘Tapestry’
for ageing punks.”
Wow! Are rock bands allowed to grow old gracefully and assess the
world’s and their shortcomings in the process? Is it possible to swerve the
obvious and make something that’s bittersweet in
tone but harmonious on the ear? Of course it is.
On ‘Snow Bound’ lost heroes are lamented, relationships are re-evaluated,
atonement is sought, mortality is mulled over and fake news is undercut.
It’s serious stuff, the thoughts of a dysfunctional
50-something wrestling with maturity and discovering that their post-punk DIY
beliefs still have a real voice that resonates between the fans of their early
years and which can now pass down to the next generation.
Casting our minds back, we can recall that The Guardian mused, “They sound
almost like the musical embodiment of autumn,” when confronted with ‘Silver
Bullets’. Three years on, ‘Snow Bound’ nestles
heartily in its own winter of discontent. And all this with a humalong melodic
verve, Phillipps’ gift for the tempered dalliance of verse and chorus and
those gorgeous euphoric organ fills. Let the soul-searching commence…