Nada Surf - The indifferent stars

Who knows whether Matthew Caws and Daniel Lorca ever imagined they'd one day become genuinely successful rock stars, back when they spent their teenage days at New York's Lycée Français swapping, who knows, stories about the years they'd both spent in France and Belgium, well-off kids trailing after their respective families. What they certainly knew was that they'd really wear out those first guitars, rather than settling for the usual daydreams of their peers, and in their shared passion for music they never held back. Of all that obscure apprenticeship, only a few scattered traces survive online: the name of a project, Because Because Because, which was something like the tattered banner of their years paying dues, never rewarded with an actual record deal, and nonetheless destined to be revived much later as a mere side amusement, once fame had been well and truly secured; and then another name, The Cost Of Living (like the Clash EP), which today probably won't mean anything even to many of their most devoted fans, and yet, in its obscurity, represents one of the best-kept secrets of American alternative music in the Eighties.

The Best of Young (Paisley Underground)

Shared with multi-instrumentalist Marcelo Romero and drummer Scott Yeckes, the Cost Of Living experience bears its first fruit with the release of Day Of Some Lord, a debut album by the two friends, then just nineteen years old, put out in 1986 by Don't Get All Heavy And Uncool Records, a microscopic label (owned by Romero himself) that, like the band, was making its official debut. Replacements, Husker Du and Violent Femmes are among the most obvious reference points for an already assured alt-rock debut with not an ounce of reverential fear. Yet you don't need to listen too closely to catch the first signs of an ideal kinship with the Paisley Underground scene (in its less polished strand, led by Russ Tolman's True West) and with all the modern disciples of the Byrds gospel. The jangling bloom of "White Dress" indeed reveals undeniable correspondences with Dream Syndacate but also with the six-string work of the then thirty-year-old Peter Buck. The record, at bottom, is nothing more than a muffled celebration of the Rickenbacker, offered with not exactly remarkable timing (the movement was already in its dying embers) and from an admittedly secondary vantage point (far indeed from the Los Angeles of past and present idols) but a thoroughly promising one.

Even given the band members' young age, the guitar textures are impressively crafted, the Caws/Romero dual-lead-vocal dynamic adds plenty of spark, the personality on display is more than solid, and here and there ("Hang Around") you can appreciate some lovely vocal harmonies, a full decade ahead of the first Nada Surf gems and almost five years ahead of the not-so-distant alt-country explorations of the Jayhawks (the ones still blossoming on "Blue Earth", especially).

It's also curious how many echoes of Minneapolis crop up here (from Bob Mould and Paul Westerberg to the Louris & Olson outfit), as even the rising Soul Asylum of the same period, still shaggy-haired and signed to good old Twin/Tone, seem to peek through when "I Only Wanted What She Said She'd Give To Me" kicks in and Romero indulges in a bit of a Dave Pirner turn. Despite the expansive approach, a certain healthy new wave restlessness shows through, and there's no shortage of an affectionate nod to the Cure of "Seventeen Seconds", alongside more withdrawn, shadowy passages like "Can't Find The Answer" or the closing "Permanent Paralysis", more martial and nihilistic in tone.

All in all, Day Of Some Lord is an encouraging debut that hints at interesting developments to come.

For the follow-up, the New York band kept fans waiting three years, hardly a trifle for newcomers still seeking validation and, if possible, far greater visibility. The wait, however, wasn't in vain. Surprisingly, Daniel Lorca doesn't appear in the credits, replaced by Sam Elwitt, while Alex Gomez takes over behind the drum kit. The implicit rivalry between the two frontmen, Matthew and Marcelo, nonetheless remains the true creative engine of the American outfit, though the former increasingly dominates both in the number and the character of the songs he wrote.

The sophomore effort Comic Book Page was once again released by the hardly overburdened Don't Get All Heavy And Uncool Records (its second title in the catalogue), but right away it comes across with an entirely different buoyancy, a production free of any technical rough edges and a sound that's decidedly richer, rounder, more polished. The choral blends are as remarkable as the triumphant surge of the guitars, in the name of a lush, thoroughly enjoyable power-pop. Heard today, Caws's timbre comes across as far more recognizable than on the previous release, and even the softness of the bass, far removed as it still is from what Nada Surf would eventually become expressively, can bring to mind the spirited rhythmic flourishes of the (future) dreadlocked Daniel.

While "So Much Better" already shows some kinship with the Lemonheads before the mainstream glory of "It's A Shame About Ray", "Could Be Mine" and "Pretty Alice" (both written by Romero) testify to a growing passion for early Rem, the "Reckoning"-era Rem in particular, with their impeccable jingle-jangle weaves and their all-out-surrender refrains, all twelve-string brushstrokes and superb pop-rock craftsmanship.

The kinship with the Athens band holds true, if anything even more so, in the case of "Ulterior Motives" (perhaps the quartet's finest song), even as it echoes the later IRS-era work of Stipe and co., "Lifes Rich Pageant" and "Document". The ever-present debts to Rain Parade and the Long Ryders don't diminish a lavish piece of work, both in terms of songwriting and performance confidence, as confirmed too by the genuinely killer chorus of "Flowers In The Afternoon".

This second collection, in short, lacks nothing but bad songs, and right up to "Hey Hey Hey", the band's last gallop before the curtain fell, the entertainment is dispensed at consistently high levels. And it's precisely on those closing notes that an ideal bridge is cast toward their next venture, one the two young New Yorkers would nonetheless take seven long years to get right. For now, though, this chapter comes to an end, and with the dawn of the Nineties the two singer-guitarists' paths part ways. Marcelo Romero stays the course on the same sound, fronting two bands (Labia and Shake Appeal) that would never find a way out of obscurity or beyond the modest little patch tended by Don't Get All Heavy And Uncool Records; Matthew Caws, on the other hand, would get more than one move right and see his efforts rewarded. What remains of Cost Of Living, though, are two wonderful records, consigned to a cult following that is underground to say the least, along with an invisibility that feels almost mockingly ironic in the internet age (the vast, redundant web today hosts not a single photograph of them). Radiant, immersive, gripping, they had everything it took to make their mark with due authority. Their only flaw was failing to read which way the wind was blowing in 1989, choosing instead to double down on their Paisley leanings at a point when the whole phenomenon could already be considered long since filed away.

