Lawrence Arabia - A Genius in the Shadows

Decadence, Kiwi-style

Have you noticed? One of the most overused words in music criticism (almost always out of place) is “genius”. If we were to trust the adjectives thrown around by magazines, specialist websites or plain old blogs, we'd have no choice but to conclude that we live in a gilded reality of cut-price brilliance. A well-made record, a well-promoted single, a new artist who gets to claim the generous credential. Believing it may be deeply gratifying, but we all know that the real world produces such phenomena far more sparingly than the press would have us think, and far less often than we ourselves, deep down, would like to hope. We write about artists we've sometimes stumbled upon by sheer luck, and we tend to get carried away the moment we come across an album that resonates on our own wavelength; but out of excessive, genuine enthusiasm we end up falling into the very same trap that others fall into deliberately, for pure promotional gain. True geniuses are not easy to come by. Playing devil's advocate, one might even doubt that artists of this calibre still exist at all, or that they still create their art according to the same golden standards that once earned them their status. What happens instead, and not so rarely, is that we come across musicians and songwriters who display only certain traits of genius, perhaps in flashes, and who therefore cannot be counted among the truly gifted. More often than not, these are precisely the most interesting artists: the imperfect ones, the hidden ones, the ones with the silencer on.

Capable of pulling a rabbit out of the hat every now and then, an impromptu flash between a couple of acts of absolute ordinariness, or of quietly cultivating a rather uncommon talent, playing hide-and-seek with it as if never wanting to take themselves too seriously. One of the latest creative types to fit neatly into the category just described goes by the name of James Milne, who has recently turned thirty and is one of the cornerstones of the young (and highly promising) New Zealand indie-pop scene, even though he's been living in London for a few years now, having felt the legitimate need to shake off his provincial roots as an artist. He was introduced to the right crowd of the local alternative underground by his friend Jonathan Bree, who together with Heather Mansfield leads a successful Auckland outfit, the Brunettes, in which Milne took his first steps in the business playing a bit of everything, starting with bass. Playing second fiddle must have weighed on him, though, and so James, as soon as the chance arose, tried his hand at his own material, both solo (under the moniker Lawrence Arabia) and at the helm of a proper band, the Reduction Agents. A couple of LPs were enough to win over artists of the first rank such as Will Sheff or Feist, the former bringing him in as a touring member of Okkervil River, the latter having him open every date of a European tour. These credentials, good as they are, would never be enough to convince anyone that James Milne is a genius – not least because the writer of this piece certainly doesn't believe it for a second. Still, it's worth shining at least a little light on one of those minor talents (see, among others, the likes of Richard Swift, Kelley Stoltz, Jim Noir and so on), who, far from the spotlight, are busy rewriting the pop tradition in their own way, with results that are, at the very least, worth appreciating.

Here we arrive, then, at the christening of Lawrence Arabia, a character born almost as a joke, through tongue-in-cheek on-stage costumes recalling the famous film starring Peter O'Toole, whom Milne vaguely resembles. From the carnival antics during the gigs of Disciples of Macca – a Paul McCartney tribute act shared with Jonathan Bree and Ryan McPhun of the Ruby Suns – to the already telling debut of the solo project, it really was a very short step. The first album by the blond New Zealander, self-titled, came out simultaneously on his own label (Honorary Bedouin) and on Bree's (Lil' Chief) in April 2006. Anyone looking for immediate confirmation of what's been said above about Milne's pathological low profile need only consider that the record in question opens with a run of no fewer than four filler tracks, excellently crafted as they are, and scatters a few more along the way, from the featherweight divertissement of “Everyone Had Dinner With Rabbits” to the dishevelled fragment of “The Kinds of Feelings That Happen on Summer Beaches”. If the opening tracks are enough to make clear that this first effort leans decidedly towards folksy singer-songwriter territory, the sketch-like tendency shouldn't be dismissed without noting the gentleness, the miraculous simplicity and that subtle timelessness that save even the most unassuming fillers (such as the opening track, “The Mystery Lair”) from the merciless label of “banal”. Milne reveals himself bit by bit, adopting a knowing, laid-back cadence and a detachment that is all surface. Making use, perhaps, of a soft, cautious bed of electronics (“Half The Right Size”), Lawrence Arabia works to “lull the game to sleep”, yet remains insinuating, and knows how to strike at just the right moment with his bewitching, roguish voice, before the reverb of his electric guitar takes over. Even in this attitude, there's a certain stylistic leaning towards a dandyism that's as sophisticated as it is dusty (and far removed from grace), embracing a kind of well-meaning noir manner, with genuine passion for the genre and just a touch too much debt to Bowie (“Thistle Tends To Stingle”).

