Travis
The Invisible Band
Sony/Epic

British groups often rely on some distinctive charm or gimmick, be it a sibling rivalry, a hint of androgyny, an ability to sing in Welsh, or an overuse of the Hammond organ. What makes the Scottish band Travis unique is the group's boundlessly pleasant personality and music. Cuddliness has served the band well, helping it to sell oodles of records, mostly outside of the United Kingdom.

But it has also given Travis the less-than-flattering title of "Radiohead-lite." The two groups may share a producer, Nigel Godrich, and Fran Healy's angelic croon may resemble Thom Yorke's but the similarities end there. Indeed, Travis's third album, The Invisible Band, eschews angst in favor of uplift, depth in favor of accessibility, experiment in favor of comfort.

Instead of trying to repeat the giant leap that took place between 1997's Good Feeling and 1999's The Man Who, the band returned with a similar set of songs and themes. Unfortunately, the reliance on a blueprint has cost Travis their slight edge.

Healy's inspirations appear not to have changed: Love produces his finest melodies, anger his best lyrics and social commentary his worst of both. Likewise, the highpoints of The Man Who predict those of The Invisible Band. "Flowers in the Window" is a perfect follow-up to "Driftwood" — cheap metaphor, bouncy chorus and general Byrds-iness intact. "Last Train," the most successful acoustic ballad on the album, barely dodges the slimey side of power-pop sentimentality, opting instead to expand on the rudeness of "Blue Flashing Light." Fran's sinister lyrics and creepy melody fit the wintry production perfectly. "The Cage" gets by on understated sweetness; it's probably the finest song ever written about Alyssa Milano. Despite its ridiculous title, "The Humpty Dumpty Love Song" weeps with poise and delicacy, closing the album on a suitably yearning note.

The problem arises when Healy looks outward, as he does more often on this album. He gets bogged down by New Age jargon and second-grade wisdom. In spite of instantly memorable hooks, both "Follow the Light" and "Side" are unbearably thin attempts to console and inspire. On the former he tells us,

It's alright
Just follow the light
And don't be afraid of the dark.

Then on the "Side" he sings,

We all live under the same sky
We all will live, we all will die
There is no right, there is no wrong
The circle only has one side.

The delightful banjo playing on "Sing" rides a pretty melody, only to fall flat on bed of platitudes. "Dear Diary" drowns in its own earnestness. Though beautifully sung, "Indefinitely" marks the peak of Healy's nearly mechanical triteness: "Time exists, but just on your wrist." Ugh.

Perhaps the preaching could be respected if it was delivered with slightly more subtlety or wit. But as it stands, Healy's greeting card sentimentality should be confined to love songs. Ultimately, The Invisible Band delivers on the promise of Travis's pleasantness and as such, it is unbearably insipid. No Radiohead, just plain Lite with a capital L.

— David Zahl (zahlie@hotmail.com)