"In a way I've been working on this record for years. Don't get me wrong, these are all brand new songs, but I've been imagining this album, playing different versions of it in my head for a long time." Rhett Miller's awfully talkative (and refreshingly down-to-Earth) about his new solo album-- technically his second, after Mythologies, a disc of his early, folky recordings-- but I think it's that quote right there that sums up what you can expect from this record. There's a studied, careful feel to The Instigator, a feel that seems to coat about eighty percent of solo records by bandleaders; it's hard to put into words, but easy to hear.
It could have something to do with the lack of a group dynamic that comes with the territory-- when he's playing with the Old 97's, Miller and the band tend to let themselves come unhinged more often, as the experience of playing together all the time allows for a certain individual freedom within the group. Their "Time Bomb" is one of the most electrifying singles ever to have the label "No Depression" slapped on it, and it's largely because you can feel them letting go of the reins and going for broke. Even with certified monsters like Jim Keltner in your backing band, it's hard to recreate that kind of energy on sessions with a pieced-together ensemble.
To wit, the album's opener is a fantastic song, but you can't help thinking that in the hands of the Old 97's it would have been just a little more commanding. Miller wrote "Our Love" after reading the collected love letters of two historical figures to their respective, married lovers: Richard Wagner and Franz Kafka. The subject matter is unexpectedly successful and universal, and his quips about Wagner "working on a thing that when he finished took almost seven hours to sing" are clever enough to elicit a pretty broad grin, but the music backing it is standard-issue rock-country, in that order.
Elsewhere, "This Is What I Do" manages to put some power in its pop, largely on account of Miller's excellent melody and producer John Brion's (Aimee Mann, Elliot Smith) neatly harmonized guitar parts. The album hits a pretty good stride in the middle, where we find Miller consciously trying playing up his pop leaning: "Come Around" has a chorus titanic enough to stay afloat after any kind of collision, while "Things That Disappear" offers "bah bah" backing vocals and radio-friendly production.
The two best songs hit right in a row, the excellent "Point Shirley"-- featuring Robyn Hitchcock on backing vocals and guitar-- leading the way. In addition to Hitchcock's characteristic jangle, the song has an undeniable rhythmic sway and lopsided delivery that put its head and shoulders a few inches above everything else on the album; "Four-Eyed Girl", a delicious little slice of geeky romance full of rhythmic piano and drifting guitar hooks, leans further toward the center of the dial, sure to fix your Marshall Crenshaw jones.
The sun-drenched pop of "Hover" and the rockabilly of "the El" (as in Chicago's "El" trains) keep things riding high, but the album suffers a curious collapse moving into its final quarter, with three limp songs in a row. "Your Nervous Heart" practically lets you hear the drummer snoring as he creeps along with a lugubrious beat, and even Miller's reliable pen doesn't seem quite up to the task. "I Want to Live" is the hardest-rocking thing here, but it wound up with the worst hook in the bunch; "Terrible Vision" closes things out with a strange coda, but nevertheless unsatisfying and unsettled.
Miller offers more than enough quality material here to justify stepping out on his own: what he's occasionally lacking in energy, he largely makes up for with craft, and Brion is smart enough to put the emphasis on Miller's writing with his crystal clear production. That said, it's unlikely to instigate much beyond some afternoon head-nodding, and even some of Miller's fans will be somewhat put off by the album's borderline MOR sound. The Instigator is a fun diversion, but I'm looking forward to seeing Miller back in his natural habitat: the Old 97's.