When he gives free rein to his own decadent streak, James reaches encouraging results. “Talk About Good Times” is understated, romantic, anachronistic, perfect for the ideal closing credits of a film yet to be made: the classic effective touch that leaves its mark without resorting to flashy solutions, a true virtue found only in the genuinely talented. Trailing in the wake of this little gem of consummate crooning comes “Bloody Shins”, where the weary demeanour, the coarse-grained melancholy and a pervasive Lennon-esque streak somehow manage, as if by magic, not to slip into the limp sentimentality that for so many would have been a sure pitfall. Obliqueness is one of the best cards in Milne's songwriting hand, and this debut brings it to the listener's attention on more than one occasion. “Hold Us Together With Sutures” is certainly one of the finest, as well as the most elusive track on the whole record: the vocal turns rougher, more plaintive, more creased (almost a kind of mewling), while the deviations come from curious nocturnal inserts that heighten the melodic potential, stirring real emotion in an increasingly fraught, crepuscular electric finale. What's striking throughout the album are the odd sonic pairings, laid out with an almost nonchalant boldness by the author, blending hazy acoustic embroidery, subtle sampling and the occasional psychedelic flourish. This is Lawrence Arabia's gentle madness, always perfectly measured in suggesting offbeat alternatives to easy solutions or the flashy effects that for many would be enough to paper over the dead air of a flagging creativity. Towards the end, this tendency yields some of its tastiest fruits, among wobbly melodies that lodge themselves in your head on first listen, radiant and irresistible sixties flashes of sunshine (“I Hope The Pope Makes You a Saint”) and fine surges of tart emotion (“The Thinnest Air”). There's no need to dwell on obvious examples to reveal Milne's happy pop instincts, a hint of that truly remarkable gift the New Zealander would go on to develop with greater assurance in several tracks of his later work, as well as on the group outing with the Reduction Agents: the Beatles-esque shadows (the echo of “Revolution” is never far away) in “Business Planning” are evidently something more than a half-formed statement of intent. Much like this whole debut, really.

Rabbits in the Hat

April 20, 2006 must not have been just any ordinary day for James Milne. Timed to coincide with the release of the eponymous Lawrence Arabia, Lil' Chief and Honorary Bedouin also put out, on that very same date, the first and so far only album by Reduction Agents, a band led by Milne with Ruby Suns frontman Ryan McPhun in the improvised role of drummer, plus a couple of lesser-known cohorts rounding out the lineup. Clearly the decision to sync the release of this double debut down to the minute was something the artist pushed hard for, determined to fire off every bullet he had in the hope of hitting the mark at least once. The strategy certainly paid off: up to that point James had limited himself to playing on various Brunettes albums and EPs, staying pretty much in the shadows, especially as a songwriter. His contribution to his fellow Aucklanders' second LP ("Mars Love Venus", 2004), the song "You Beautiful Militant", entrusted to Mansfield's splendid voice, must have spurred his friend Bree to strongly encourage his efforts, repaid within less than two years by the satisfaction of this twin release. The recruitment by the American heavyweights already mentioned, the opening-act tours around the world, the move to London and the signing with Bella Union would later complete the picture of this young Kiwi talent's dazzling rise. Whereas for Lawrence Arabia Milne had composed, in just a few months, new or reworked material for the occasion in the bare but intriguing guise of a solo album, The Dance Reduction Agents presented itself as the one chance to think like the leader of a band rather than simply as a solo artist — a quality that had clearly been in the Christchurch singer's blood for who knows how long.

