The Stills - Without Feathers

Ever seen the effects of a poorly-made movie sequel? You know the kind, where half the cast is replaced by actors who look nothing like the person they’re supposed to be from the original, and the script is awkward, constructed around a plot that was meant to be finished but instead absently drifts on, all the while losing its already weak connection to the once engaging story. That is the feeling one gets when listening to The Stills’ ‘Without Feathers’, a comparatively disappointing follow-up to their notable debut ‘Logic Will Break Your Heart’, which set the music scene ablaze upon its release.

The Canadian rockers have gone through quite a transformation since we last heard them, trading in their edgy, new wave club hits for songs more redolent of apprehensive pop-rock and definitely less likely to provoke shameful drunken dancing, not to mention exchanging a few band members. The Stills’ line up has experienced quite the metamorphosis, with the most evident being the loss of co-frontman Greg Paquet.

With such serious altercations occurring, it’s no surprise that the band seem to lose their bearings on ‘Without Feathers’, creating a lacklustre and instantly forgettable album, despite proven potential. The outcome is docile, moderately upbeat pop-rock that inconsistently fades between glimmers of ingenuity and regression in to elementary instrumentation. ‘It Takes Time’ is a ray of hope for the band, displaying dynamic drumming blended with zippy guitar riffs that bounce off on one another like rubber balls. Unfortunately, these moments of proficiency are few and far between, with the between sounding more like ‘Helicopters’, a song stunted in every sense of the word. Unbearably repetitive, the song lethargically drags on in an undistinguishable fusion of chorus and verse for approximately four and a half minutes, while fragmentised vocals pause awkwardly with each line, as if needing to take a breath before echoing back the same unwavering flatness to your speakers.

The vocals of Tim Fletcher and Dave Hamelin are mismatched to relatively depressing lyrics that tell of heartbreak, more appropriately delivered with a grimace rather than a smile. Sounding painfully monotone and emotionally vapid, the twosome sing ‘where my heart’s caving in/a tornado whips in around the poles/and it’s raining’ to unconvincingly sanguine music during ‘In The Beginning’, a dubious contradiction normally reserved to high school bands.

Having strayed too far from their foundation, this Canadian quintet has lost their defining features and produced an album sounding too much like a debut all over again, only this time unaccompanied by industry buzz. The Stills’ sophomore effort, appropriately titled ‘Without Feathers’, has clearly failed to take off.