A not-so-secret fact about Bloc Party is that their name before was Union. The act of uniting two or more things, in this case a coming together of four individuals for a common good: the furthering of their musical desires. It was a name of positivity, and this feeling that anything is – was – achievable was carried over and into the band’s still-stunning debut album, Silent Alarm. The Bloc Party boys were a gang: front man Kele Okereke batted away questions about what was informing his lyrics – war, terror, love, fear? – by maintaining a veil of mystery.

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He answered questions with more questions, provoking debates above the relevance of his words. They were an embodiment of the amazing productivity of the ever-evolving British music scene, a fertile foursome rich in creativity and keen to progress for the country’s common good. To download a PDF of this article for printing and reading on the move Now, here, the band sounds like they yearn for nothing more but a boat off this island. A Weekend In The City’s title is no celebration of the plusses of living within the boundaries of a modern metropolis; if anything, it’d make more sense as A Weekend Away From The City, as the primary feeling that oozes from these eleven songs is an urge to escape. It’s an album featuring lyrics shocking in their frankness and honesty; it’s an album that pulls no proverbial punches in its tackling of the evils that haven’t the decency to remain in the shadows in 2007. It’s grey days turning into neon nights turning into drizzled-on dawns without a smile being cracked; it’s every euphoric rush of give-a-fuck felt by every twenty-something in the land distilled and delivered to a record label whose mask never slipped an inch. It’s coolness as ignorance, ignorance as a new cool, the exposing of a nation’s youth culture as nothing more than another cog of the machine driving us all into the bowels of whatever hell awaits.

Take ‘Uniform’, one of many songs on this long-player that could, conceivably, be part of the core syllabus of any sociology course in the UK only a few years from now (see also, in particular: ‘Where Is Home’). It dissects this country’s myriad of pre-teen cliques, each a million strong and spilling out of bedrooms into shopping centre food halls and cinema foyers: “MTV taught me how to sulk and love nothing, and how to grow my hair long”.

It’s not rebellion, it’s conformity with an already worn-thin stereotype; it’s disaffection on demand, truancy with no direction nor purpose. The handful of kids on the corner, hoodie’d up, band-tee’d and sipping super-strength cider, they’re phantoms of what was once non-conformity. Okereke observes what each of us has a thousand times before; some of us have even walked the walk, only to bemoan the next generation for their insubordination. Only Okereke sets his words to some truly excellent arrangements.

It’s these that truly set A Weekend In The City apart from its predecessor: Okereke might be Bloc Party’s man out front, a giant smile flashing between sessions of impossible-to-read facial stillness, but Gordon Moakes, Russell Lissack and Matt Tong are a tight and dependable musical unit that’s afforded itself a substantial upgrade. Tong’s percussive skills have never been found wanting, but with production from Jacknife Lee songs like ‘Hunting For Witches’ and lead single ‘The Prayer’ are alive with bio-electrical energy, sizzling with super-charged drumstick logistics.

At times the first-timer could be mistaken for thinking they’d inadvertently slipped a Saul Williams record into the stereo, so insistent are some of the beats that scamper around snap-tight guitar strings and Okereke’s acute outlining of each song’s subject matter. Which brings us slap-thump back to that overwhelming feeling that settles awkwardly in the listener’s stomach come the five-tracks-in mark: A Weekend In The City is dominated by the conveyance of a man’s need to duck out of the glare of day-to-day everything. ‘Song For Clay (Disappear Here)’ may or may not have its roots in the Bret Easton Ellis novel Less Than Zero, but its lyrics can be interpreted in many a fashion. How can the song’s – the album’s – opening lines not be digested as an expression of a soul’s search for something more, most likely elsewhere: “I am trying to be heroic, in an age of modernity But in my heart I am lukewarm, nothing really touches me.” Whether we’re privy to Okereke’s personal disdain throughout, or that of a semi-fictional individual based upon the experiences of the band’s four constituent members, is rarely clear. ‘Song For Clay’ continues: “How we long for corruption in these golden years”, for something, anything, to upset the balance; to shift the power, to dislodge the complacency and habits of career’s lifespan.