Here too, James simply got organized and recorded songs that had been dancing around in his head for years, songs more charged, compared to those destined for the solo project, with a sparkling energy that demanded teamwork to be properly served — a vision shared and built together with other kindred spirits. Put to the service of a real band, these tracks work impeccably, and it hardly matters that the musicians aren't exactly virtuosos. Compared to that other record, The Dance Reduction Agents doesn't suffer from the drafts of excessive solipsism, nor from an often cerebral and contrived tone that, however sincere and enjoyable, could feel overworked. This is a surprising record, remarkably expansive and sharply focused even amid the sheer variety of ideas on offer. It barely manages to rein them in, erring on the side of too much spontaneity and lacking any masks to filter the whole into a more deliberate stance. It's hard to call a flaw what, paradoxically, is actually the album's greatest strength: its uncontainable nature. Even though we're not in the presence of a genius, of an all-round, textbook talent, it's no small feat that this twenty-five-year-old newcomer from the other side of the world managed to produce, in one fell swoop, two albums so different yet so in harmony, perfectly complementing each other and portraying, with striking honesty, the two sides of their author. The Reduction Agents album is a formidable pop explosion, a collection of irresistible hooks and spur-of-the-moment surprises.

Anyone wanting a taste of it could try "80's Celebration", a track kicked off by a drum machine and capable of nonchalantly pairing a melancholy verse with a delightful uptempo refrain, all packed into a memorable (and never redundant) two-minute burst that at the time appeared in the Sundance Festival comedy "Eagle vs Shark". And there's more. While Lawrence Arabia didn't carry the weight of overly exposed debts to safe masters of the past, on The Dance Reduction Agents the smart citation-work becomes, if anything, even more savvy and eclectic, with Milne ranging across a vast array of references without ever sounding fake or too derivative. From the ringing guitars of "Urban Yard" (which sounds a lot like early-seventies Kinks) to the colorful power-pop romp of "Our Jukebox Run Is Over" (a kind of impossible seventies exile for the Zombies), there's no room to get bored. Linked directly to some of the best moments of his solo debut, "The Pool" is another blatant break-in job on the Beatles' treasure chest: "Being For The Benefit Of Mr. Kite" is lifted with respect and affection, then charged with a much more contemporary multicolored madness, a close relative of Supergrass. On "Last Night's Love" we get a guest vocal appearance from Jonathan Bree, who returns the favor from two years earlier and contributes to a curious fusion of his own crystalline approach to pop and Milne's more oblique one, offsetting the usual old clichés of the romantic piano ballad.

Just to raise the stakes, James and his cohorts decide, on "Mississippi Moonshine Girls", to throw a party built on jangle-pop as credible as it is infectious, drawing on the lesson of the Byrds from the very comfortable outpost of the Paisley Underground's never-sufficiently-appreciated Rain Parade. Applause all round. Like it or not, for the New Zealand musician The Dance Reduction Agents is the perfect gym in which to freely exercise his shape-shifting instincts. "Sweet Ingredients", a more sophisticated page from a seasoned seducer, is emblematic of this ever-changing, discontinuous spirit that favors sudden shifts in style and tone, the constant melodic detours engineered to keep the listener's attention always alert. The miracle, compared to Lawrence Arabia and the later Chant Darling, is that here there's no spinning its wheels: no dip in inspiration, no filler sneaked in (even the little "Freeways" aspires to gem status thanks to its sensational vocal blends and falsetto), no unfortunate naivety. From the warm heartthrob pose of "Waiting For Your Love" to the loose-limbed (and sweetly indolent) voice-and-guitar of "Cabinets and Mountaintops", from the dusted-off folk-singer intimacy of "Cold Glass Tube" to the passionate crooning of the intense "Couldn't Anymore", it's a constant change of outfit, with a mechanism so well-oiled overall that it never betrays a smudge or a misstep: rumpled but never unsure, romantic but never ingratiating, refined but never mannered — the Milne of this debut with his makeshift band remains the best version we've heard so far, a promise far more solid than what the following chapters would suggest, an author freer from constraints in reclaiming what he loved from the past. In two words: more personal.

