You could applaud Matt Pond for somehow staying on the periphery of indie rock discussions despite nominal sonic differences between him and, say, Duncan Sheik. But ultimately that puts The Dark Leaves in a position to be judged against music that has so much more to offer. The project's shortcomings are even more pronounced this time out since The Dark Leaves sounds like it's striving and somewhat succeeding in being the band's most rhythmically vital record. Leaves' first third tries to pump itself up with double-time, handclap-sparked rhythms owing something to polite church revivals ("Starting") and rockabilly ("Running Wild", which gives a nod to Queen's "Crazy Little Thing Called Love"). But neither comes anywhere close to generating actual friction amidst such downy arrangements. These are mostly compositions of "roots" instruments, including acoustic guitars, pedal steel, and violins. But a cooling wash of synth pads and reverb makes everything flow like a shot of Jäger down an ice luge-- smooth but sickly sweet and mostly numbing. Indeed, there's a narcotic effect to sleepy weepers like "Brooklyn Fawn" and "Specks", so when the ca. 2000 Brit-rock of "Ruins" hits a couple of strange flatted notes on its way up the piano scale, it's a jarring but welcome display of energy.
But elsewhere, too much is demanded of Pond, one of the meekest vocalists ever to name a band after himself. His voice isn't unpleasant in a grating or unusual way, but there's an unsettling quality to it that sounds like it's been shot through with Vaseline, eliding over his lyrics so you accidentally hear things like, "I believe in manatees." The actual next line is, "I believe in you and me/ Everything we'll ever see," meaning that Pond is sticking to cryptic-- but not particularly interesting-- stories of lost love and icky Dave Matthews-style romance ("Running Wild"). Pond pleads on "Remains", "If you want my blood, let me bleed/ If you want a ghost/ Then that's what I'll be." But his hitching, strained phrasing conveys bothersome neediness rather than strident devotion. The subject of "Brooklyn Fawn" might be some sort of embodiment of substance-related frailty, but it's so vague that you only recognize Pond's habit of invoking the borough's name in hopes of siphoning some of its urban intrigue. Replace "Brooklyn" with "Teaneck" and it's pretty much the same song.
Another key line from "Remains": "I can't remember which movie taught me pain." Like some of Pond's better-known lyrics-- "Heard it's modern to be stupid," "I don't think I want to think about it"-- it's ostensibly meant to be a deadpan commentary on the emotional disconnectedness of the upwardly mobile. But it ultimately carries no weight in the context of The Dark Leaves' willingness to slip into the background, content to be something you tune out while going about your day.
