Editors: The Weight of Your Love

The Weight of Your Love

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I have anger. Subdued, boiling rage. Just really about to lose it. But I’m calm and expressionless. There might be a maniacal plot to avenge the pain that I’m feeling or, more likely, there’s an Editors song that I can sing on karaoke to express to you just how much I fucking hate you. But, oh sorry, I raised my voice.

The Weight of Your Love is the antithesis of soppy. You won’t finish it soaked by good feeling or even soaked by bad feeling. Most likely, the songs will elicit an agreeable nod; he’s right about the pain, but he’s also completely reasonable. The opening track, “The Weight,” begins “For a moment/I felt the weight of your love/It was lightening/I’m a lump of meat.” The bass in the background is foreboding and head nod-inducing. The lyrics “I promised myself I wouldn’t talk about death/I know I’m getting boring” is undercut by thrilling string work and an operatic tone. “The Weight” is a rainy day, thunder clouds are booming, the world is dark and dreary, and the author is sitting in an over-sized chair reading a book, neither content nor depressed.

Enough about mood.

This fourth album is a departure of sorts from Editors’ norm. Instead of being weighed down by a need for experimentation, each track feels solid, an immediate musician-to-listener experience, enhanced by the fact that most of the album was recorded live. It’s difficult to pin down The Weight of Your Love to any particular sound; it threatens vocals from 80’s prog rock like Genesis, and climactic shifts like alternative rock, but it’s clear that the music is coming from a place of frustration, subdued, but productive frustration.

“What Is This Thing Called Love” is an especially sweet track. It blends what now can be fundamentally called the “Bon Iver falsetto,” with Editors’ sound. It shows a range that the singer brings; an emotional bellow that shapes the tone of each song. “What is this thing called love that you speak/’Cause we’re out of it.” Because sometimes things just fall apart, and there’s nothing to do but move on.

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