Gabriel Kahane is a NPR programmer's wet dream. An undeniably gifted, exquisitely mannered young composer/songwriter, Kahane makes meticulously arranged art-pop with a heavy literary bent. It comes as absolutely no surprise that he's worked closely with Sufjan Stevens, as both men approach Americana with academic fondness and are keenly aware of the importance of geography to narrative.
In contrast to Stevens' Midwestern mien, however, the Northeast is Kahane's preferred backdrop, which makes him a pitch-perfect sonic representative of the NPR/New Yorker/tweedy East Coast mentality. By extension, Kahane's debut self-titled full-length succeeds and fails in almost exactly the same ways these organs succeed and fail, deserving praise for its intellectual curiosity even as it suffers from arid fustiness and self-regard.
Deride tight-sphincter tastefulness all you want, but NPR is an inveterate seeker of stories from out-of-the-way places, and that spirit of tolerance and voracious study informs Kahane's lyrical and musical efforts here as well. "Underberg", for example, pays tribute to a beloved old Brooklyn building on the day of its demolition. But instead of taking the long view of its historical relevance, Kahane opts for the rather more poignant short view of its personal significance, reminiscing on when "In high school we would steal inside at night/ And make out by the glow of a traffic light." When he broadens his scope, Kahane is equally capable of unearthing the interesting histories of famous names, using "7 Middagh" to reflect on the ambivalence of a WWII-era coterie of literary giants that included W.H. Auden and Carson McCullers (or maybe I'm just a sucker for songs that quote from Henry James).
From a sonic standpoint, Kahane's restlessness and ingenuity match the precociousness of his words, the album often abandoning pop's expected patterns of build and release with a less-predictable approach that comes closer to musical theatre. An array of instruments are deployed in unique ways, with Kahane using horns, strings, banjos, and drum fills almost as sentient characters, taking opportunity to cleverly doodle along the margins of his compositions with woodwinds (particularly on "North Adams" and "Slow Down").
The problem, then, comes down to delivery. In short, Kahane's earnestness makes Sufjan Stevens look like Gene Simmons. And while he's aiming for something a good deal more arty and highbrow than your usual indie-rock fare, he could stand to learn a few lessons from Stevens about drawing in listeners with popcraft and humanity. Too much of the album feels bloodless, lacking not only humor but also sex, passion, recklessness, and vitality.
Kahane is joined on "Villanelles" by Nickel Creek frontman and mandolinist Chris Thile, who lends his always-exemplary talents in service of the album's jauntiest, liveliest song. It's true that Kahane projects greater erudition than a pop-friendly guy like Thile. But it probably wouldn't hurt him to follow Thile's example and do things like cover Pavement songs and write instrumental tributes to minor Lord of the Rings characters.
