Let's not belabor the point: After Mathematics is not a great record; it's not even a good record. Graham Smith (aka Kleenexgirlwonder) the once lauded lo-fi wunderkind, whose terrific early albums won him comparisons to Robert Pollard and charges of egoism usually reserved for artists twice his age, may have finally reached a point so low on the totem pole of pop relevancy that even the fifteen or so fans who kept the faith after the debacle that was the double-disc disaster The Smith Album are scratching their heads and wondering if it's too late to revise their opinion on the whole of Bob Pollard's solo career. These people need something to distract them from the deafening thud of Graham Smith's career hitting rock bottom.
The sound of After Mathematics could be described as Beck meets the Barenaked Ladies in gladiatorial combat over the muted cries of a thousand starry-eyed adolescents who-- having found their grand artistic vision ("Hey, wouldn't it be cool to four-track some power-pop songs and mix them up with R&B; thievery and bad hip-hop beats? No?") co-opted by Mr. Smith-- have locked themselves in their suburban basements to consider such philosophical ponderances as, "Could old-school pop/punk become the new ironic obsession for the jaded metropolitan hipster?"
Like Smith's longtime habit of scribbling self-referential lyrics and liner notes, it's hard to determine where the joke ends on After Mathematics. I tend to assume the lyrics to "Why I Write Such Good Songs" ("No one can sing like me/ No one can play the guitar like me/ No one says the things I say/ And no one else ever feels this way") are a matter of tongue-in-cheek self-satire, but is its musical similarity to Sugar Ray (replicated again on "I Am a Serving Wench at a Themed Restaurant") also part of the punchline? And what of the affected rapping throughout "The Pathetic Fallacy" and the (parodied?) gangster rap conclusion of the otherwise-ripe-for-a-car-commercial instrumental "Intentional Fallacy"? If it's all one big gag, Smith ought to ask himself if he's content to be better remembered for his moronic novelty than for the infectious pop songwriting of his past.
What hurts most is, Smith hasn't even lost his knack for insufferably catchy melodies. The sugary power-pop of "Amelia" is almost buoyant enough to stand the weight of its wordplay ("Amelia/ Ameliorate me.") Likewise, the punchy, if typical, concluding track "Fitzcarraldo" provides a brief return to the earlier and more palatable days of Ponyoak. But these lukewarm conciliatory attempts hardly make up for all the computerized backing vocals (an unfortunate leftover from The Smith Album) or the sketchy simulations of platinum hip-hop.
Were I so inclined, I suppose I could muster some self-righteous anger at the overall tone of After Mathematics. Instead I'll suffice to say that what Smith needs is to drive into the city, park the car in the heart of Cabrini-Green, blast this disc out his trunk, and learn firsthand what thug life is all about.
