If Jim Noir thinks he's being ironic having a name that's dark and mysterious when his songs are fey and pop, he's clowning himself: Everyone knows the sunnier the pop, the scarier its demons. Luckily Tower of Love isn't too sweet, so logic follows that Noir can't be all that tortured. At worst he carries some acrid memories from childhood. On "Eanie Meany”, one of many tracks that deploys a dizzy Kinks-ish wistfulness-- and a fixture in adidas' recent World Cup ad campaigns-- he remembers the cranky neighbors who ruined his afternoon: "If you don't give my football back, I'm gonna get my dad on you." Hearing the Manchester singer/songwriter tell it, his whispery voice hanging fog-like over straw hat strums and swishy synths, it's unclear whether he's genuinely nostalgic or just thankful the ball snatchers gave him some material.
What we know for sure is that Noir hasn't fully outgrown childhood, and he uses every opportunity to remind us. When, on "Climb a Tree", he asks, "Do you remember when we had no cares?" a valid response could be, "What's to remember?"
If Tower of Love were an ecosystem, it would resemble California or someplace that doesn't have seasons. So forget subject matter for now-- the album is most childlike in this tonal uniformity. Noir wears (or his figural personage does anyway) the slightly stupefied, going-along-with-it smile you see on shy kids who are easily cowed. Constructed lack of complexity's the old hat schtick, Noir’s cuddly four-track pop just the chosen vehicle. "Key of C" works as a sort of mission statement: "Oh, little C, I just want you to leave/ You make me so predictable," but nevertheless, "I want to be in the key of C/ It's easier to play it."
Let's just say Tower of Love isn't out to offend or challenge or discomfit anyone. But the album's less simplistic than it comes on, obviously, its snugly melodies decorated with snaking structures and surprising instrumentation. A vocal round, egged along by toy piano quarter notes, opens record-opener "My Patch". A minute later sound ceases, as if onward to the next track, but the song has only paused to perform a lineup change: Coach Noir subs out piano, clave, and synth bass for acoustic guitar, drums, real bass, and what sounds like a mandolin. “I Me You I’m Your” harmonizes water-shiny organ pulses with a drier, almost sine wave-smooth keyb line. The ensuing album-best chorus goes “I me you I’m yourrrrrrr” and solves Tower of Love’s problems without perhaps realizing it: Rather than trying to emphasize the naïvety of his naïve-sounding music with naïve content, Noir lets a shining melody do the work. He briefly grasps that in pop, more often than not, nonsense makes the most sense.
