Michael Hann 

The Chills: Snow Bound review – a rare, joyous equal to past triumphs

Only the sixth album for New Zealand pioneers shows leader Martin Phillipps still sounds in love with the world
  
  

A stop-start career … the Chills, with Martin Phillipps, far left.
A stop-start career … the Chills, with Martin Phillipps, far left. Photograph: Alex Lovell-Smith

After years lost to addiction and ill-health, the revival in Martin Phillipps’ musical fortunes over the past decade or so continues with what is, staggeringly, only the sixth studio album in the 35-year, stop-start career of the Chills, the beloved New Zealand indie band who were the spearhead of the Flying Nun label in the 80s. What’s more, this is the first time – following 2015’s Silver Bullets – there have been two albums with the same band lineup. None of his problems has robbed Phillipps of his facility, and Snow Bound drips with his trademarks: the melancholy lyrics paired with joyous melodies; the surging, oddly maritime cast of the music; the interaction of guitar and organ; the open-heartedness of it all (even at his most cynical, the tone of Phillipps’ voice and the major-chord bounce of the music makes him sound in love with the world).

Bad Sugar, the opening track, is nearly as good as anything Phillipps has written, with a characteristically Chillsian piece of wisdom in the chorus: “Even bad sugar makes bitter taste sweet.” The muted guitar pattern of the title track recalls the spindly 80s singles that made their name and nods towards the distinctive intro of Pink Frost, the song everyone who loves Phillipps treasures above all others. Phillipps’ health – he has stage four hepatitis C – seems stable now, which is a blessing for us as well as him, because he’s the rare writer equalling his past decades on. Just glorious.

 

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