From Clap Your Hands Say Yeah to Wavves to recent SXSW laughing stocks Salem, we tend to blame premature, Internet-fuelled hype whenever artists don't live up to their promise (empty or otherwise). But as former Beta Band frontman Steve Mason would tell you, the weight of critical scrutiny has been crippling young bands' careers long before the mp3 blog was invented. Few artists have been as forthcoming about their failure to meet expectations as Mason, whether contemplating commercial suicide (see: his infamous designation of the Beta Band's 1999 self-titled debut as "fucking awful") or actual suicide (stemming from a bout of depression that saw him mysteriously disappear for two weeks in 2006). But his first album under his own name-- following a series of releases under the King Biscuit Time alias-- hardly sounds like the work of a publicity-shy contrarian. In both its lyrical candour and soft-rock accessibility, Boys Outside sees Mason ready to meet the public again, and in some cases, actually cater to it.
Despite production from Richard X, the electronic accents on Boys Outside are no more pronounced than they were on previous Beta Band flirtations like "Squares"; rather, Boys Outside sounds like the sort of mechanized folk-rock the Beta Band might've produced in 1999 had they reined in the sound-collage sprawl and more actively courted the maturing Britpop fanbase that was gravitating toward the likes of Travis and Coldplay. Which is not to suggest Boys Outside is some calculated commercial cop-out; Mason's unwaveringly dazed and confused voice naturally distinguishes him from the Chris Martinized chest-beaters of the world. And where the acoustic groover "Am I Just a Man" at first sounds like the most conventionally styled pop song Mason has penned, the existential crises expressed within aren't the stuff of stadium-crowd sing-alongs.
But then, as "The Letter" illustrates, shooting for the back rows isn't Mason's strong suit anyway, as his voice is easily overwhelmed by the song's melodramatic orchestration. Mason finds greater success in more spartan settings, where he can better define the songs' emotional cues, be it dizzying disorientation (the Beta-worthy "Lost & Found") or morning-after redemption ("All Come Down"). And on the title track-- a gently ascendant, piano-ballad dispatch from Mason's darkest hour-- his beautifully dignified performance provides just the right amount of therapeutic release without tipping the song into over-sentimentalism. The Steve Mason of 1999 might've been horrified to imagine his future self as a sensitive, soft-pop crooner, but the Steve Mason of today can throw a familiar line right back at him: This is the definition of my life.