Commodore without a compass

After the fireworks of this double debut, Milne clocked up mile after mile touring in support of various stars of the North American and European indie scene, not least the Concretes and his fellow Kiwis Crowded House, also getting recruited as a sideman for a couple of European tours. He relocated to London, signed with the legendary label of Beach House, Explosions in the Sky, Midlake and Czars — Bella Union — and, most importantly, made himself thoroughly missed. It took about three years for the Lawrence Arabia moniker to reappear on specialist record store shelves with the fateful sophomore effort, almost an eternity for a young, emerging artist, but it must be said he could hardly have expressed himself more faithfully than Chant Darling allowed him to. Arriving on the European market with an unbelievable delay of over a year, this is a record that truly has everything of its author about it, even in the inevitable incompleteness of a scant forty minutes: it fully embodies his uneven, sophisticated and nostalgic grandeur, but, even more than in the past, shows him all too often indulging in unexpected, unjustified pauses for a songwriter who, deep down, still has everything to prove. Expressive squalor and nobility live side by side in the cramped space of a small album; talent and ineptitude take turns in a work that manages to delight and embarrass in equal, unbroken measure, and, above all, without mincing matters. The Christchurch singer too often lacks the reassuring lightness of a happy medium, a solidly respectable average level, and the undeniable improvements shown in superbly crafted tracks end up being paired with passages of startling thinness, inevitably letting down anyone who had placed certain expectations in him. Chant Darling starts off in thoroughly encouraging fashion but has the demerit of squandering that promise early on, spinning its wheels for far too long, almost irredeemably. After three excellent, catchy tracks, Lawrence Arabia fails to put a lid on his own immaturity and stumbles into naivety with the risky calypso-lounge of "Auckland CBD Part Two", an unlikely hybrid (though still fairly enjoyable) delivered in the threadbare packaging of familiar lo-fi, with the same old stubborn habit of the fragment that had already hemmed in the otherwise solid 2006 debut.

In his proverbial (and ultimately unsuccessful) passion for hide-and-seek, James reveals a masochistic streak that simply cannot pay off in pop music. There's barely a trace of the bright yet refined immediacy and the vivid solid colors of Milne at his best; instead, the hazy, out-of-focus effect of Lawrence Arabia returns to dominate, that love of soft focus and a certain smoky vagueness, a dispersive logic that, by pushing the listener to dwell on secondary details, inevitably weakens the sharpness and effectiveness of the songwriting. Elsewhere it's the New Zealander's lack of conviction that undermines his songs. "The Beautiful Young Crew" wouldn't be bad at all if James developed it with due care instead of abandoning it in a state that can only be described as embryonic, with a skimpy guitar embellishment, faded touches of some mournful horn, and a choral charge that's honestly rather flat. In the middle stretch of the record — unfortunately a sizeable midriff bulge — an excessive sloppiness reigns supreme, one that weighs all the more because it stems from a half-hearted approach to songwriting. Keeping a low profile — the man should have learned this by now — is a damaging ingredient when the aim is good easy listening. "Fine Old Friends" only confirms it: pleasant, yes, in line with the shared experience with Ryan McPhun thanks to a decent knack for simple, easily digestible structures, yet it too lacks real spark, practically a so-so outtake from The Dance Reduction Agents and nothing more. Chant Darling still manages to do even worse. "Eye A", for instance, is brass-band pop with no bite whatsoever, far too glib and with a disarmingly flat core: with its mothballed zest and its alarming lack of decent ideas, it would be questionable even as a limp B-side, yet here it sits enthroned right at the heart of the album. Slightly better is the following "The Crew of the Commodore" (yet another metaphorical reference to crews and sea voyages, a theme developed quite effectively in the promotional imagery that accompanied the LP's release), though perhaps tossed off a bit too casually, drowned in boredom and its own limp indolence to really grab the listener's attention.

All this to illustrate just how disastrous good old Milne can be when he plays it cheap or takes the wonder of his own touch for granted. All this to reiterate that we are definitely not talking about a prodigy here, even though, in fairness, the rest of Chant Darling lives up to and builds on the promise of the earlier, encouraging tracks. The opening, as mentioned, is a technical knockout. "Looks Like a Fool" is a masterful number from a seasoned admiral of pop, once again right up there among the ideal closing-credits songs (or opening-credits ones, in this case). Refined yet direct, with a voice finally free of hesitation and angelic backing vocals that heighten its sixties leanings, it reveals in the unfolding of its narrative a warmth and harmonic sweetness that speak volumes about James's willingness to risk something, his old-fashioned underdog romanticism. It's a pop song that comes close to perfection, teasing with its apparent air of obviousness, with the false nonchalance of someone wanting to suggest that what's been created came with extreme, laughably effortless ease, when in fact the exact opposite is true. "Apple Pie Bed" is another flawless pop contraption that gives off wondrous sixties aromas and keeps the expansiveness bar high thanks to a contagious rhythm (the bass is a real treasure) and yet another killer chorus from the house style. Behind the surface cheerfulness and the lightness of its cut and references, though, an irreducible melancholy peeks through (as also suggested by the ambiguous promiscuity of its risqué video), another winning arrow in the New Zealander's quiver. Between the two strong opening tracks, "The Undesirables" appears more basic and stylized in its melodic delivery, slight in substance and length, yet it's another display of skill thanks to that damn refrain (practically all there is to it) that keeps paying homage to Lennon as its north star and lodges itself relentlessly in the head of anyone who pays it attention.