Popular, but Only for Fifteen Minutes

It's 1992 when Matthew feels ready for a new venture, firmly determined that this time there will be no co-star to steal his microphone. His bandmates, on this occasion, are returning bassist Daniel Lorca and drummer Aaron Conte. Nada Surf thus come into being with no fanfare and no real direction to follow, and the name they adopt ("it's just surfing on nothing," the singer would explain years later, describing it as "a representation of a state of mind") already reflects, in itself, the informal and blissfully muddled nature of the project. The first record released under the Caws name in the new decade, however, comes under a different moniker, Fancipantz, shared with Rachel Blumberg, later the drummer for the Decemberists during the glorious three-year stretch in which they recorded "Her Majesty" and "Picaresque": nothing more than an eponymous seven-inch, released in 1993 on the little-known Stickboy, with no further developments or collaborations. The same indie label puts out the following year the New York trio's first single proper, "The Plan/Telescope," the only fruit of Conte's work with the band aside from a tape of assorted demos titled "Tafkans," later recycled to shape the second single and, above all, the Karmic EP, out in March 1996 on the Rough Trade subsidiary No 6 Records. Here the band presents itself with all its trademarks already clearly recognizable, though still expressed in embryonic and decidedly raw form. The band seems torn between two different musical shoes to wear, emblematically embodied by the introspective gem "Everybody Lies" and the noisy, aggressive barrage of "Nothing," perhaps the dominant option at this stage, geared mostly toward a rough-edged punk-pop.

Meanwhile, the drummer has already packed his bags, surprisingly joining the Shake Appeal led by friend and rival Marcelo Romero, but his replacement is of unquestionably higher caliber: Ira Elliot, who had been behind the kit in the garage-punk furies Headless Horsemen and was already a founding member of a cult city institution, the Fuzztones, a band in which Matthew and Daniel were fans from day one. 1995 is drawing to a close, and Nada Surf will never change lineup again, except when expanding it as needed. After a show at the Knitting Factory, the trio gets the chance for a brief encounter with the man behind the Weezer's stunning success, ex-Cars frontman Rick Ocasek, to whom they manage to pass a copy of "Tafkans." The producer recognizes not only the potential but also the undeniable kinship with the band fronted by Rivers Cuomo, and gets back in touch with Matthew and co., offering to produce their debut album, perhaps dreaming of lightning striking twice. The deal with Elektra follows soon after, and the time is ripe for their official debut.

The product of barely twenty days in the studio, High/Low carries the slightly sour aftertaste of many similar records from the same period. It's lively, fun, and shows a band still green but already clearly aiming for the golden compromise between roughness and romanticism (of a fairly coarse grain): a program that's hardly unworthy, especially for its rollercoaster momentum, though undercut by originality that's running on fumes.

Noisy, drenched in reverb, heavy-footed: across its length, Nada Surf present themselves under the banner of a street-smart punk-rock indebted significantly to the Buzzcocks but updated for the Nineties, a formula as bare-bones as it is profitable, one that would soon be taken up by plenty of other artists — one for all, the crafty Ted Leo with his Pharmacists. The only track carried over from the EP, "Treehouse," has no trouble establishing itself as one of the liveliest cuts in the bunch, already showing off some of the band's unmistakable signatures, from the saccharine refrain to the adrenaline-charged gait, from the syrupy big riffs to the backing "oohs" dropped always at the right moment. While making no secret of its deeply American roots, it's impossible not to catch in the band's style a few winks toward the triumphant Britpop of the era ("Stalemate," for instance), starting with those sharp edges — always upfront, yet conveniently sanded down — perfectly suited to winning over teenagers on both sides of the Atlantic.

The real centerpiece, though, is something else. Aptly titled "Popular," their first, hilarious, formidable hit is essentially a send-up of (and for) teenagers. Perfect for winning over the young minds of the MTV Generation (or the Generation X chronicled by Douglas Coupland, by then ready for the archives), with its blend of rebellion for soft hearts and a surrogate grunge — the post-grunge of good boys, tainted by the punk-pop revival. Love it or hate it, it becomes, in the summer of 1996, an earworm that's hard to shake, even though for years it would prove more of a boomerang than a blessing for the band, condemned, much to its chagrin, to the less-than-enviable circle of one-hit wonders. Their music had much more to offer, even if at first (and for a while) you wouldn't have known it, with the band unable to rise above a Sonic Youth knock-off of "Dirty" ("Sleep"), likeable solely for its decent knack for racket.

With the "Popular" blueprint evidently adopted as the template for the whole record, buoyed by an enviable fluidity and energy (against a few bouts of adolescent obviousness, as in "Psychic Caramel"), the album proves lively enough right to the end, even if there are few truly viable ideas beyond the admirable alchemical blend achieved on a formal level. Telling titles with regard to the New York band's future direction are "Hollywood" and the more subdued (yet still extremely fragile) "Zen Brain," called upon to close the show in a vein of delicacy and singalong hooks.

The band behind High/Low is starting to play with a certain nostalgia stereotype, but still favors displays of muscle and testosterone, as evident in "Icebox," another enjoyable, utterly uncomplicated track. Nada Surf will certainly never again sound this charged up, electric and roguish. Later on they would do things with more reason and less impulse, gaining several points on their more accomplished records, but losing just as many on their recent ones, prematurely senile and short of breath, where a bit more of a jolt would have done them good.

What emerges, in any case, is an honest but hardly earth-shattering debut, its valuable flourishes undercut by some forgivable songwriting banalities, seemingly destined to float, unnoticed, in the vast sea of truly essential releases from the era.

