It seems like an oxymoron, but rock has benefited enormously from singers who really shouldn't have been singing. Traditionally speaking, I'm talking about frustrated soul singers from Jagger on down, but off-kilter frontmen have been falling into place since Lou Reed first pursed his lips. Especially in recent years: Mike Patton and Craig Wedren, for instance, could each take up opera, but, why would they when rock is so accommodating and comparatively unlimited. As long as musicians are willing to steal outright from everything fresh and beautiful in this world, rock has no expiration date. As rigid as the form often seems, the fact that it never excludes solely on the basis of style or natural ability is one of its saving graces.
As a singer, Jeff Hanson should've been a lot of things. He probably should've been a chick, for one-- how his kind of breathy falsetto can come from any throat with an Adam's apple attached is far beyond me. His voice is presumably what first caught Kill Rock Stars' attention; it was the first unsolicited demo to result in a KRS signing in years. Considering Hanson's barely-legal age and sky-high range, he seems like a lock for emo stardom, and his old band M.I.J. did the "soaring" thing as well as anybody else, for years. Which is why the sharp turn toward traditional pop on his first solo outing Son is pretty striking, both in terms of how perfectly he nails the archetype and how otherworldly it sounds coming from those pipes.
For its first 20 seconds, Son is nearly bland, the acoustic opener "Hiding Behind the Moon" cribbing liberally and shamelessly from that old "More Than Words" power- ballad strum (complete with pensive guitar-slappin'). When Hanson's voice glides in, though, it easily fills in the space between every cliché with an oddly elfin assurance. It helps that his phrasing and arrangements are laser-guided, but it's that glassy timbre that makes the sinuous rub of descending harmony and ascending melody in the chorus so goddamn gorgeous. Without employing any vocal tricks or theatrics, Hanson does unheard-of things with almost every syllable; even the background vocals get the magic-larynx treatment. On the graceful rocker "You Are The Reason" he could be mistaken for a synthesizer's wash, and the la-la-la's in "As Honest As A Liar Can Be" sound like the eerie exhalations of some angelic backup trio rising to heaven right after a tour bus crash.
Which is not to say any of this is at all heavy or depressing: Hanson gets his share of Elliot Smith comparisons, and they're all right on, especially when it's just Jeff and his guitar (as the majority of these songs are). The sharp Anglo pronunciation and aloof minor-key melodies make the influence a little too pronounced on some of the songs, but luckily, they adhere to Smith's standards of quality as well. Hanson's distinguishing characteristics are just as striking, however, as he manages to strip away just about every ounce of angst and damage, leaving the pure uplift of pop.
