Written by: Dave Cantrell

In the brutally honest everyday world dreams come true so infrequently that, when one does in whatever form, we’re so programmed by our experience with the constant assault of mundanities (not to mention, of course, the outright outrage currently assailing us from pretty much all corners) that we reflexively do a sort of self-protective double take, a response that’s especially acute when said dream is one we’d not ever have dared consider such as, I dunno, the return of what could arguably be considered one of the originators of the mid-80s post-postpunk rise of a broad but quite keen genre that would quickly and forever become know as, simply, indie and, yes, we’re talking about The Loft.

‘Who?’ you’re asking? Well, we actually hope you aren’t asking seeing as The Loft hold in their multiple hands a host of historic distinctions: Among the earliest to be signed to Alan McGee’s instantly legendary Creation imprint, the first from that label to, one, appear on British television; two, top the indie charts; three, be invited on a countrywide tour, and four, the first from Magee’s insanely pop luminous cabal to land an always-coveted BBC radio session (Janice Long’s Radio One show in 1984). And if all that isn’t enough, they then, as if making a play to become that generation’s – slightly more gentlemanly, mind – version of the Velvet Underground, broke up and not quietly, either, but rather mid-song in front of a few thousand mouth-agape punters and yes, you’re right, there’s nothing more rock’n’roll than that. And yet…

…that last sentiment is ironic enough to border on dichotomy given the fact that, recordings-wise and image-wise, The Loft weren’t exactly what you’d consider a libidinous lot but were – and continue to be – a rather well-mannered quartet (Weather Prophets/solo artist – and principal songwriter – Pete Astor, ex-Chesterfields guitarist Andy Strickland, bassist Bill Price and Alternative TV/Jazz Butcher [among a dozen others] drummer Dave Morgan) that just happen to produce, with seemingly effortless elán, pure and enduring British pop songcraft that doesn’t just stand the test of time but defines that very concept. Which is neat and all but what to us is the coolest aspect of the aptly titled Everything Changes Everything Stays The Same is the extent to which its appearance is that rare example of a band that, in its first blush, despite its near incomparable promise, met, due to the impetuousness of its collective youth (file under: ‘Yeah, that happens’), a far too premature demise, has somehow managed to cross a dozen burned bridges and not only reconvened with its original lineup but has delivered an embarrassment of dividends on that promise left hanging for lo these forty years. Take the first track, for instance.

Announcing their surprise-to-most-everyone return with a pronounced jangle and verve, “Feel Good Now” leads us, via its insistence of “I don’t wanna feel good tomorrow, I wanna feel good now,” straight into the, um, lofty heights so long ago promised and boasts enough catchiness and momentum – its pop rocking, its rock popping – to have opened the 80s-based version of a Nuggets compilation that never happened but should have. As intros go it’s nothing short of a corker which is just as much not a surprise as is the fact that it’s – quite predictably – not alone on the ‘corkerness’ scale here.

Past the impeccable “Dr Clarke” (the ‘good’ appended to every mention of the title character being perhaps juuuust a bit facetious), we come to “Storytime,” its smooth misterioso vibe no better exemplified than by Astor’s opening line “Hello, it’s me [pause] in my cold war jacket” and if we may make clear right here and now the guy’s lyrics, with their usual combo of nuancee and subtle power, have never been stronger which, to anyone familiar with his work since forever, is indeed saying something. That said, the riches continue.

Consider “Killer” with its shadowy if supple feel and seldom if ever has a wryer or more melodically incriminating – lovely, even – value been assigned to that particular ‘K’ word, to the point the song might – might, mind you – be the highlight of ECESTT‘s many highlights even as there are ample highlights to dispute such a claim. There’s “Do the Shut Up”‘s inexorable – and not a little scathing – punch that adds more testimony to the notion that there’s seldom been a case of such pure age-defyingness as is exuded by this startling record. That said, though, your purest pop pleasure here might well come from the typically unassailable “Somersaults,” deftly in its hooks and structure encompassing the track’s title while still managing to compete for the title of ‘Most Poignant’ here but then comes “This Machine,” closing this sterling comeback with a rousing – exhilirating, even – mix of doubt double-dating with hope, melancholy mixing it up with its new pal ebullience, existential acceptance, in other words, doing what existential acceptance does but with a beat and a melody and that usual skipload of hooks (among which is a progression to die for) that for me instantly vaulted the track into the Astorian echelons, up there with “Almost Prayed” and that, fervent reader, is not a prospect I’d ever have bet on.

In the end, the impression one invariably gets here from Everything Changes Everything Stays The Same is one wherein each cut is both eclipsing and being eclipsed by every other cut, as if they’re all daring the others to hold a candle to them and no, I have no idea how they’d ever top that but, knowing this lot, well, I wouldn’t bet on that either.