1997 is a year of consolidation and intense touring for the trio, who go down a storm especially at summer festivals across Europe. It's precisely on the European market that the release of the new album, titled The Proximity Effect, is first planned, arriving in stores in September 1998. Conceptual complications reduced to zero and just the right amount of sonic polish: the Nada Surf of the sophomore record haven't forgotten how to charm an audience of teenagers, orphaned by grunge yet, at the same time, less demanding, even more inclined toward disengagement and hungry at heart for tenderness: in the year when, back home, the saccharine champions of alternative rock Better Than Ezra get lost in a thousand experimental aberrations chasing (frankly impossibly) the Radiohead of "OK Computer", this amounts to an implicit passing of the torch.

"Hyperspace" announces that yes, they're back, sharper and louder, with a greater command of pop-rock weaponry. The ingredients remain more or less the same, but there's a new shine marking the distance from the debut, a swagger, a sound that's become rounder and more polished, already turning into something of a classic, in a way. Caws's voice scratches gently, and the same paradox holds for the whirl of guitars: "crunchy guitars," they'd call them stateside, those thoroughly enjoyable electric guitars with aggression always kept rigorously in check, rough only to the naive ear of a teenager. The leap in quality, in short, seems evident. A touch less recklessness, sturdier songcraft, songwriting that's simple but never formulaic, and a progressive refinement on the stylistic front: these are the few tweaks made to further boost their appeal, with a fine polish job courtesy of Fred Maher (who had already produced Lou Reed's "New York"), a make-up job admirably propped up by the band's sturdy framework, set against material that in other respects still feels fairly green (emblematic is "Why Are You So Mean To Me?," a Vitreous Humor cover).

What emerges, even more than on its predecessor, is a playful, carefree indie-rock schematism, entirely alien to the slacker leanings of Pavement and far more interested in a sonic realization of cuteness destined to take the coming decade by storm, especially on TV-series soundtracks. Here lies the great insight behind the strategic positioning Nada Surf adopted with considerable opportunism, ahead of plenty of epigones who, though luckier, were far less talented. Of course, every concession to pop ("Bad Best Friend") calls for an equal and opposite reaction toward rock, feisty but never truly mean, as in the case of "Dispossession" (a rework of one of the two tracks Matthew had released with Fancipantz). Between the lively, restless "Bacardi" (a telling title), which in its more nostalgic, aestheticizing moments winks at the twilight enchantments of Thom Yorke's band, a dazzling echo of feelings that still feel wholly current, like Kula Shaker ("Firecracker"), and a more trite one borrowed from rising, lesser phenomena like Green Day ("Show Down"), there's simply no room to get bored.

"80 Windows," the album's bittersweet mega-single, is populist enough to win its game with no trouble. A few subtle sentimentalist overreaches are the only gamble, well supported by songwriting of proven easy-listening reliability. With hindsight, it can be seen as a dress rehearsal for the jewel-like ballads of the follow-up, Let Go, while already standing as a fine achievement in its own right, a lavish promise and a tonic boost for the New York trio's ambitions.

Among the songs that could already be called typical of the band, mention should also go to the more reflective yet equally winning "Troublemaker," further proof of their ease even when handling less frantic rhythms or less muscular outbursts. The bursts of speed, moreover, are a device the band never seems willing to give up entirely, and luckily so, since that's what keeps the record nicely marbled and, as a result, sufficiently interesting.

All told, The Proximity Effect marks more than just a step forward for Nada Surf, especially in terms of self-assurance, even though the people at Elektra turn up their noses. They wanted a new "Popular," but the most likely candidate, "The Voices," with only a watered-down nihilist pose (and without the irony of its model), can only remain a fine but unfinished page. Further friction arises when the band insists on including two covers in the tracklist (besides the one already mentioned, also "Black And White" by the dB's) and refuses to add an acoustic version of their hit from two years earlier. While they're busy on a thirty-date tour of France, where the album proves to be a resounding success (straight out of a screenplay written by Woody Allen), the band gets dropped by their label, who inform them that they will not be distributing the album in the United States. It's an injustice Matthew and his bandmates can only remedy two years after the original release, putting out their troubled sophomore record at home as well, through their own means (the family label, MarDev) and with the tracklist they wanted. Too late, however, to recapture with the home audience the glories of four years earlier: the controversies they suffered saw their name cool off no less quickly than it had once caught fire, and popularity is already knocking at the door with a steep bill to pay. Rebuilding the relationship with their North American fans looms as a daunting challenge, especially without the backing of a major label, but Nada Surf still have a few good cards left to play.

Indie and content

In the limbo between the two releases of the sophomore, Matthew and co. do everything they can to stay in touch with their aficionados. They embark on long tours to promote the recent songs, especially among those who don't yet know them, but above all they choose to while away the wait for the next record with the classic release of a collection of outtakes and rarities, which, truth be told, arrives a little ahead of its time. North 6th Street comes out on the microscopic Noneties label in 1999 and takes the shape of a string of sped-up demos, in some cases even particularly bare-bones ("Robot"), which add nothing to the already-released good versions — if anything they make them less intriguing precisely because of their amateurish dress and their explosiveness, in many ways, defused (the same goes for the embryonic "Popular" on the tracklist).

Between a lo-fi instrumental filler complete with urban field recording ("Traffic") and a frugal but fizzy unplugged take ("Me And You"), the recording quality remains little more than homemade, in line, at best, with the least sparkling episodes of the two albums. Among the (faint) points of interest are the two French-language recoveries of "Zen Brain" and "Sleep", the first manifestation of a mildly intellectualist quirk the band will never fully shake off: certainly curious ideas, which nevertheless don't represent, on their own, an added value or a justification for buying the record. The controversial cover of dB's' "Black & White", one of the bones of contention between the band and Elektra, is a pleasant b-side, but on closer inspection it's emblematic of the scattershot nature of a collection that's anything but essential. With the unreleased "The Manoeuvres" too bloodless for the band's standards, only the anomalous "Sick Of You" proves more fascinating than average, for its sensual aftertaste and dusty patina that winks at none other than the Rolling Stones (with just the right touch of blood in the refrain), along with the song dedicated to River Phoenix, which, if nothing else, feels raw and earthy with its spicy spoken word, despite owing heavy debts to the Lemonheads.

