The forgotten man of '90s Brit-rock,
Brett Anderson exists on the fringes -- partially by design, partially by circumstance. He's always fancied himself the doomed romantic, taking pleasure in being ostracized, but the thing about being out of the mainstream is that eventually people stop paying attention, even fans. That happened with
Anderson with his straight and sober 2007 solo debut, a record that could have brought wayward
Suede fans back aboard -- although if they didn't pay attention to
Anderson's reunion with
Bernard Butler in
the Tears, why would they start there? -- but it was roundly ignored, so he's beat a retreat, not back to the decaying gothic mansion of Dog Man Star, but leaving the city altogether and settling in the
Wilderness.
Anderson wrote and recorded
Wilderness quickly, completing the whole thing within a week, and it has an immediacy that stands in stark contrast to the careful, deliberate
Brett Anderson. Immediacy suggests that this is a rock album, which it most certainly is not: it's a stark, solemn cousin of
PJ Harvey's
White Chalk, but it's not as harrowing as that creepily intimate collection.
Anderson always prefers wistful sighs to deep melancholy, and that gives
Wilderness a bit of warmth, even if its stark surroundings -- often there's not much more than a piano and some strings providing support -- certainly place the music at a bit of a remove, forcing the listener to meet the album on its own terms. And while those terms are certainly different than those of
Brett Anderson or latter-day
Suede, this comes the closest to capturing the underlying haunted romanticism of
Suede at its peak. For those who are still paying attention, it's actually quite nice to hear
Anderson reconnecting to that initial spark while finding ways to experiment. It may not make him a star again, but
Wilderness does find
Brett Anderson creatively revitalized. ~ Stephen Thomas Erlewine