Album review: The Xcerts: 'In the Cold Wind We Smile'

THE XCERTS: 'In the Cold Wind We Smile' (Xtra Mile)

What is it about Scotland, huh? How is it that a country with such high unemployment, such significant levels of crime and such a growing need for regeneration (wander past the revitalised city centres of Edinburgh and Glasgow and you'll quickly find yourself bombarded with boarded-up windows and destitute souls) continues to produce some of the greatest music your ears are ever likely to hear? Its barren, bitter landscapes have given us the criminally underrated Idlewild, the enigmatic Biffy Clyro, the gargantuan Sucioperro and the cathartic Glasvegas, as well as some of the year's most promising upstarts in We Were Promised Jetpacks, Twin Atlantic and now these whipper-snappers, Aberdeen's quite unbelievably teenage Xcerts. Surely there must be something in the water? (Let's just forget that Texas ever happened, shall we?)

Of course, all of this isn't too surprising when you actually stop to think about it. Such regrettably dire socio-economic conditions are often the spark that's needed for angry young things to pick up guitars, and they subsequently become the subject matter from which their often lyrically invective, musically chaotic output is formed. 'In the Cold Wind We Smile' is no exception; in fact, in every respect, the album is quintessentially Scottish. The Xcerts observe the trials and tribulations of interpersonal relationships, describing eleven kitchen sink melodramas through music, while continually evoking the disenfranchisement of working class life within the country. The themes are bleak - death, unrequited love, loss - and the sound schizophrenically aggressive with it (think Biffy, '100 Broken Windows'-era Idlewild); however, crucially, the record is driven by an undercurrent of hope. The title itself denotes resilience in the wake of the bleak, and this sets the mood for the remainder of the album. On the wonderful 'Home Versus Home', Murray Macleod sings 'I lost love/You lost your father/I know it doesn't compare/But it's all part of home versus home.' There is a sense of acceptance in the words, an acknowledgement that, to put it crassly, the rough should be embraced alongside the smooth. This gives the album its edge, transforming a standard listening experience into a purgative one. Just check out the truly astounding 'Crisis in the Slow Lane', in which Murray bellows perhaps the most crucial chorus in the entire work: 'we all say we are tired of feeling low/Tired of being alone/But if we make it to see morning coffee/I swear you'll find an answer.' It's a joyous moment and one that sticks in the mind long after the CD's ground to an inglorious halt.

This lyrical catharsis is expressed sonically too, as the band's penchant for layering their sound, building from something straightforward to tremendous crescendo, imitates the psychological experience. There is a sense of release in almost every song, an epiphianic moment that sends shivers down the spine. 'Nightschool', for example, begins life as a fairly standard Get Up Kids/Motion City Soundtrack affair, full of piano parts and fiddly xylophone blips, before morphing into something of a rock monster, exploding in a haze of wiry guitars that offset the resolutely dour refrain 'we'll all burn out 'til there's nothing left at all,' making it somehow celebratory. Grief, pain, strife: all are welcomed with open arms, validated as crucial elements of the human experience, and it's wonderfully refreshing. And when the subject turns to love, things are just as ambiguous: 'Cool Ethan' and 'Lost but Not Alone' reminisce about what once was and could have been, but do so with eloquent restraint, never veering into mawkishness. Crucially, the lyrics are non-gender-specific, which gives them layers of intrigue and possibility, enhancing their power. Musically, they have the raw charm of 'Clarity'-era Jimmy Eat World, sitting somewhere between classics like 'Just Watch the Fireworks' and 'For Me This Is Heaven.'

'In the Cold Wind We Smile' is a surprisingly assured release from such young minds. Its lyrics are thankfully bereft of the usual hyperbole that typify teenage writing, and the musical accompaniment is a glorious mix of the best elements of the original emo bands (Get Up Kids, Sunny Day Real Estate, Saves the Day) and output from various contemporary Scottish acts (Biffy, Jetpacks et al.) It's an expressive, cathartic piece with a massive heart and a tonne of ambition. Domestic strife never sounded so thrilling. (9/10)