The following three years are, for the band, a phase of intense preparation but also of relaxed, indefinite leave. Matthew spends his days working with great enjoyment at a record store in Brooklyn, Earwax, Daniel devotes himself to computer projects, while Ira recycles himself in his spare time as a sought-after session player for established colleagues. In the evenings they get together to write new material and try to sketch out the direction to take. This only becomes clear in the recording sessions in early 2002, which involve, in various capacities, no fewer than five producers, including friends Chris Fudurich and Louie Lino (already on board for The Proximity Effect), the more famous Juan Garcia, and Chris Walla of Death Cab For Cutie. It's actually Walla who helps broker the three New Yorkers' signing to Barsuk, sealing their (definitive) relegation to the more fitting galaxy of indie labels.

Even Nada Surf's "difficult third album", Let Go, is marked by a staggered release depending on the geographic market. It comes out in Europe in September, in the United States five months later, and the two tracklists differ significantly in track order and chosen titles. The adjective "difficult", however, is wildly out of place: the band's ease in shaping memorable easy-listening gems repeatedly borders on magic, as if nothing were truly out of reach for them this time around.

And you can tell early on that they mean business, thanks to the superb acoustic opening of "Blizzard Of '77", a nostalgic yet lean little gem, remarkable for its control and intimate feel, and also perfect for introducing "The Way You Wear Your Head", hands down the best outright rock song the band has ever written. Thundering, direct and relentless, with its disciplined feedback and its blend of roughness and sweetness, the song stands as a mirror of the indie-rock then in transformation (the very scene with Walla's own band — and the nearly contemporaneous "Transatlanticism" — as its standard-bearer), appealing without ever pandering, and it hits the mark effortlessly. Right after comes another gem with an intimate feel, built on delicate acoustic touches but enriched by superb work on the electric finishing (as well as by Ira's rhythmic contribution, as basic as it is prominent): "Fruit Fly" stands as the emblem of the harmonious coexistence of the trio's two sonic souls. Matthew practically whispers, before — true to the band's tradition — everything flares up into a blazing, contagious burst, turning that timid approach into a hoarse, perfect singalong wail. The no less populist "Blonde On Blonde", meanwhile, works as yet another successful evocation of classic artists or LPs. Another gem, then, paying homage to Dylan and implicitly to their own youth, boasting yet another killer refrain purpose-built to be sung at the top of one's lungs.

In the spirited tracklist chosen for the European market, the golden streak doesn't let up and, if anything, raises the stakes with another one of the most fortunate episodes of their career, "Inside Of Love", a kind of emotional calling card even before being an expressive one. In this gorgeous hit too, a pop song that genuinely verges on perfection, everything works in its favor: the softness of the arrangements, Caws' smooth voice, a crystalline melody that gently caresses anyone who lends it an ear, before blossoming into one last blessed hook. Given this tone, one might expect a fundamentally shadowy and restrained record, but the rebuttal arrives in no time. Nada Surf's rock engine kicks back into joyful full throttle with "Hi-Speed Soul", revealing a motor running at peak efficiency with clean filters. And as if that weren't enough on top of shine and muscle, here's yet another chorus in extra-luxury packaging, ready to be memorized in no time. The momentum then proves just as relentless thanks to a couple more caramel-coated power-pop numbers, radiant and brash enough, like "No Quick Fix" and especially "Happy Kid", whose sonic brilliance is owed specifically to old hand Bryce Goggin, already responsible for the Lemonheads' "Car Button Cloth", Come's "Don't Ask, Don't Tell", and the early work of Joan Wasser and Bill Ricchini.

With "Killian's Red" the tone tends to darken, but the singer's confident delivery keeps the attention alive, before a new ecstatic and warm passage breaks over the listener like a wave. A less obvious but equally winning track, one that profitably expands the album's emotional palette too. And so here they are again, the seducers of the Lycée Français, skilled dealers in velvet and sophisticated caresses: "Là Pour Ça" treads on slippery ground, but does so with class, without betraying the slightest hint of embarrassment. In the closing stretch, the instinct to speed up again prevails, overexposing the grain to deliver dazzling, tart snapshots ("Treading Water", the bonus track "Run"), or else to slow down at will, as in the seven-plus minutes of that other near-masterpiece, "Paper Boats", a sensual, nocturnal apotheosis of Caws at his most warm and approachable, the crowning touch of what — and it really is fair to say so — sounds like the perfect record for summer. Not necessarily that of 2002, but rather one of the many childhood summers to return to in one's mind, free of worries, with a heart swollen with emotion. The surge of optimism is thrilling, and the leap in quality needed to outshine the competition — the declining Weezer chief among them — is finally achieved.

Let Go truly is a joyous war machine that breaks down defenses, aims straight for the target, and never misses a shot. And it even allows itself the luxury of holding back "Neither Heaven Nor Space", a simple, well-rounded yet luminous song, made special by the shining sense of wonder it exudes and by a particularly inspired Matthew — left off the European edition of the album. Not for long, though: it will sneak back in as a bonus track (on a limited edition), as the b-side of a clearly orgasmic single ("The Way We Wear Your Head"), or as a rarity for completists on a future collection of outtakes.

Except for the scathing review on Pitchfork, the album is very warmly received by a critical press that isn't entirely free of clichés either (the frequent comparisons to Coldplay, for instance), and even more so by the fabled indie crowd and by so-called creatives working in advertising and TV series, more than a little tempted by its highly catchy tunes. The rift with North American fans can be said to be fully mended, and 2003 is a year of intense live activity that helps warm up the Nada Surf name among fans once again. At the end of this long nomadic stretch, the band finds itself with enough material for a new record and naturally gets the green light from Barsuk. Once again, a whole crowd of producers takes part in the recording sessions at John Vanderslice's Tiny Telephone, still led by Walla, Fudurich and Lino for the sake of continuity, with the more seasoned John Agnello, John Goodmanson and Chris Shaw among the new collaborators.

