Much has been made of the pairing of 55-year old Henry Harrison and his teenage son Blaine, members of London collective Mystery Jets. Although the arrangement is unusual to say the least, it's atypical of the idiosyncracity that abounds throughout the Eel Pie Island-based bunch. Despite the fact that Henry spent Saturday afternoons feeding his son Pink Floyd records instead of having a kickabout down the park, it doesn't seem to have done Blaine any harm. A naturally pure, off-beat voice that at times nods to Freddie Mercury, and a penchant for changing key at any given moment are the fruits of dad's labour and loins indeed. What's interesting about the quintet's debut album though, is that the prog element of the Jets' live act is curiously subdued on record. Certainly, there are streaks of categorically joyful genius and whimsical fantasy, notably the striking Purple Prose, malevolent Zootime or barmy narrative The Boy Who Ran Away; but there's an overwhelming sense that this is an album too sardined with half-completed ideas for it to make any cohesive sense. You Can't Fool Me, Dennis is an unmistakeably jovial exercise in British eccentricity, while the charmingly haphazard Alas Agnes sees Harrison croon about the most talked-about transsexual since Hayley from Coronation Street. What lets Mystery Jets down, however, are their efforts at fragile ballads (Little Bag of Hair, Soluble In Air) which just serve the purpose of highlighting the chasm between the infinitely better Queen-cum-Supergrass affairs (Diamond In The Dark, Making Dens).Harrison is an adroit, at times droll lyricist (Oh Dymphna/I would that I could spell your name) and the eclecticism, not to mention the deft harmonies on display here are to be commended. Nonetheless, if Mystery Jets are to achieve greatness, they'll need to sieve through their rambunctious musical clutter and distil what is an admittedly charming sound into something that's just a tad more concise.
