Review Summary: Here Lies the Final Resting Place of an Overly Serious Grunge Band from Plymouth
Visiting this meagre shrine to a forgotten band you can't help but feel the name Send No Flowers was prophetic; three votes on a sputnik album page isn't much of a legacy, this unkempt grave hardly receives visitors let alone flowers. History is littered with artists who fell just short of what's required and it's one of life's certainties that they'll never go short of cadavers at The Graveyard of Washed Up Rock Bands. Sometimes it's a mystery why a particular group end up here, other times it's really no mystery at all, and although the British press were at a loss as to why this more than competent grunge outfit failed to set the world alight if you look closely the clues were there right from the very start.
A baby in a swimming pool chasing a dollar bill on a fishing hook; five hands lifted into the air and clasped together; an anatomical manikin with angel wings superimposed behind; a sepia toned image of a lizard sitting on a plate fellating its own tail. All of these are iconic grunge front covers with the exception of one; this may seem unnecessarily cruel but on such minor details careers are built. The cover is a microcosm of what was wrong with Send No Flower's approach; they successfully adopted the grunge aesthetic but there was a lack of punch, this tastefully shot image was never going to stop anyone dead in their tracks. Similarly the band's music is meticulously crafted and tasteful on 'Juice' but where are the big statements and oh so important radio singles.
The closest SNF get to a stadium ready anthem is the eight minute long 'Fireman', an epic that splits the difference between Pearl Jam and Led Zeppelin's 'Kashmir'. Its undeniably impressive but let down by clunky vague lyrics like 'sending people to sleep or am I just getting deep'; where Vedder was channeling his childhood demons and Cobain was screaming blue murder here Matt Bradbury just sounds mildly peeved at his lot. He has a decent tone for grunge but doesn't go all out in his appropriation of an American accent like Gavin Rossdale which probably put paid to the band's chances across the pond; name drops of Mickey Mouse and Elvis are also conspicuous by their absence as SNF resolutely refused to follow Bush into Uncle Sam's welcoming dollar stuffed bosom.
Another big problem for 'Juice' in terms of commercial appeal is that despite shooting for the same levels of angst and misery as the other proponents of grunge it retained a peculiar Britishness in its take on the genre; unlike its American counterparts this album never makes all the soul searching and emoting sound all that fun or even particularly cathartic. Send No Flowers boast the earnestness of Pearl Jam without Vedder's charisma; they convey the misery of Alice In Chains but can't replicate the 'lived it' druggy chops of Stayley; they scream their lungs out but can't match the gravel throated intensity of Cobain. They are the dictionary definition of 'solid yet unspectacular' and while this is no crime in itself it doesn't sell enough records.
The failure of this album is a disappointment because the band had undeniable potential and 'Juice' still has an elegance to it that stands it apart from most of the competition. The ballads 'Cold' and 'Sepia' make use of some beautifully understated instrumentation in their verses, 'Monotony's an effective rocker with a complex multi tracked vocal chorus and 'Downfall' is a great showcase for Bradbury's full singing range. In the end none of these qualities counted for a lot, the band were cruelly dubbed 'Sell No Records' by the industry and despite attempting a desperate reboot under a new name were dropped soon after. The mystery of why the band failed to fire the collective imaginations of record purchasers back in '96 may not be all that much of a mystery all told but that still doesn't stop their fate from being a regrettable one.