The Weight Is A Gift thus takes shape as a return in line with its well-regarded predecessor, and its fuel still proves to be of good quality. The songwriting has become somewhat more formulaic, but Matthew's electric guitar still roars just as it should, and his trademark knack for a hook — clearly above average — doesn't disappoint (in "Concrete Bed", for example).

The three New Yorkers shuffle the deck a bit, but the cards and the game remain the same as ever, and it makes sense that more attention is paid to form. With "Always Love" they try to replicate the magic formula of "Inside Of Love", and partly succeed. More through craftsmanship, though, than through any genuine knockout ideas. "All Is A Game" is another track from the same family, gentle and pleasantly undecided about where it's headed, caught between late-sixties sunshine pop evocations and the usual, suitably reined-in punk-pop leanings. In short, they get by on their well-established clichés and are happy to coast, risking little or nothing. The iron, after all, is still warm enough, and that's fine as it is. Elsewhere things sound more interesting. The humanist hymn to trust that is "Your Legs Grow", an intimate outing of the kind that's always been in Caws' wheelhouse, graced by the backing vocals of his bandmates (plus John Roderick of the Long Winters) and by an arrangement that focuses on substance and avoids any showy flourishes; or the sweetish ballad "What Is Your Secret?", nothing new under the sun of their ideal beach, but further proof of a still-decent touch.

The real highlight this time around, though, is called "Blankest Year", a small jolt of adrenaline in the belly of an album that's perhaps overly full and languid. Here the band, in a concentrated burst of energy and striking easy listening over in two minutes flat, goes back to sounding its best, irresistible and incisive. The placid mood, however, resumes very quickly with the ecstatic, sparingly wondrous exploration of "Comes A Time", which — thanks in part to the vocal harmonies of their friend Coralie Clement — carries a sweet autumnal warmth and gently cradles the listener. While the more rippled and slightly more nervy "In The Mirror" tries, unsuccessfully, to liven things up and add some movement, right at the end the album sparks back to life with a track, "Imaginary Friends", that calls for an inevitable singalong and tries to ditch the usual autopilot, ultimately boosting the band's stock on the purely emotional front.

In short, The Weight Is A Gift sounds like the quintessence of niceness at all costs, that invariably pleasant signature on which the band has, one step at a time, built the backbone of its career. Not exactly a dazzling work, but still a solid record that holds the line — never bold, yet never grating either — one that critics and fans still seem to enjoy well enough. The fireworks-laden streak that first put the trio on the map, especially at their debut, is nevertheless played a bit too safe here, and whenever it dares to venture out, it never crosses the boundaries it has set for itself. The result, small gems aside, remains a touch lukewarm.

Fading stars

For their return, Nada Surf took another three years. Initially announced under the title "Time For Plan A", the new Lucky betrays a sense of gratitude and contentment right from its title, one that the album's increasingly radiant tone only amplifies. Matthew Caws and co. sacrifice, in a significant (and, with hindsight, definitive) way, their noisier side, losing much of their former muscle in terms of rawness and bite. What prevails instead is a decidedly soft approach, seeking a comfortable strategic repositioning within melodic, introspective sixties-pop territory - a territory in which, meanwhile, the band has in fact been brilliantly overtaken by younger, more ambitious acts such as Shins, Midlake, Fruit Bats and Spinto Band.

Not that the formula doesn't work: the Weezer-esque college-rock of "Whose Authority" is so polished and pleasant that it wouldn't be out of place in an episode of "Scrubs" or "Grey's Anatomy"; "Weightless" manages to mask its - aptly named - flimsy substance thanks to the New York band's tried-and-tested tricks, caught between tender caresses and energetic but never overblown choruses that simply beg to be sung at the top of one's lungs, while the engaging "Are You Lightning?" even seems to echo the timbre and gentle melody of Jason Lytle's voice, the frontman of Grandaddy. Elsewhere, though, the self-referencing becomes so blatant that it erodes some of the record's credibility: that's the case with the new single "I Like What You Say", a pop quickie that relies entirely on its refrain and risks slipping into tedium without the shifts in pace the trio had once accustomed its fans to.

The vaguely macabre opener "See These Bones", by contrast, is the best thing Nada Surf circa 2008 have to offer (it's no coincidence that the Times hailed it as the "most forcefully propulsive and gloriously euphoric" song of the year): five intriguing minutes that shift gears mid-song, as per the band's usual playbook, perfectly capturing their classic sound, bringing back some of their old bite, and boasting a friendly guest vocal turn from Ben Gibbard of Death Cab For Cutie. Simplicity translates into effectiveness in the velvety pop-rock and chorus of "Beautiful Beat", a portrait of a band now at ease in its comfort zone, and still shining. The prize for most interesting track, though, goes to "The Fox", shot through with good vibes (thanks to Elliott and Lorca's excellent rhythm work) and able to sustain real tension right to the end, staying just as elusive and unresolved as "Killian's Red" once did in the band's golden days.

Despite its unusual tail end (horns courtesy of Martin Wenk of Calexico), "Ice On The Wing" well reflects the brisk pace of Lucky, a pattern only decisively broken by the closing lullaby "The Film Did Not Go 'Round", written by little-known fellow New Yorker Greg Peterson. Other passages remain negligible instead (the one-note "From Now On" or the even flimsier "Here Goes Something", with its aimless acoustic noodling), exposing the limits of an album that's meticulously produced - John Goodmanson behind the desk is always a safe bet - dressed up with top-tier guests (Ed Harcourt, Juliana Hatfield, Lianne Smith), well sung and well played, but at times seeming to favor penmanship over soul.

