Jens Lekman
Secretly Canadian
{grate 4}
Oh, Sweden — famous
for the meatball, Volvos, ABBA — and now, Jens Lekman, youthful indie-pop
comedian equipped with a rare sense of blatant self-deprecation coated in globally-informed twee. His new
Night Falls Over Kortedala follows previous forays (one studio album, one
compilation disc and a slew of EPs) with similar adventures in genre-mashing,
pulling verbose mullings from the everyday and choice bits from his sizeable
record collection. But unlike in the past, no lone single (like “Maple Leaves,”
from 2005’s Oh You’re So Silent Jens) stands out so starkly as to eclipse the
rest of the setlist, giving Kortedala a newfound albumwide coherence.
Like the most
diligent of hip-hop producers, Lekman will borrow a soul singer, lay him over a
looped orchestra with a finger-snapping beat, and then tie all of the fragments
together with a sunny self-made guitar lick. His lyrical shtick chugs along in
a lightly accented monotone, rife with clever one-liners — “I flirted with a
girl in sign language ’cause she was deaf” — that do occasionally shoot
themselves in the foot with an overdose of sweetener. “So you pick up your
asthma inhaler/ And put it against your lips/ Oh, those lips I’ve loved,” he
reminisces on schmaltzy lounge-lizard “I’m Leaving You Because I Don’t Love
You,” which features the whimpers (and direct influences) of fellow
candy-coated Swede El Perro del Mar and embodies both of Kortedala’s two simple
categories: childish declarations and wry, Morrissey-esque anecdotes.
The album closes
with “Friday Night at the Drive-In Bingo,” a saccharine novelty that doesn’t
take itself seriously, but might be too campy for those not in on the joke.
Lekman obviously has a gift for collaged songwriting, but Kortedala — with too
many rough gems, almost mundane in their aimless simplicity — ultimately ends
up a showcase for his unreached potential.
Jens Lekman performs
live Nov. 10 at the Troubadour in West Hollywood.
— Chris Kokiousis
Contributing Writer
Widow City
Thrill Jockey
{grate 3.5}
Rivaled only by the
Flaming Lips’ Wayne Coyne in her ability to send us to that synth-bubbling
happy-place that dreams are made of, Eleanor Friedberger manages to do so,
unlike the benevolent and nurturing Lips counselor, without so much as a glance
in our direction. And as younger brother Matthew makes split-decision jumps and
cuts all over their latest, Widow City, with introverted restlessness —
toggling from warped ’70s sample to cacophonic guest drumroll to yard-sale
organ — it seems that we’ve stumbled into someone else’s dream entirely, a
bitter and self-distracted dream to which we do not hold an invitation.
Curious, then, that
instead of erupting into the glorious adventure its ingredients promise, City
winds up as one of the Fiery Furnaces’ least surprising works to date. The pair
generates an ample supply of same-blooded energy — a crackling heat eager to be
released — but we can never quite feel it, and instead must watch it trapped
within the album’s untapped bonds, always trampled prematurely by a
forward-moving, impatient urge to change the subject.
“If there’s anything
I’ve had enough of, it’s today,” quivers Eleanor in her oft-imitated, sarcastic
sing-song on “Navy Nurse,” Matthew constantly reconsidering the back-tempo,
testing a fuzzy riff, a poppy keyboard jig, a Magical Mystery Tour acid trip —
and his sister continuing to tussle with all the petty suburbia-stuffs (wall
paint, nautical doormats) of a grumpy Sunday morning. Observing the Friedberger
siblings’ newly domestic, privatized universe is a nostalgic smirkfest as usual
— but good luck finding yourself a comfortable seat behind the peephole.
The Fiery Furnaces
perform live Oct. 21 at the Casbah in San Diego’s Little Italy.
— Simone Wilson
Hiatus Editor
Rilo Kiley
Under the Blacklight
Warner Bros.
{grate 2}
If a simple country
gal met the disco king for a one-night stand to forever whisk her from her
indie coop, the pregnant fallout would certainly sound something like bastard
love-child Under the Black Light, rife with danceable fun-jams and funky
electric guitar — but capable of making or breaking a fan’s love for
twee-darlings Rilo Kiley, now hardly recognizable in their streamlined, shiny
suits. Hitting a few soul-chords but usually missing the mark completely, the
four-piece sways between pop emphatic — with themes of heartbreak running amok
— and simpering stupidity: “Money Maker” mouths off about the porn industry to
a clubified funk beat (“Funny thing about money for sex/ You may get rich but
you die by it”), but isn’t toxic enough to offend even the sternest Mormon.
Kiley do best when
jazzing down their watery country-western with weighty woes, as in “Silver
Lining,” a beautiful piece of contempt that sees Lewis murder her own
affection. “I never felt so wicked/ As when I willed our love to die,” Lewis
croons, graceful in love’s betrayal of love but never without the fierce power
that has earned her the title of indie-pop’s premier sex-kitten. Before the
word “sellout” can fall from critics’ lips, they’ll likely find themselves
tapping a toe to this happy-go-lucky sex romp, supposedly stemming from singer
Jenny Lewis’ San Fernando valley origins — a locale entrenched in the porn
industry. Songs like “Smoke Detector” and “15” are laced in sexual innuendo,
lusty to the point of ridiculousness, exploring the word “smoke” as a euphemism
for fucking and spilling out juicy details of a pedophilic Internet
relationship.
Lewis’ foray into
Madonna’s world — all pretty dresses and cheap shocks — goes astray in its
effluence of insincere bullshit, more easily available by way of the top 40.
Kiley’s only saving grace is their barely visible indie background, reminding
the band to add a little weird to the new fun-lite formula, but ultimately
making no more impression on the world than a snowman in sunlight.
Rilo Kiley perform
live Oct. 12 at Soma in downtown San Diego.
— Autumn Schuster
Senior Staff Writer