This prodigious opening is followed by the long ellipsis already mentioned, and one has to wait all the way to the ninth track to find a passage of equal, if not greater, worth: "I've Smoked Too Much", a gem, the genius's proud parting shot after half an ocean of banality. It starts with the usual brilliant backing vocals, continues with a melancholy and cheekily (in a good way) whiny crooner's pose, then flows into a new, irresistible chorus, turning with extreme skill through the most varied and lovable melodic directions. Whether for its superb craftsmanship or the sheer surprise of finding it again when one had given up hope, it's a genuine pleasure to follow it for all of its five and a half minutes: double the usual length by Lawrence Arabia standards, also because it's essentially two songs (both excellent) rolled into one. The closer, reserved for the affable "Dream Teacher", confirms the high quality level of James at his best even with extreme economy of means, proving that, with just his own vocal layering, Milne is capable of superb results. Much more intimate, elevated, delicate but also extremely touching (take, for example, the formidable Wilson-esque ecstasy that closes out the crescendo) and immune to the virus of mannerism. A moment of genuine bliss to end on, irritating if you stop to compare it with the too-many pauses that preceded it, but still a good omen for the imminent future. In the hope of finding him again bolstered by the juicy candor of his most convincing passages, without the residue of shyness and the dispersive excesses that have always weighed down his talent.

Lawrence Arabia comes of age

Despite its uneven development and a few too many naive moments, Chant Darling proved to be a fairly fortunate record, earning flattering reviews everywhere and a couple of prestigious accolades back home (including the first-ever Taite Music Prize, New Zealand's equivalent of the Mercury Prize). Clearly emboldened by the results, Milne then chose to put Lawrence Arabia on leave to focus on other things. He joined BARB, a sort of all-New-Zealand supergroup, alongside famous offspring Liam Finn (son of Neil, leader of Crowded House) and Eliza Jane Barnes (daughter of Jimmy Barnes of Cold Chisel), as well as rising psych-pop talent Connan Hosford, better known as Connan Mockasin, on whose successful debut "Please Turn Me Into The Snat" he also played piano and contributed backing vocals. Besides a series of tours, the collective released a self-titled album at the end of 2010, following a decidedly over-the-top choral art-rock vein, in the manner of the Polyphonic Spree and, if anything, even noisier and more unhinged. Within this phase's pleasant side ventures, even more significant proved to be his collaboration with Mike Fabulous — also known as Lord Echo — previously singer and guitarist in the dub band Black Seeds, which culminated in 2011 in the release of an LP written, played and produced entirely by the two musicians and credited jointly to their respective aliases.

Amid cheerful disco suggestions and a remarkable opportunism in its choice of pop devices, this Unlimited Buffet presents itself as a cocktail of genres in an impeccable, polished, almost calligraphic package — glossy, yes, but from the perspective of devoted fans, and therefore for a good cause. "Up To My Neck in Shit" is a paradigmatic example of the ironic tone and the fluid, white-hot funk-soul grooves that the record is steeped in, with its philologically correct vintage effects, its minimal trimmings and its frivolous touch à la Scissor Sisters, just a touch less rowdy and more refined. From "Give Me Love Tonight" to "Tony's Chord", Milne goes big on the falsetto in a festive but never sloppy mood, and he's skilled at reeling in even the less fastidious listener even when — as on the swaggering, phlegmatic "Eugenics" — the rhythms turn mellow. There's no shortage of odd detours either, from the Caribbean languor and the air-conditioned-sun vibe dreamed up by Beck ("Perm") to ecstatic stretches not entirely free of a yawn or two (the closing "You Won't Remember This Feelings at All"), even though the overall coordinates never stray too far from the pleasant norm of a backdrop built on velvet, soft lighting, dizzying choral reinforcements and winking but light orchestral flourishes, all juggled by the Fabulous/Arabia duo with the appropriate ease.

