A little too much ambition can be dangerous. So the Cranberries apparently learned from their peculiar 1996 release, To The Faithful Departed, a study in miscommunicated intentions. Bruce Fairbairn, one of the bigger noises of the '80s, brought a heavy hand to his production of the band's tidy pop tidbits. The result was an inappropriately orchestral approach and perhaps an encouragement to singer Dolores O'Riordan to address political and social issues whose gravity was beyond her reach.
Bury The Hatchet takes us back to topics O'Riordan can address without assuming more of a burden to moralize than she can handle. We're talking relationships again, a topic she explores with disarming delicacy. The simple pledge of fidelity offered on "You And Me" would sound trite when delivered by most singers; here, O'Riordan's deadpan performance combines a childlike trust with a hint of weary experience, a blend that's not easy to achieve. Think of her as a flipside to early Debbie Harry--strong irony with just a dash of innocence--and you get the idea.
Beyond O'Riordan's delivery, it's the band's empathy that makes things work. Even this singer would have trouble selling a line like "I've always kept my faith in love/It's the greatest gift from the man above" without their light, lilting accompaniment. There's not much room for solo fireworks in these tight confections--none of the 13 tracks runs more than five-and-a-half minutes. The emphasis, then, is on Mike Hogan's layers of electric and acoustic guitar, and on the drumming of Fergal Lawler, whose willingness to outline the structure of each song rather than to groove mindlessly reflects unusual intelligence.
Orchestral touches are effective, though minimal; the plucked strings on O'Riordan's "Dying In The Sun" help the material blossom, rather than overwhelm it, as happened too often on Michael Kamen's charts for To The Faithful Departed.
Most important, the band's ability to craft infectious, tiny bon-bons is undiminished on Bury The Hatchet. Many of the greatest songs in the rock canon are structurally simple as can be, and so it is with "Saving Grace," a cycle of 1-4-5 chords brought to life by a hypnotic, melodic, and lyrical hook, which O'Riordan sings with a flawless blend of ennui and intimacy. There are a few duds, including "Copycat," which is too obsessive musically and lyrically for the subject of someone being, well, a copycat. But the most serious cut on the album, a study in child abuse titled "Fee Fi Fo," hits hard through O'Riordan's unpretentious lyrics and the peculiar contrast between the foreboding verses and the triumphant major-key choruses.
Bury The Hatchet is the return to power and relevance that the Cranberries deserve. For a band that's been through its share of emotional exhaustion and distraction from what made it good in the first place, this is the tonic that the Cranberries and their fans have long needed.
