Brooding over a yawning expanse of sea and having an “awful time” on vacation—a vacation from his job as the lead singer of the Wombats, one of the most commercially successful bands of his generation—Matthew Murphy was struck with the realization that he’d been “caught up in [his] own BS for way too long.” That’s what inspired the Wombats‘ Oh! The Ocean.
It’s a public flogging that feels earnest at times, often cringey, and, at one point, even sleazy. Yet, undeniably, there’s an underlying sense that the Wombats could make weird, interesting indie rock if they weren’t so afraid of embarrassing themselves. During its more decisive moments, Oh! The Ocean sounds suspiciously like Death Cab for Cutie. That’s undoubtedly related to producer John Congleton, fresh off Death Cab’s Asphalt Meadows. Congleton works overtime, and his instinct to strip away the Wombats’ usual polish is admirable.
The opener, “I’m Sorry I’m Late, I Didn’t Want to Come”, limps along as a desperately underfed indie pop track, built around the nearly humorous refrain, “I just hate everyone.” If only those were fightin’ words—because it’s all talk, set against music too malnourished and anxious to express anything, let alone pull off a Holden Caulfield vibe.
“Can’t Say No” fizzles into something so mild that Murphy’s invitation to steal a car with him feels less like a thrill and more like a setup—like you’d have to hot-wire it solo and at the first distant wail of sirens, he’d bail so fast it would make your head spin.
“Kate Moss” drops us into painfully mid-tempo electronic drudgery. Things get so slow that we can’t ignore Murphy’s finger-wagging at the song’s subjects: a “tech bro” and a woman who “sells pictures from her phone”. It’s unclear whether Murphy is critiquing or indulging in indie sleaze’s time-honored problematic trappings, but either way, the result is unsettling.
Just as things are wrapping up, we finally get the best track, “The World’s Not Out to Get Me, I Am”. Here, for the first time, Oh! The Ocean sounds well-nourished enough to get emotionally ambitious, almost anthemic. There are metaphors—snow globes, hot tubs in hell, Pandora’s box—not to mention a nonsensical but endearing vocal hook about “putting your head on wheels”. It’s not a big leap, but it’s odd enough that our desperate scrounging for a sense of connection with the band is somewhat satiated.
Murphy beats himself up enough on Oh! The Ocean to atone for all kinds of sins—even those we would have preferred he kept to himself. But, just like hearing an adult earnestly describe experiencing basic empathy as a life-changing paradigm shift, it’s better late than never.
The Wombats might benefit from making sure they understand how admirably ravenous their fanbase is. These people love this band, and it doesn’t matter if we critics can’t understand why. That’s a mysterious, beautiful thing, a true testament to the power of music. That genuine enthusiasm is the real reason anyone writes album reviews or records albums, for that matter.
It’s like the Wombats don’t realize they have the rare privilege of having a level of commercial success that grants them license to take enormous artistic risks legitimately. Even if such experiments went poorly (as all meaningful creative risks have the potential to do) – they’d still sell many albums and concert tickets, and their fans would still love them. The bottom line is that their fans would follow them anywhere. The real question is whether the Wombats will ever take them someplace worth going.