Trouble in Dreams is a rad party to which actual people aren't invited, because it admittedly exists to lure muses (at least seven are named) out of Dan Bejar's imagination and into his bedroom: "A chorus is a thing that bears repeating/ And the problem, as I see it, is girls stay away from that shit." He yelps that bit here on a, um, repeat performance of a track from the Swan Lake album, which you will remember, because the next line is, "Saw you in Swan Lake." The vibe of this moment hews close to the one conveyed by Destroyer labelmate, hero, and fellow English-accent-faker Robert Pollard on Guided By Voices' "The Official Ironmen Rally Song" back in 1996: "Crawling people on your knees/ Don't take this so seriously/ You just have to hum it all day long." (Except, well, Bejar even hums seriously.)
In 1996, GBV were where Destroyer is today: facing a not-quite-backlash because the act's longevity had begun to work against the initial reasons for fan excitement-- what were once singular eccentricities now have become anticipatable. Through some kind of consumer transference, the audience, having seen the magician do its favorite trick so many times, convinces itself that it has actually gone backstage. That most Destroyer listeners could likely pen and perform a decent Destroyer spoof is the reason some now (via projection) accuse Bejar of parodying himself, just as folks used to act like they had Pollard's genius "figured out" because they could joke, "Alright kids, this one's called 'Logo Manchild Umbrage Saloon' off our new EP, Sanguine Flake Emperor! One, two, three, four--"
Mockery usually lacks its target's magic, though, and Bejar is pretty much an untouchable wizard. Trouble in Dreams succeeds despite itself, despite contemporary tastes, and despite the cynicism its grandiosity triggers in us breathing, farting pedestrian mortals. Anyway, one can't be embarrassed for Bejar re: this album's hyperdramatic wince-worthy turns-- or an uptick in his nonsense-syllable scatting thing-- because he clearly does not care what we "think." He's so dedicated to his unbearable fringes that he sells them-- like the kid from junior high so unconcerned with cool that he had to settle for being totally fucking awesome.
Not that Destroyer doesn't try to have it both ways: The risky, invested intensity of the delivery, leavened with the detachment of it not being so gauche as to specifically mean anything. What a performance the whole album is*.* The vocal inflections, the real words, the nonwords, the handclaps, the whistling, the guitars, keys, drums, tempos, and spaces combine to create not so much a sound as a (gulp) spirit. Spirit is another word, of course, for alcoholic beverage, and Trouble in Dreams is shitfaced, from the leery cover's stash of bottles to the wine, sherry, drugs, drunkenness, and high-ness referenced inside. For all the music's deliberate flailing, the speaker lacks agency-- he wanders around not knowing what time it is ("Foam Hands") in disbelief at decibel levels ("Plaza Trinidad"). The most rousing, antic, and fun number, "Dark Leaves Form a Thread", is about terror, depression, abandonment, and waitress fatigue. The closing track, a coherent (for Destroyer) character study about the ominous redemption of a "wasted" "boozing" woman who's "been fucking around," suggests a Bejar strutting and fretting his way onto the Hold Steady's stage.
Revisitations abound. In addition to the Swan Lake do-over, a verse from a song Bejar did to accompany a 2005 children's book pops up in a decidedly adult context. The guitars continue Destroyer's blend of geek-rock and classic rock, ranging in the same tune from stately to anti-subtle, like an XTC Skynyrd with pinches of Marr and Malkmus sautéed in Beatles and Bowie. The hotfoot confidence of a certain recent celebrated Destroyer album gets paired with the disheveled sprawl of another-- if only Pitchfork would pay me for a three-word review, I could have just typed: This Night's Rubies. Which is to say that Trouble in Dreams offers all the hookiness of pop with none of the concision.
For a recombinatory effort, though, some elements are missing. TID might be Bejar's most pompous, profane, and pastoral record, but it's also his least "intelligent," rational, or linearly clever. Bejar denies fans old modes of dorksport: I caught only one pun, two snippets of others' famous lyrics, and two references to other bands. Plus "Introducing Angels" just sounds like Air Supply. And part of me buys the argument that this is the rock equivalent of Mars Attacks, going through the motions of creating a blockbuster without allowing the audience a legitimate "in." At first listen, the album seemed long because something was running a little lean. I thought I'd gone from the enjoyable thrill of wondering what Bejar was talking about to the jaded position of not caring. But after multiple spins, I'm confusingly seduced by the vermouth-versus-absinthe reverie of its arrangements, pronouncements, and elliptical solos. Here's a guy fussily throwing his whole soul into his camouflage.