Just when it seemed one might get used to his quirky stylistic detours, in July 2012 Lawrence Arabia resurfaces, out of the blue. Barely hiding his frustration with a moniker impossible to promote under the Google-ranking gauntlet, James Milne reinvents himself in the guise of the "Sparrow" and carries forward his lovable, novel-like persona with stubborn devotion, careful this time, for once, not to overplay the part. The sparkling new Peter O'Toole of the debut, the rigorous sea dog of the second chapter who shamelessly flaunted the stripes of the perfect naïf standard-bearer, now give way to a cryptic, Magritte-like gentleman. Three masks worn by an unusual seducer, a devotee of the irregular, of hide-and-seek, and of a crooning style as consummate as it is dispersive. And yet this time things seem to turn out differently.

The Sparrow delights with the unexpected aftertaste of a most welcome surprise. At once a small album, a great show of maturity, and the laboratory in which to give free rein to his own flashes of expressive inspiration, somewhat like what happened with the eccentric little gem released under the name Reduction Agents. This time without any naivety in its touch, without frivolous drawing-room revelry. With the discretion of someone who knows they're in the right without flaunting it, it certifies the credentials of a changeable, pleasantly inconsistent soul, elegant, scorching with irony and inclined toward an old-fashioned romanticism, almost as if he were the promising right-hand man of Neil Hannon in his impossible chase after the godlike status of Ray Davies. And behind the dark tones of the backdrops, in the shadowy space beneath the piano's soundboard, the clearest of his gifts truly shines through: the meticulous work of intelligent recycling that James has carried to levels of shrewdness and eclecticism that are simply impressive. All without giving up his knowing cadences or a detachment that is pure appearance. Granting license for seductive indulgence to his own decadent streak is tantamount to guaranteeing himself a proper harvest of twilight songs, so discreet and so out of time. Behind the console and beneath today's impeccable tweed, the ruffled heart of the early solo Lennon still beats, matched in his face by the contemplative gaze of the meek, dreaming poet, far too relaxed ever to pass as cursed. This time the dream captures the shores of a perfect isolation in which to lose oneself, with the certainty of being able to re-emerge from it as soon as the day turns favorable. Even in the tedium of a bike ride to the beach, under the inauspicious escort of a procession of dark clouds, what truly interests Milne is the snapshot of a blissful solitude, the crystallized mood of a moment that belongs to him and to him alone.

Infected and delighted by the old-fashioned charm of his own ideas, the lad sets about leading the listener astray with more than one formal diversion: clouding things over with the sinister free jazz of the album's only filler ("Dessau Rag"), teasing with the frivolous minimalism of an '80s outfit ("The 03"), stretching out the songwriting and shaping, through well-judged instrumental rarefaction, a space-orchestral aura worthy of Jason Pierce and his Spiritualized ("Early Kneecappings"). Or else sporting that same half-submerged, half-carefree tone of the divertissement record shared only a few months earlier with Fabulous, not quite in a new impromptu pastiche of retro-funk and warmed-over seventies revivalism, but with more languid cadences, a winding bossa nova architecture and a profusion of horns thickening the atmosphere ("The Bisexual"). Across this kaleidoscope of colorful devices, the one constant remains the craft of a skilled tailor, one that never denies the comfort of freshness. Even on the rare occasions the guitar returns, the same ecstatic, finely nostalgic tones persist. Armed with strings, swaying rhythms and an anthology-worthy falsetto, Lawrence Arabia shapes, in just a few steps, a stunning pose of heartache ("Lick Your Wounds"), setting aside the caricatures of the exhausted dandy to focus all his attention on the return to New Zealand reflected back at him in his own mirror ("The Listening Times", gorgeous).

The Sparrow is precisely about this headlong journey home, packed with the baroque spells of Scott Walker, the chamber-pop approach of so much late-sixties British music, and an investiture as prodigal son of the Canterbury sound. An escape from London that, to the more knowing listener, will recall the no less sudden one of Harry Nilsson, and which, on closer inspection, points every clue right back at the unforgettable author of "Aerial Ballet" and "Nilsson Schmilsson". Clean-shaven and tied, or rustic in his fine trench coat: if beneath the blond curls Milne had never managed to shake off his striking resemblance to his true mentor, then to avoid giving himself away once discovered at the source, there was nothing left but one final, extreme disguise. Paintbrush, white paint, a touch of existential marketing.