In 2010 the New Yorkers decided to resurface with a covers collection, If I Had A Hi-Fi, which mostly serves to catch their breath and jump-start a creative engine that had meanwhile run dry of usable ideas. The choice of songs is, all things considered, eclectic: it ranges from Kate Bush to the almost obvious Go-Betweens, via a gorgeous and epigrammatic Arthur Russell cover - they take on "Janine" - and then on to a slightly populist-leaning Depeche Mode, all the way to the contemporary likes of Spoon and Soft Pack. However, the band's foolproof chemical formula tends to turn every chosen song, indefinitely, into the same sunny beach song on which the trio has essentially built the entire meaning of its decade-plus-long discography. So this rather fanclub-like exercise, made by and for those who were there in the good old days singing along at the foot of the stage when anything still seemed possible, fails to catch the interest of any new, casual listeners - except, relatively speaking, for the noisier cover of "Enjoy The Silence". It sounds at least a little mocking that the first suggestion to pop up when you type the band's name into Google is in fact a reference to that hit by Dave Gahan's group, taking gold ahead of the far more relevant (as far as Nada Surf is concerned) "Popular" and "Always Love". But so it goes - evidently the results prove us wrong, and this went well beyond expectations; though if we're the ones off the mark here, we still maintain that the best thing about If I Had A Hi-Fi remains the palindromic perfection of its title, which was in fact lifted from an identically named noise outfit from Milwaukee (who would return the favor by titling one of their own EPs "Nada Surf").

For a new collection of original material, one had to wait another two years. Matthew, Daniel and Ira once again recorded an album with Chris Shaw, The Stars Are Indifferent To Astronomy, which feels like a bookkeeper's year-end report. The temptation of a gilded freeze-frame is no longer enough, on its own, to cheat the merciless hardness of the clock's hands. Motionless in the light of a sun that isn't even there, barely wrung out of a happy memory, the three musicians hide beneath the soft blanket of a (lovely) metaphor, like insecure children unsure of their own name. Looking ahead to a tomorrow that - as they confess in "The Future" - carries within it the same dusty coat as the days already spent, and the same slightly forced wonder of today, they allow themselves to be captured in the cautious pose of those who cannot deny their own need for contact, even if it's only the comforting scent of the banal everyday.

Dwelling on the most ordinary traits of their character, one has to admit that Nada Surf have always been the down-to-earth, grounded guys they appear to be now, with every flight of fancy nipped in the bud, never once pulling off some high-wire feat on the trapeze of indie music. It's inevitable that, in a phase of substantial disorientation, their minds fogged by the contentment of being in their forties, Caws and company should aim, without much daring, to hold their position in the ranks and reaffirm the tried-and-tested stereotypes that have by now settled in, only slightly adjusted to accommodate the passing years. In one promotional video, there they are, trying to win over fans in a huge kitchen left meticulously messy. Smiling and a bit eager to please, but genuinely impeccable in their Obama-like affability, friendly to the point of near parody: an invisible apron seemingly sewn onto their shirts, a bubbling pot, a sip of white wine, two guitar chords, a shared laugh or two.

In the studio, that same blatant crowd-pleasing intent must have proven a more than valid fallback to make up for the physiological dips in inspiration. Broadly rehashing their more expansive side, in the same sonic wrapping that only seems rough around the edges, keeping risk to a bare minimum and effectively muting, with self-aware restraint, any residue of their early naive rebelliousness. Gone is the inhospitable, wild forest (evoked in the opening "Clear Eye Clouded Mind") of that one true moment of defiance, when, spurred on by pride, they found the strength to tell a mentor like Ric Ocasek, the heavy rotation on MTV, and that damned major label demanding a new "Popular" every six months, to go to hell. Blissfully undecided stars, Nada Surf in their golden years, stars too proud and unmoved to care about astronomical observations, impervious to the stern gaze of critics who would only learn to love them as their commercial shine steadily faded. This seventh full-length restores the vital leanness of the New York trio along with that sunny, only vaguely troubled appeal that, album after album, seems to have become their most recognizable trademark. The cinematic nod to "Jules et Jim" celebrates the mesmerizing lightness of friendship and feeling, choosing to don the most radio-friendly outfit available, playing up the band's ever-present easy-listening streak, while leaving out the film's shadows of tragedy and a death chosen with fierce resolve as the only true healer. Truffaut betrayed for a good cause, so as not to betray the last remaining scraps of their own aesthetic creed. All in order to grant exclusive citizenship to the bright moments, in the impossible hope of an adolescence indefinitely extended.

The problem for the band behind The Stars Are Indifferent To Astronomy is that, along with the rough edges, they don't seem to have shaken off the schoolish cut of their earliest work. At times they seem so sure of themselves that they coast on fumes, then stall out, out of ideas and out of gas, in the most dispiriting of banalities. Irritating songs can crop up, like "Waiting For Something", lifeless, autopilot rehashes of their most tired tricks. What matters is that these remain isolated cases, and that craftsmanship and quality arrangements manage to redeem the rest of the album from the pit of yawns it otherwise seems doomed to. A rounded power-pop sound, edges and reverb dispensed sparingly, quick-grab refrains and regulation guitar solos always deployed right on cue, with predictable professionalism: "We're just imitations & hooks", Caws sings at one point, with undeniable sincerity.

Populist and authoritative like a scaled-down Ted Leo or Ben Folds, by now a slightly cleaner, or simply more dignified, copy of the current Weezer, Nada Surf have perhaps given up, without cheapening themselves, on the tormented allure of maturity that the intense Let Go seemed to promise, ten years earlier, as an imminent turning point that ultimately never came.

Trapped by the illusion that a magic moment could last forever - just like Grant Lee Buffalo of "Rock of Ages" and "Shallow End" - they were fooled by the motionless Narcissus in the reflecting pool they dreamed of swimming in forever, the poisonous seduction of their own state of grace. This explains the insistence on the standard electro-acoustic fare of a polite, pleasant, fairly harmless college-rock, the same genre tag used by magazines or record stores two or three decades ago. This explains the impressive mop of hair still perched, as ever, atop Daniel Lorca's head. And it also explains that pervasive sense of peace, the inevitable flip side of contentment, which surfaces again and again. "Let The Fight Do The Fighting" is by far the best, the band's typical rabbit out of a hat, the kind of song that intrigues, that caresses and strikes the heart with its simplicity. A gently crepuscular ballad that asks for nothing more than to slow things down, do away with masks, and weave a credible tribute to normality, to that life among ordinary concerns that is light years away from the dazzling spotlights of the Star System. Yes, the shining stars of the musical firmament. They were that too, actually indifferent to the flattery of a universe that shaped them out of nothing only to punish them harshly later on. Today they resemble white dwarfs instead, warm and deeply human, absorbed in cultivating the priceless beauty of their slow but inexorable fade.

