The songwriter Luke Temple's existential crisis is a familiar one: He's so thoughtful about his options that he can't commit to any of them. His last two albums with Here We Go Magic (2009's self-titled and 2010's Pigeons) sounded like the work of musicians who not only weren't sure who they wanted to be, but who could entertain the possibility of being several different things from song-to-song-- a liberal mindset maybe more admirable in a friend than an artist. It's not surprising that the best thing the band has put out yet-- a twitchy krautrock song called "Collector"-- outlined Temple's fascination with people capable of fixating on a single thing, and even then, he confessed that his fascination was "mild."
A Different Ship, the band's third album, makes a go of turning the anxiety of non-commitment into its own kind of commitment. One song is called "How Do I Know"; another is called "Make Up Your Mind". The first line Temple sings is, "It's hard sometimes to be close," and throughout, he makes an effort to keep his distance. He hums, he floats, he glides politely over the mix. The band splits its time between airy ballads and dry, hypercaffeinated stuff built from layers of interwoven guitars and synths-- music that creates a revisionist history of the 1980s where tightly-wound bands like the Feelies and Devo cohabitate with yacht rock. The title track alone may herald some kind of subterranean Sting renaissance.
It's an impeccably polished and careful record. But like a shirt buttoned all the way up to the neck, sophistication can wear a guy out. Whatever rough edges the band naturally cultivated on their first two albums have been neatly shaved off and sanded down with the help of producer Nigel Godrich, who makes everything sound vacuum-packed and expensive. Thinking about Godrich inevitably makes me think about Radiohead. The creeping irony of "Everything in Its Right Place" is that it sounded like something, somewhere, was desperately wrong. The paradox here is that the band pretends at anxiety in a way that seems perfectly comfortable. It's George Clooney playing Woody Allen.
Twice on the album, Temple admits to "believing" in things: One is "action"; the other is Mary, whom he likes in part for her "calm delivery." I get the feeling he's aware of the music's even-handed character, which is as present in its sound as in his writing. And while there are moments when it comes together beautifully, like the way the carefree coda and rippling synthesizers on "How Do I Know" defy the song's rigid rhythms, a lot of this stuff feels strangely medicated. In melancholy hours it has inspired visions of bombs with their wicks dipped in water, or car commercials where good-looking creative professionals pull absently into suburban driveways.
I think of this old line about how staying in the middle of the road is the best way to get run over. That's not entirely true. Bon Iver and Real Estate practically live there, and they're doing fine. But it's strange to hear music so alternately mellow and obsessively ornamented. At least we can guess that Temple's worries may be winding down.