To this day the final piece of definitive recognition is still missing, even though the conditions for it to arrive soon all seem to be in place. With the Brunettes having incredibly vanished from the radar, the Ruby Suns lost while chasing their hazy kitsch chimeras, and other undoubtedly promising but still green newcomers (Edmund Cake and the Pie Warmers, the already-mentioned Connan Mockasin), it should be an easy bet that the scepter once held by Bats, The Clean and The Chills, back in the now-mythical days of the "Dunedin sound", will soon pass into his hands.

This prediction seems to have come true today, four years on. Absolute Truth, the fourth record released under the Lawrence Arabia name, marks James's debut on the legendary Flying Nun label, a prestigious milestone that, in his case, is both well-earned and well-deserved. Recorded in the remote industrial suburb of Gracefield, which he laconically describes as unglamorous, it marks his return to collaborating with Mike Fabulous, whose influence makes itself felt in the echoes of white-soul-era Bowie already present on the impromptu Fabulous/Arabia, here stripped of that record's frivolous languor.

He wrote the first single, "Another Century", in a flash, in the hospital where his first daughter, Isobel, was born. The inflection is joyful, as it could hardly be otherwise, yet more than one shadow can be glimpsed in the background, in the fading lights the lyrics describe. It's not a song about fatherhood or the profound epiphanies that might come with it, but rather about the sense of positivity that a new life brings, paired with the retrospective introspection that often accompanies an event of such emotional weight. And indeed, the reflections on existence that fill the album can be quite bitter, heightening the New Zealander's incurably contemplative outlook, especially when the ghost of youth hovers nearby, with all the promises and absolute truths the title alludes to.

It opens with a slender voice-and-guitar figure that blossoms as it unfolds. Milne favors watercolor tones and arrangements that are as carefully judged as they are free of rawness. He carefully avoids production excess, or rather, formal adulteration. He doles out, with taste, an occasional flourish of strings or a velvety electric-guitar solo, and leans on falsetto more than ever before, in a vocal performance of rare versatility. "The Old Dancefloor" is nostalgic yet disillusioned, a dusty evocation that still carries the scent of the vintage charm of the previous The Sparrow, of subtle, strictly analog pleasures, of genuine musical hiss. "I Waste My Time" leaves an impression no less fleeting and suspended, but behind the pale sparkle laid out by this talented economist of song one senses a placidly melancholy, unkempt atmosphere. With "O Heathcote" this disenchantment tips toward the theatrical, without betraying his knack for understatement and his usual razor-sharp irony. The nuances thin out along with the contrasts, almost strategically erased by a melodic whiteness that permeates every space, while our man sings, admirably relaxed, about the uselessness of idealism. In the milk-and-honey duet "Mask Of Maturity" he celebrates his own finitude and his imperfections, mostly of character, but in a spirit of acceptance that couldn't be more serene.

So this new record too, perhaps his most ethereal and elusive yet, confirms itself as decadent, without ever sounding mannered.

"Brain Gym" has a boundless lightness about it, offered up as an ideal remedy for everyday anxieties. James plays his part with composure, flashing a fleeting smile and entrusting it once again, exclusively, to the softness of his six-string. The discourse then becomes formidable on the even more inviting "Sweet Dissatisfaction", which, amid brass and soft choruses beyond anything imaginable, manages to sound sophisticated even in its minimalism, while facing head-on the anxieties of his own drinking excesses. Fabulous's touch can be sensed, as mentioned, but the risk of mannerism and gloss is skillfully avoided. The same goes for "The Palest Of Them All", which draws on infinite grace and an amiably detached gaze to sketch, with mild affection, today's bored goth teenagers, a youth subculture the singer has candidly admitted to knowing nothing about. The tone remains, once again, clear and luminous, while the electric guitar, tucked in its corner, allows itself a gracious nod to The Cure's "Boys Don't Cry". Here as elsewhere (the farewell of "What Became Of That Angry Young Man?", for instance), Milne weighs his words and notes exquisitely, wasting nothing, never weighing down an almost elegiac sonic flow. Not since the days of his idol Harry Nilsson has a twilight sounded so sweet. With the ideal baton held firmly in his hands and an ever more dependable artistic drive, it's a safe bet that even the achievement of such a demanding legacy is finally within his reach.

