At a time when heart-on-sleeve indie rock is enjoying a lengthy peak, Richard Swift fits in with the legion of angst-ridden arty man-boys while simultaneously setting himself apart. Swift's music is full of internal frustrations-- from interpersonal insufficiencies to existential doubt-- but he cushions the blow with a deep-seated theatrical impulse rooted in the notion of the sad clown. Swift is a self-loathing schlub to be sure, but instead of reaching into the dark depths of his unconscious for inspiration, he channels Pagliacci and puts on a show.
Dressed Up for the Letdown retains much of the turn-of-the-century music hall affectations of its predecessor The Novelist, which garnered comparisons to Rufus Wainwright and Ray Davies with its thoroughgoing pre-pop pretense. In 2005, Swift bundled that record with Walking Without Effort, which introduced his California singer-songwriter side while keeping his romantic disposition intact. On Letdown, both sides combine to form a unique pop anachronism. Swift's merry melodies and uninhibited sensitivity draw equally on the immaculate piano pop of Carole King's Tapestry and the strummy self-awareness of Jackson Browne's early Asylum Records releases, but it's his noticeable theatricality that sets him apart.
By design, Letdown opens anticlimactically, as Swift reluctantly takes the stage and expresses his reservations about his role as entertainer. His voice is draped in echo, which adds an appropriately dreamlike tinge to the song that extends to the rest of the record. After a buoyant trumpet coda that leads him back to the shadows, the album proceeds forth as an extended dream sequence, where Swift finds himself in a catch-22 of his own design: he's certain of his inadequacies as a performer, but knows no other way to relieve his emotional burden than through song. The type of music he creates is far from what sells records: or as Swift phrases it, they're "the right songs for the wrong crowd." The opener gives way to the hopeful, lighthearted piano romp "The Songs of National Freedom", in which Swift continues, "I made my way into the spotlight, just to realize it's not what I want." He realizes by the end of the song, however, that his emotional void is better filled with a real-life counterpart than with public recognition.
"Artist & Repertoire" falls in the middle of the record, and is the clearest expression of Swift's charming, slightly outmoded disdain for the recording industry. In a hushed, plaintive voice, Swift plays the role of the A&R man with surprising sympathy: "Sorry Mr. Swift, but there's no radio that likes to play the songs of your lovers' sorrow," and then, "Sorry Mr. Swift, but you're much too fat, and could I persuade you just to wear a cap?" It's the only direct jab at the business end of music, refreshing for a record so thoroughly concerned with its creator's public persona.
Swift's most appealing traits remain his hopeless romanticism and canny knack for catchy tunes, and Letdown surrounds these tendencies with appropriately lush production. "Most of What I Know" is an unassuming mid-tempo gallop, but with rich, layered acoustic guitars supporting Swift's closest approximation to a soaring vocal delivery, and a chorus that pushes the underappreciated floor tom into the spotlight as a throbbing heartbeat. "Buildings in America" opens coyly enough as a delicate folk song but dramatically changes for its final third. Swift's generous tenor expands to match the growling bass and swirling atmospherics that suddenly appear, as if the curtain behind his small stage suddenly fell and revealed an elaborate backdrop with a dozen more musicians.
Letdown closes quietly, though, with "The Opening Band", a slight gospel-folk number, within which Swift's multitracked voices hover in the mix like apparitions. He takes solace in an undisguised allegory of John the Baptist, who served as the opening act for his "cousin Christ." With a modest economy of language, Swift recounts of the headliner how "they tried to kick his ass," yet he "didn't fight back." The song ends with profound uncertainty, only the disquieting notion that "we all die when it's our time."
As a closing act for an album full of dramatic despair and longing, it's fitting, if not also a bit troubling. Earlier on the record, lyrics like "everyone loves you when you're gone" and "I wish I was dead most of the time/ But I don't really mean it" were couched in irony, but the last minute or so of "Band" is more serious. It slowly eases a despair that now seems deeper, gradually softening and losing volume until gently fading into silence.
