After I Should Coco, Supergrass found themselves in a rather uncomfortable position. They had success, recognition and an audience certain it already knew them. The musicians themselves apparently had no wish to become their own picture. Alright gave them everything, but also began to set expectations. The world saw youth, bicycles, smiles and three minutes of weightlessness. Supergrass increasingly wanted to reveal something less obvious.
When success starts getting in the way
In It for the Money, released in 1997, delivered the strongest answer. The band returned to Sawmills and worked with producer John Cornfield. The studio was no longer used merely to preserve live energy. This time it became a fully fledged tool for building tension. The songs grew heavier and the space noticeably larger. The debut's energy acquired something it had hardly needed before: resistance, which did the entire band a great deal of good.
Richard III arrives with a riff stripped of the debut's adolescent lightness. The guitar is heavier, the drums more decisive, the vocal more irritable. Gaz Coombes, on vocals and guitar, no longer sounds innocent. He can still lead a melody straight to the chorus. He simply has no need to pretend that everything is wonderful.
Sun Hits the Sky reveals an even more interesting transformation. It remains immediate, catchy and intensely melodic. Beneath the surface, however, far more is happening than before. The rhythm drives the song, while the arrangement keeps opening new doors. Supergrass are beginning to understand that a hit can contain a labyrinth.
Late in the Day, meanwhile, brings Coombes's melancholy into full voice. On the debut, similar shades appeared almost by accident. Here sadness ceases to be an accessory to the energy. It becomes one of the music's primary colours.
This was probably the moment when Supergrass found their finest balance. They were still fast, but did not have to run constantly. They were still catchy, but had stopped relying on charm alone. In It for the Money sounds like growing up without losing your reflexes.
Supergrass. When the possibilities grow too wide
Two years later came the album simply called Supergrass. The cover, with its X-rayed heads, suggested a kind of examination of the band. Inside, the music became more colourful and less clear-cut. They could now do almost anything, and that had consequences.
Moving shows their maturity better than most of the singles. Its calm beginning suddenly opens into the familiar rush. Two different faces of the band coexist here without conflict. This is when Supergrass sound both most natural and most self-aware.
Pumping on Your Stereo makes almost the opposite move. The song celebrates rock-and-roll simplicity with an enormous grin. It is a little silly, and knows exactly what it is doing. The melody immediately justifies all the controlled fooling around.
The problem appears between the album's strongest moments. Supergrass can now do almost everything, so they try too much. Richer harmonies, stranger guitars and extra keyboards appear. The lyrics grow heavier and the arrangements ever more elaborate. Technically, there is little to complain about. Emotionally, however, the album can feel less focused than its predecessor.
This is an intriguing stage for any band with abundant talent. Limitations stop obstructing them, and so begin to help less and less. Supergrass had reached precisely that point. They could turn almost anywhere, so they did not always choose the best direction.
Life on Other Planets. Back in motion
Life on Other Planets, from 2002, changes the perspective. Rob Coombes, the band's long-term keyboard collaborator and Gaz's brother, became a full member. Production was entrusted to Tony Hoffer, who helped restore the music's immediacy. Supergrass once again shortened the distance between an idea and a chorus.
A stronger fascination with seventies rock is audible too. This is not a museum reconstruction of old records. The band is simply taking pleasure in movement again. The music regains lightness, but not innocence.
Grace is among the group's most natural later singles. Its melody needs no complication to work immediately. Rush Hour Soul restarts Danny Goffey's percussive drive. Brecon Beacons lets in more strangeness and psychedelic unease. Run reminds us that the melancholy has not gone anywhere.
I am not certain that the album recovers the old freshness. After so many years together, that was probably impossible. Freshness is replaced by fluency in their own language. Sometimes it helps, because the band knows exactly what works. Sometimes it gets in the way, because reflex begins to replace discovery.
Supergrass could now write a song that sounded exclusively like Supergrass. That did not always mean they ought to record it.
Four albums and the end of obligation
These three albums tell a story far more interesting than chronology alone. In It for the Money shows a band genuinely maturing. Supergrass shows a band intoxicated by its own possibilities. Life on Other Planets tries to recover simplicity and movement.
What matters most, however, is what they no longer do. They do not try to become the boys from the Alright video again. Their own myth from 1995 interests them less and less. That is why the second album remains the crucial point here.
On In It for the Money, Supergrass stopped smiling. That did not turn them into a grim rock band. They simply began to understand that lightness needs an opposing weight. Without it, even the finest chorus quickly becomes an advert for itself.
After four albums, they no longer had to prove anything to Britpop. They were not a one-single band or the memory of one good summer. They had their own language, even if they sometimes struggled with it. The next step, then, could be something considerably riskier.
They could stop chasing their own youth.
All they had to do was leave England.
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