Having left behind the sincere praise for the most accomplished of his artistic efforts (poised to sweep nominations at the Taite Music Prize – New Zealand's equivalent of the Mercury Prize – and to win the award for best alternative album of 2016), James Milne chooses to strike while the iron is hot and, if possible, raise the bar even further, launching a Kickstarter fundraiser for a new project unconnected to his Flying Nun contract, to be realized by emailing subscribers a digital single by the last day of every month, throughout 2018. The pressure of the fixed deadline serves as the motivation needed to complete a collection of songs that force James into prolonged domestic isolation, rewarding him in turn with the concrete support of the many fellow countrymen musicians who have, at least in part, tied their names to Lawrence Arabia's story. A cameo for every fellow traveler, then, chief among them ex-Brunettes member Jonathan Bree lending a hand behind the mixing desk, plus the exceptional cameo of the legendary Van Dyke Parks, drawn to the project and invited to enliven the closing track on piano, accordion and double bass.

What emerges from Lawrence Arabia's Singles Club is, paradoxically, a kind of unintentional concept record, a soundtrack for today's decadent-empire mood, packed with seemingly humorous reflections on resurgent bigotry, on dysfunctional relationships (improved by hallucinogens), on non-places, new addictions, distortions or mystifications in the age of social media, and on the consumerist, narcissistic compulsions of a Western culture prone to the crab-like dynamic of moving backward while appearing to move forward. A telling example is offered by "Everything's Minimal", a merciless reflection on the perverse distortion of our own lives relentlessly pushed through Instagram, simulating a tidy harmony and a joy that are the sheer negation of the chaos and wretched frustrations of everyday life. If the opening of "Solitary Guys", with its finely calibrated falsetto and glockenspiel setting up a mournful carousel gradually dressed in new gems, is pure paradox-art from an incurable contemplative, the duet with Hollie Fulbrook (Tiny Ruins) on the already-mentioned "Everything's Minimal" doesn't shift the coordinates too much, outsourcing the household's chamber-pop to harpsichord and autoharp while edging closer to the sophistications of a certain psychedelic folk revival now forcefully back in fashion. Even when the spotlight falls on Will Ricketts's vibraphone, the record stays hazy and vaporous, not shying away from slowing down even further the already measured pace of Absolute Truth (I treated it like making a mixtape in extreme slow motion, Milne explains of the new collection), or from making the most of the hypnotic potential of his own sparing suggestions.

Backed rhythmically by Liam Finn and shaded vocally by a returning Heather Mansfield, who was the female soul of the Brunettes, "A Little Hate" recovers scraps of nastiness and dissonance to reflect on fanaticism (both the petty "keyboard warrior" kind and the devastating sort that has bloodied his native Christchurch), while "People Are Alright" proves delightful and fierce in its bitterness, pairing grace and misanthropy with a wry smile stamped on as a necessary self-defense. The little gem "Everybody Wants Something" – a title that echoes that of Richard Linklater's film, whose lightness it seems to embrace – raises the stakes further, with our man duly assisted by former bandmates Ryan McPhun (of Reduction Agents) and Eliza-Jane Barnes (of Barb), alongside a fine selection of vintage synthesizers. And it goes further still, with "Meaningless Words" settling into the polished pop forgery territory of the impromptu Fabulous Arabia (though its horns are lifted more from a certain Stereolab-brand eclecticism than from his own kitsch leanings), and "Cecily" – dedicated to the first of his two children – which recalls instead the revivalist Matthew Melton of the marital project Dream Machine, whose mannerist temptations it nonetheless overturns with just the right dose of irony.

Thanks to his ethereal crooning and an intelligence that allows these twelve new songs to work far beyond a mere, superb, formal exercise, the flattering benchmark set by its predecessor is comfortably matched again. More than that, every personal nightmare of the ever-cerebral Milne ends up fading into dream (as in the near-masterpiece "Oppositional Democracy" or the wonky "lullaby for neurotic adults" that is "Just Sleep", awash in tipsy oboes and clarinets, a reprise from the podcast series "The Mysterious Secrets of Uncle Bertie's Botanarium", made in 2016 together with Jemaine Clement of Flight Of The Conchords), with the sole exception of the "contagious" nightmare of the title instrumental, which, conversely, sounds damp and genuinely unsettling, much like our own troubled present.

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