I don't know if this is Beck's fault or just a result of the overall dearth of any original ideas in rock, but too many artists are getting not only free passes but jubilant praise for merely doing lots of different things pretty well. Beck's heir apparent in the eclecticism-masking-as-bursting-with-creative-energy lineage was Badly Drawn Boy, but the charm that burst from the stocking-capped one's early EPs-- and occasionally raised its head on The Hour of the Bewliderbeast-- quickly settled into a stench of MOR tunes framed by tired honest, busker ethics. Other FM dial-skimmers are worse: The Dandy Warhols are practically a bar cover band; Ryan Adams has even gone so far as to appropriate all of the obnoxious trappings of how a Rock Star is supposed to act; the Vines sound like a condensation of the contents of a typical issue of Q magazine. Are these guys any more interesting than specific necrophiliacs like the Thrills or Kings of Leon or Black Rebel Motorcycle Club? Not really, but their failing to be succeed in multiple different ways creates the illusion that they're actually offering something interesting.
More to the point: are Australia's the Sleepy Jackson any different? Well, almost. With a capacity to write winning choruses and graceful sinewy guitar lines, the Sleepy Jackson's Luke Steele is a more than capable tunesmith, but one too often pleased with compounding his rustic pop core with restless, offputting eccentricity (including lamentable stabs at the offbeat such as a single child-like voice over plink-plonk piano on "Morning Bird" and the gothic spoken-word bore "Fill Me With Apples").
I'm not the least bit surprised this is getting good reviews from the British press. For the past, say, five years or so, the NME and the monthlies seem to make time for anything that fits the romantic notion of America as an expansive sometimes untamed land, any record that embodies California's slow sun-kissed pace, the grandiosity of Big Sky country and its endless horizon, or the twang of the open trail. In the hands of Mercury Rev, Lambchop, or the Flaming Lips that's frequently been a good thing, but many of their contemporaries (Grandaddy, the Polyphonic Spree, Giant Sand, Beachwood Sparks, most of the Americana bands that get fellated in Uncut) don't do much to inspire. These are the sorts of styles between which Sleepy Jackson's Luke Steele flits, but the more stereotypically American he seems, the worse the result. Outsiders borrowing elements of a specific sound can result in some charming mis-readings or clever interpretations/spins on classic formulas, but where the Sleepy Jackson try to swing open the saloon doors they merely end up walking on steakhouse-floor peanut shells.
It's a shame, because the brooding "Don't You Know"-- with a "Rock On"-style electro-gurgle stalking the tune's perimeter while a generally restrained choral voice and string lines fills its baroque center-- demonstrates a tasteful balance between what Steele does best: Deceptively direct tunes delicately layered with ornate production and instrumentation. The best results of that formula are a pair of leftovers from a series of EPs the band recorded over the past couple of years, "Good Dancers"-- a deadringer for John Lennon's "#9 Dream"-- and "This Day", which is proof that Steele is as familiar with fellow Aussie Grant McLennan (the Go-Betweens) he is with George Harrison (who is surely the record's patron saint).
In other spots the results are a bit more mixed, but there are still a handful of things worth savoring; new single "Vampire Racecourse" is a decent faux-glam stomper, and "Rain Falls For Wind" is a great summer night track, but it's one you won't remember in the morning. The jangly "Come to This" is only a reminder that Tom Petty actually wrote a decent tune or two before becoming a fulltime curmudgeon spouting insightful "rap is crap"-style witticisms on VH1 and in Rolling Stone.
If his eccentricity was tamed and the pained attempts to hop genres were avoided, Luke Steele could just produce something close to sublime. As it stands, Lovers is a fairly pleasant application of some charming reference points, but please, let's stop pretending that that's good enough.