Starting Over From Four

In August 2013, Matthew and his longtime friend (with more than one mutual favor already exchanged between them) Juliana Hatfield announced they would be forming a proper collaboration, under a brand-new joint project called Minor Alps. Anyone who had predicted that their debut album would turn out to be a gentle synthesis of their respective styles would have won that bet with ridiculous ease. Get There indeed takes shape as a well-balanced meeting point between her '90s singer-songwriter grit and his most recent, not exactly thrilling, output with the band.

The blend, let's be clear right away, works reasonably well too, since the eleven tracks on the record sound fluid, heartfelt and not too stiff. Beyond the predictable nature of the pairing, one certainly can't say class is lacking, especially in the less demanding moments like "Maxon": there are no glaring slip-ups, and in a sense, that's enough. With all the necessary easy-listening gears duly oiled for the occasion, the two performers seem at ease handling every instrument, straightforward and meticulous as always, almost as if they'd entrusted themselves to an autopilot that can't fail - but also, every now and then, can't quite shake off an impression of prim, schoolish polish. Matthew and Juliana clearly get along well, flaunting, as the seasoned professionals they are, the confidence of a now thoroughly rehearsed artistic duo.

If the chemistry comes across as believable, much of the credit goes to Caws, who plays in a thoroughly functional way in service of his colleague and only rarely claims the vocal spotlight for himself. That happens, for instance, in "Far From The Roses", a display of unabashed intimacy in the vein of their golden-era work, which therefore has an easy time winning over less demanding listeners. The gentler, more reflective side of Nada Surf is often conjured up again in passages of quiet atmosphere that tickle their fan base without ever feeling intrusive. Once again, the result can be filed away as a page of modest gratification, valuable too for how faithfully it mirrors the current state of the art for both artists involved, both of whom have aged, but in more than dignified fashion. While in these acoustic embroideries the guitarist works his charm like an elegant seducer, his musical partner comes across as sensual and measured, much as she did in her past duets with Evan Dando.

A name, this latter one, that we bring up once again, and not by chance: the echo of the Lemonheads' frontman can be felt time and again with real force – as in the finale, where a superb Juliana genuinely seems to be tackling an ecstatic cover of her ex-boyfriend (though it's actually just a simple reprise of "June 6th" from her "Wild Animals") – to the point that the Philadelphia singer can legitimately be considered the ghost at the feast of this Get There (and of almost all of Hatfield's output up to now).

The Minor Alps' debut album has, in short, all the traits of a polished, comfortable product, one that doesn't thrill but doesn't disappoint either. A good summary of this is the way the two leads' timbres constantly overlap, becoming virtually indistinguishable: a blend as admirable as it is, over time, limiting. Thankfully, there's no shortage of diversions. "Radio Static", for instance, has just a thin extra veneer of unease that could pass it off as a chamomile-tea version (though not a bad one) of the latest Raveonettes; not to mention the loudest, most heavy-footed track on the record ("Mixed Feelings"), fun and lightweight even if not too far from the humdrum norm of The Stars Are Indifferent To Astronomy, yet perfect for giving the album a bit of spice and breaking up its rhythm.

The prize for the most emblematic track, however, goes to the soft "Waiting For You", with its beauty as impeccable as it is fleeting. This fragile, elusive harmony is the price two professionals like Matthew and Juliana have to pay – always more than pleasant at their craft, but almost never truly memorable.

Few are as good at scraping the bottom of their own barrel, and here, surprisingly, are Nada Surf again already in 2014.

There's no juicy news to report on them, apart from the permanent addition to the lineup of ex-Guided By Voices man Doug Gillard, already a valuable guest on the previous album. What better opportunity to get people talking about them again, even marginally, than releasing a collection of B-sides from their more recent output, albeit under a title that doesn't exactly dazzle with imagination? It's the second time the three (now four) New Yorkers have leaned on a move like this, having already gathered the hidden gems of the early part of their career on the murky North 6th Street back in 1999. Well, beyond the inevitable implications of a slapped-together assortment, it must be said that this B-Sides doesn't come off badly at all. Following that now-proverbial compromise between expansiveness and intimacy, the calling card "Neither Heaven Nor Space", absent from the European edition of Let Go, shines. Aside from this standout episode – the B-side of "The Way You Wear Your Head" – there are no other memorable outtakes to speak of, but it's still a pleasing collection of caresses not yet tainted by the mannerist drift of their more recent work. Soft, evocative, occasionally stirred by lukewarm spacey abstractions, Nada Surf remain endearing even on their lesser efforts, thanks to that well-known affability, that friendly, familiar tone that has always kept their output free of overly pretentious inflections.

On "Au Fond du Rêve Doré" and "Je t'attendais" the Caws of his days at the Lycée Français in New York resurfaces, the languid and, all things considered, convincing figure we'd already encountered on the breakthrough album and on a cover of his friend Coralie Clément. Nothing transcendent, but in a collection with such a fundamentally low profile as this one, even gently glowing, white-hot ballads (along the lines of the frontman's recent output with Hatfield in the Minor Alps project) and indie-pop divertissements come in handy, polished and utterly undemanding. A bit like the original version of "Concrete Bed", which finds a coherent place here, blending well with the collection's radiantly calm atmosphere. The quartet comes across as calm, delicate and still reasonably focused, though their noisier, wilder streak, truth be told, is missed. A slightly more rippled track like "I Wanna Take You Home" isn't enough to break the inertia, dutiful but unable to escape the formulaic rut of the band's recent work, nor is a feistier "Everyone's On Tour", which broadly confirms, if nothing else, the American outfit's credentials when they decide to flex a bit of muscle and nerve.

