A lot has happened in Snow Patrol’s world in the six years since their last album, Wildness. There was the small matter of a pandemic, of course; Gary Lightbody, the band’s frontman, was awarded the freedom of his hometown; Nathan Connolly released a solo album; and Johnny McDaid reinforced his reputation as a pop gun for hire by writing more megahits with the likes of Ed Sheeran and Alicia Keys. Oh, and they lost two of their founding members: in 2021 Snow Patrol became a trio after their original drummer, Jonny Quinn, and bassist, Paul Wilson, quit for reasons that remain unknown.
Perhaps that shift has been the primary reason for Snow Patrol’s newfound sense of reflection. Their eighth studio album was largely informed, according to Lightbody, by gaining clarity on past relationships. By his own admission, the frontman has “done a lot of work” on himself (presumably in the form of therapy), and his songwriting benefits from the truthfulness unearthed via his romantic self-sabotage, although it makes for an odd intersection between “break-up album” and “self-aware confessional”.
On The Beginning he addresses an old flame, crooning, “I’m sorry unequivocally/ I just don’t know how to love.” On Hold Me in the Fire he sings how “the love you learn to fight, it keeps you numb”. On the standout track These Lies he admits that “all I’ve got are lies for you, even now”. It’s heavy going at times, although there is a sense of redemption in later tracks, such as Talking About Hope and What if Nothing Breaks?
Musically, this is certainly one of the most interesting albums that the band has made in years. Lightbody’s willingness to lay himself bare makes songs such as Never Really Tire, weighted down by an ominous piano riff, terrifyingly tender. The cracks in his falsetto on These Lies are probably something the band would have papered over on earlier albums, when they were arguably more concerned with peddling the kind of songs that made them stadium-fillers and festival headliners.
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There are a few of those glossy, anthemic moments here, too, of course, from the pristine All to the easy-going, toe-tappy indie MOR of Your Heart Home. Aided and abetted by producer Fraser T Smith, who helped the trio see the wood – or the forest – for the trees after their initial attempts at self-producing the album, there is a clear progression from self-flagellation to the more hopeful numbers. The title track, meanwhile, ends on an uplifting refrain that you can expect to hear at many a festival next summer.
The lyrical sincerity occasionally topples into maudlin territory, but much of this album suggests that Snow Patrol are now willing to venture down the path less travelled, too.
