Notions of cool figure strongly in the world of Jean-Bénoit Dunckel and Nicolas Godin of Air. "Philip Glass is really harmonious to me: the harmonies are really simple, really amazing, really cool," said Dunckel, in a recent interview with the pair for Pitchfork's 5-10-15-20 series. "They were using guitars and bass but in a mechanical way, as if they were using a sequencer," said Godin, of the Strokes' first album, before adding: "That was very cool." The members of Air have always been immaculately turned-out, both in person and on record. Their music rarely has a hair out of place. Sometimes this works in their favor. The impeccably shaved-down prog tendencies of "How Does It Make You Feel?" from 10,000 Hz Legend shows how effective it can be to take the wilder whims of a genre and thoroughly de-clutter them.
That sense of nonchalance, executed with total control, has long been Air's M.O. It's a kind of stoicism shared with artists like Ron Mael of Sparks and Chris Lowe of Pet Shop Boys.-- a rigid, and admirable, commitment to a singular strain of projected being. When Portishead became a coffee-table favorite, they disappeared for years, overhauling their sound with the jagged lines of Third. Air went in the other direction. They were too locked-down in the detached journey they were committed to, resulting in bland and dispassionate albums like 2009's Love 2. This record, a soundtrack to the restored, hand-colored version of the classic Georges Méliès silent film Le Voyage Dans la Lune (A Trip to the Moon), is a diversion of sorts. It offers Air a chance to bring some of the artistry back into their music, to work at rediscovering the elegance within the sleek surface drift they often lackadaisically flop into.
Le Voyage Dans la Lune is less light than its predecessor. There's a brawny thickness to the guitar line in "Astronomic Club", a spine-tickling ghostliness passing through "Décollage", a pile-up of electronics marching with resolve on "Sonic Armada". It's never less studied than Dunckel and Godin's prior work, but it feels like Méliès' imagery may have inspired them to rediscover the playful side of their personalities-- the side that once prompted them to release a remix album titled Everybody Hertz. By the time they got to Love 2, the understated joy of songs like "Kelly Watch the Stars" had all but vanished, replaced by vapid and overly serious stodge like "So Light Is Her Footfall".
After coasting in half-realized bliss for so long, Dunckel and Godin appear to be reaching into the past in order to go forward. In the 5-10-15-20 interview, Godin talks about the curse of making "shit records" after you turn 40. Here, his coping mechanism for that, on a handful of tracks, at least, is to pluck a few ideas from the playful Air on prior records. "Parade" is all bright Paddy Kingsland-inspired analog synth bursts, chirping birdsong, and ruptured drum parts that bring the track to a stuttering halt. But it's a retrogressive step, something this band has done before but better, fuller, and with a greater sense of direction. Here, it feels like a pleasant yet unremarkable switch back to the past, the sound of Air staring into a half-empty well of ideas, on the verge of becoming their own tribute band.
It's a shame, because the collaboration with Victoria Legrand of Beach House on "Seven Stars" seemed to bode well for this album. The percussion-heavy frame provides the edge that prevents the softer intonations from becoming too fluffy. There's a marrying of militaristic thrust, snug vocal cooing, and a gloriously silly spoken-word countdown halfway through. For a minute it feels as if there are a few cracks in the veneer, which is generally the space from which all the best Air material's gathered. When they lower their guard and open their music up to unexpected elements, it causes the professorial approach to melt away. It makes sense that Dunckel was a mathematics teacher. Air's songs often sound like formulas spread out upon a page, with its makers puzzling over them, trying to figure out why they don't quite add up.
Elsewhere, Le Voyage Dans la Lune is an unsteady mixture of partially inspired notions reaching for a purpose. It's a bountiful collection of loose ideas, hanging in the breeze without forging forward in any meaningful direction. "Who Am I Now?" is representative of the problem, with Au Revoir Simone providing nebulous vocals that touch on the kind of spectral folk the Ghost Box label so effectively delivers. But this feels like a facsimile of that work, and a poorly made one at that. It's too calculated, too studious. It's music reduced down to its raw components with all the mystery torn out. There are parts of the record that get back to the potential this band once possessed-- a slight return to interlacing all the best parts of Moog demonstration records, hoary old prog moves, and extravagantly deluxe production techniques. But back then they made it seem so easy. Here, it feels like they're trying too hard.