Rounding out the picture is a series of very tasteful acoustic versions of relatively recent titles: they work when the original is good ("Whose Autority", for instance), highlighting the clarity of the songwriting and the performance, but curiously they don't embarrass themselves even when revisiting tracks that are anything but unforgettable ("Waiting For Something" and "The Future", two of the five tracks salvaged from the 2012 "Dulcitone Files Ep"), helped along by the singer-guitarist's remarkable control.

Of course, this is still recycled material, pleasant but ultimately dispensable. The expressive and emotional cohesion revealed in the sequencing, however, justifies (amid mild gratifications and a few harmless yawns) this second chance, and it should be seen as the true added value of the anthology, even though nothing significant has been added to what these veterans of alt-rock for tender hearts had already said before.

It may be an excessive show of optimism to hope for Nada Surf's return to top form, but, as they say, hoping costs nothing. There is, true, that reassuring precedent of the old scraps collection North 6th Street, which was followed by the masterpiece Let Go. But we're talking about a lifetime ago, and it can't be ignored that, before the recent B-sides collection, our heroes had crowded their catalogue with at least a trio of releases that weren't exactly unforgettable. Given that miracles suit saints better than alternative bands, we can confirm that You Know Who You Are is, at any rate, a decent comeback. Excess is banned, as is inconsistency, but the record, level and fragrant, nonetheless surpasses the lukewarm results of their last few efforts with a certain agility, with particular credit to Matthew Caws, who has learned to make the most of the minimal emotional scraps these new songs dole out, however sparingly. So the album wins you over little by little, with gentleness, without promising the moon.

On one side, the ethereal inflection of the vocal parts, with the odd mischievous falsetto (and choral backing from guests Ken Stringfellow and Dan Wilson of Semisonic); on the other, decisive signals on the rhythmic front and the volume dial creeping back up, as if recalling the lion-hearted days of fifteen years ago. This is how the resurrected Nada Surf present themselves, in what is nothing more than a fresh celebration of regret-free nostalgia and a good-natured yet sincere optimism (the closing of "Victory's Yours" makes the point all too clearly). "Believe You're Mine" shows them even more restrained than usual, excellent at not overdoing it, while the quiet jangle-pop arpeggio curiously harks back to the distant days of their youthful incarnation as Cost Of Living. Setting aside the obvious vocal discrepancy, "Animal" could almost pass for a song by late-period Rem or by the Decemberists of "The King Is Dead": the same luminous Paisley Underground fragrances, the same broad breath, the identical pleasant sense of fulfillment. The pace is that of a well-calibrated middle-distance runner, one who doesn't burn out in dazzling bursts but aims to finish strong, mindful of timing and steady effort. Better this way, in the end, than back when they still thought of themselves as sprinters but came across as winded. Wearing the same tact as all their recent output, this time the retreat into simplicity of writing and arrangement pays off again, along with a semblance of freshness that doesn't feel out of place at all. Nothing stratospheric, mind you – the dazzling days of the 2002 album remain a distant memory – but at least the mannered stench that was starting to grate in their studio work has been chased away.

"New Bird" brings a touch more movement, once again drawing close to the Lemonheads of their golden years, as if the frontman's recent experience with Hatfield had influenced him by osmosis (an osmosis, moreover, that predates this). The trend is then reinforced by "Out Of The Dark", which also features two bright guitars and the liveliness of Calexico's Martin Wenk on warm trumpet. The exception that proves the rule is the driving title track, a trim slice of punk-pop that feels like an obligatory tribute to the fans and isn't unpleasant either. In this run of rounded, white-hot ballads (which recalls the parade of songs on Teenage Fanclub's "Songs From Northern Britain") no song is unforgettable, and no song is bad or irredeemably bland. The production, meanwhile – entrusted to the loyal Chris Shaw, John Goodmanson, Tom Beaujour and John Agnello, and though lacking any bold flourishes or showy formal tricks – is among the neatest and cleanest of their career. Is it a stretch, then, to speak of a "mature album"? Once it's clear the term isn't meant to carry any qualitative connotations, maybe not – the description fits: You Know Who You Are is an adult, genial record, one that speaks of calm and reconciliation, of goals reached despite shared struggles, of a disenchantment that isn't bitter.

The result is enjoyable thanks to the energetic performance of a quartet that seems to have rediscovered its breath and muscle tone, as well as its natural ease in communicating, moving others and being moved. Beyond that, without wanting to weigh the verdict down with negative implications, it's fair to call it business as usual, homework that wasn't especially demanding but was carried out admirably all the same. To hear Nada Surf at their most thrilling, you need only pull the old albums off the shelf. Or look them up streaming online, if you're not one of the old guard.

The melodic embrace of "So Much Love" duly opens Never Not Together (2020), the band's ninth album, centred on themes of interconnection and human relationships. Subjects handled à-la Nada Surf: with simple, direct, heartfelt and sincere words, perfectly fused to crisp chords and catchy rhythms, not to mention the usual knockout choruses. Next comes the lovely guitar interplay of "Come Get Me", where Matthew Caws' intense vocal performance is underpinned by the most obvious sonic novelty: the synths, courtesy of their friend and comrade-in-arms Louie Lino, perfectly grafted onto the songs' sparkling structure. The excellent power-pop hat-trick closes out in style with the catchphrase "Live Learn & Forget": then comes "Just Wait", the big ballad you always expect from the band that may have written the most beautiful love song in recent indie pop-rock history, namely "Inside Of Love". This time, though, the heartfelt passage also touches on the struggles of growing up and the many conflicts of youth: ⟦Q1⟧.

In this potential tracklist of all singles comes "Something I Should Do", in which the spoken-word delivery that branded "Popular" – Nada Surf's hit par excellence – returns, this time put to use declaiming a fine message in line with both "Never Not Together" and the band's entire discography: ⟦Q2⟧. It's "Mathilda" that stands out in the second half, alternating calm moments with rock surges, telling a hard-won story of growth and coming-of-age. Closed out by the driving "Ride The Unknow", the album shows Nada Surf still capable of handling life's many small dramas and adventures without ever being banal, both lyrically and compositionally.

Contributions by Francesco Giordani ("If I Had A Hi-Fi"), Alessio Belli ("Never Not Together")

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