Slogging through the housework to Take That’s ninth album, This Life, I notice a gentle uptick in my mood. Nothing dramatic. No grand romantic swooning over the laundry basket. Just a hummable, toe-tappable companionship as the band work through their very English gripes and consolations (rainy days, lost loves, muddled plans) to the jaunty shrug of Gary Barlow’s easy-hook, mustn’t grumble melodies. “No way tomorrow is golden,” they concede on single “This Life”, like a weary co-worker popping a cuppa on your desk, but “a new day can be anything you want”.
It reminds me that whoever chose Take That to promote Marks & Spencer’s back in 2008 knew their stuff. The boy band once pelted with thongs on stage had, by then, matured nicely into a man band you’d trust to sell sensible knickers and cosy sweaters. Like any group of mates formed in the Nineties, including TV’s Friends, Take That have weathered storms and suffered attrition but, ultimately, they connect us to a more hopeful era.
The band lost the rackety charisma of solo star Robbie Williams back in 1995 and the comic camaraderie of Jason Orange a decade later (now rumoured to be living an “off-grid” life in the Cotswolds). However, earlier this year, the remaining trio proved a safely uplifting choice to unite a divided nation at the king’s coronation concert, with Howard Donald and Mark Owen beaming fraternal warmth into Barlow’s solidly crafted songs. You only have to clock the perfect way he turns the tune of “Back for Good” (1995), on the line “in the twist of separation” to feel the smooth satisfaction of his very domestic craft in action. It’s like watching a potter flick a spout into the rim of a jug. Nothing too showy, but a practised touch that makes the whole thing work.
This Life finds Barlow pouring out similarly comforting mugs of song. Songs you can safely dunk a digestive into. It opens rather mournfully with “Keep Your Head Up” – layers of vocals steaming up a window of synths while a piano motif repeats like raindrops trickling down glass. “Keep your mind strong, your wings wide,” runs the cautiously motivational message, “Let go, instead of holding on…” The trio then speed into steering-wheel-tapper “Windows”. Like the entirety of the Jonas Brothers’ latest album, the track dials into the family-friendly Seventies soft rock of bands like America with its casual electric guitars and falsetto yearnings. There’s a touch of Billy Joel and Joe Jackson to the descending piano chord stomp of “This Life”. Barlow knocks out affable, oatmeal anthemic choruses on songs like “March of the Hopeful” (“Don’t change a thing about my heart!”), “Brand New Sun” (“Hey hey hey!”), and the banjo-accented “We Got All Day” (“Alright! Slow down! We got all day-ay-ay!”).
There’s a little Police-era Sting to the slightly spiky vocal and bass line of “Days I Hate Myself”, driven by an engagingly lonely keyboard line. Meanwhile, “Mind Full of Madness” is propelled by a twitchy pulse indebted to the Rocky III theme song “Eye of the Tiger” and lyrics which, heartbreakingly, appear to reference Barlow’s grief over his stillborn daughter, Poppy. You might catch a little of Lou Reed’s “Walk on the Wild Side” sway to “The Champion”, which feels like an answer to Robbie’s “Strong” (1999) on which – decades before Netflix documentaries existed – he deconstructed the “mess” of his celebrity: “And this is real ’cause I feel fake?”. Now Barlow and co are taking the point further, suggesting that strength lies in owning the vulnerability. Over slickly pattered bongos, they accept that being “a little bit yesterday, a little bit broken” can still leave a man “feeling like a king”. Reassuring.
Those preparing to face family members with differing world views this festive season may find solace in “One More Word”, a track that builds from the tenderness of close connection (“I had to hold your hand in the waiting room”) to the acknowledgement of disagreements (“I drink your wine/ I take your point of view/ Take mine?… ’Cos I love you”).
I was stupidly snobby about Take That in the Nineties. All of us indie kids were (even as we all bought identical M&S charcoal grandad knitwear). But like those cardigans, the band have proved their practical, likeable durability. I don’t think I’ll ever have my emotional world shaken or thrilled by anything they make, but I’m grateful for the security of their reliable wool-cotton mix and what – over the years – has come to feel like a nationwide friendship. Long live the III.
