Whether it's the jaunty player piano that kicks things off, Matt Costa's over-syllabified singing of the title, or just due diligence on his bio, there's plenty of ways one can deduce that "Mr. Pitiful", the first single from Unfamiliar Faces, is not autobiographical. Indeed, it's a send-up of an upwardly mobile peer that implies that Costa's been listening to the National recently. But while the latter's ascendance has coincided with their increased willingness to empathize rather than accuse, as a kid from Huntington Beach barely in his mid-20s, Costa just kinda sounds like a dick-- "I hope you see through your big yard and white picket fence...don't make me feel bad that we're still friends."
So if Costa makes it appear that home-ownership is the realm of true squares, it's easy to chalk it up as a collateral effect of trusting your major label debut to the hands of Jack Johnson (who released Unfamiliar Faces on his Brushfire imprint) and producer Tom Dumont (clearly with some time on his hands, post-No Doubt). I'd imagine most people reading this actively loathe Johnson not so much for his music, innocuous to the point of invisibility, but for a McConaughey-esque ascription to carefree living that is feasible only after achieving massive success; paradoxically suggesting money can buy happiness. And as was the case with Rogue Wave's most recent album, as well as Johnson's, the holistic vibe undermines just about any chance Costa has of showing a dark side or artistic unrest, leaving mostly a chamber-singer/songwriter record for people who think Kelley Stoltz is too edgy or are scared that Sondre Lerche might not speak English.
Certainly there's more to Costa than a one-man acoustical jam, even if his pleasure zone isn't far from the AM Gold dial. "Lilacs" evidences a proclivity for psych-tinged lyrics ("I choked on your kaleidoscope"), and I won't even knock its frothy David Gray guitar strum; the track itself sorta outstays its welcome. There's plenty of nice production touches from Dumont, like the acid-washed backing vocals of the title track and the Stephen Street-tipping tones of "Vienna". But when Costa tries to convincingly ply his "hypochondriac blues" on "Emergency Call", he's clashing with overly peppy horn charts. And then there are the times when Costa's got no one to blame but himself: "Cigarette Eyes" hosts one of the more baffling metaphors this side of Tom McRae and has an undercurrent of domestic violence, but Costa slowly lets the air out with a chord progression too ambitious for his melodic sense and an unrealistic Brit affectation.
It's unfair to write off these guys completely considering Radiohead is signed to a label that owes its creation to Dave Matthews. But thus far, Brushfire (whether intentionally or not) is keeping their artists on a tight leash. Whatever Costa is attempting to convey in "Trying To Lose My Mind", it gets lost in a Johnson-worthy platitude: "Put it in a song and I know we can get along." But when "Miss Magnolia" tries its hand at applying that philosophy to a Grateful Dead tribute, it ends up sounding way too much like Mungo Jerry to be unintentional. Really, in the way that Johnson embodies the Hawaiian lifestyle, Costa reps for Huntington Beach-- an archly conservative dreamland that most of its residents secretly wish they could leave.
