At least Listen for the Clues starts strong. Aiming for the natty-suited punk of Elvis Costello circa This Year's Model or Spoon in their relatively florid Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga period, Drew Patrizi (as Trumpeter Swan) weds jagged guitars and headlong rhythms with horns, piano, and bright organ tones. The four-minute "Loose Lips" breezes by in what seems more like two, and does what every album opener ideally should-- leaves you wanting more. The three songs that follow oblige with hooks and energy, particularly curt, jangly "Won't Come Back", and "Acolyte"-- the latter's pillowy synths, crisp beats, and arch vocals evoking the chic artifice of pretty much every British new wave single released in 1983.
Ultimately, though, Clues sets up for the letdown. The heavily front-loaded album is Patrizi's first solo outing since decamping from Austin and former gig What Made Milwaukee Famous. And while the multi-instrumentalist offers that band's fans several reasons to follow him to his new home in Brooklyn, he gives at least as many not to. Not that Patrizi strays far from the kitchen-sink, pan-pop aesthetic of WMMF or its label Barsuk's wheelhouse (including Death Cab, Mates of State, Nada Surf) of accessible indie rock. Most of Clues was recorded in Austin before Patrizi relocated, and among its roster of pick-up players are WMMFers Jeremy Bruch and John Houston Farmer. Don't bother looking for Brooklyn signposts.
Any one of the borough's music trendlets, however, beats the traffic-snarl of Clues' back half. Patrizi's best snake-and-ladder compositions compare favorably to the playful, sophisticated pop practices of Carl Newman. But unlike Newman, Patrizi doesn't seem to know when to lay off the fussy instrumental details, tempo changeups, and bonus refrains. "Broke the Skin", for example, gussies up a drab piano line in layers of keyboard noise, filtered vocals, and stray spoken-word samples, finally winging off on chopper sound effects. Some tracks are so over-egged ("Early Midlife Crisis", "Greenbelt"), you can practically spot bits of shell and feathers in the mix.
Patrizi is probably reveling in his new-found freedom as a solo artist and not in a muse-muzzling mode. Whatever the reason for Trumpeter Swan's maximalist missteps, the result's the same: What would have been a nifty four-song EP is instead a bloated long-player.
