Arcade Fire are known to be embedded in a semi-transparent shell of sanctity reminiscent of a halo, the hermetic sealing of which is surely guarded by greats like David Bowie. Sacred, not for profane little minds, philosophical-intellectual exaltation by the willing listener, instead of immediately accessible pop for the proletariat, to be opened instead of presented. Thematically, the third album is devoted entirely to returning home, to confronting the old, the known and the unknown. The opener »The Suburbs«, which was criticised before its release, captivates with its lightness; Facebook secret hit »Rococo« is almost aristocratic and »Wasted Hours« is grist to the mill of the friends of procrastination. The interim result of my own journey from seeking and finding Arcade Fire’s enlightenment, however, was initially disillusionment. But then: bulky and mysterious became pleasant and enlightened. As is well known, albums with the predicate »high quality« mature over time, so that in contrast to small talk acquaintances, the line »I have no feeling for you now, now that I know you better« cannot claim any validity for »The Suburbs« in the end.
The Suburbs
