ADRIAN CROWLEY - Dark Eyed Messenger

The latest product from Bartlett, a producer now so firmly riding the crest of the wave that he's forged a sound, an aesthetic that needs no introduction: first he lifted The National out of the indie-rock cauldron to grant them the dignity of artistic "prophets", perhaps even above and beyond the music itself (as the reception of their latest record also demonstrates), then he accompanied Sufjan Stevens through his "second success", "Carrie & Lowell" (leaving aside, of course, numerous other projects, among them what must have brought him close to Crowley, his fellow countrymen The Gloaming).

Now it's Adrian's turn to immerse himself in these muffled sounds, in an auteur's lo-fi, made of a measured, reverberated, minimalist noise ambience, of a constructed naiveté. Perfect for setting off the songs and heightening the sense of memory, of a transfigured reality, as with the latest Sufjan.

In the absence of somewhat "strong", assertive songwriting, Bartlett's production shows the wear of what is by now a recognizable franchise: his orchestra of toy instruments, perhaps a little battered, secretly recorded with a handheld ghost-hunter's microphone, ends up accompanying Crowley's slightly tipsy, retired-crooner tirades ("And So Goes The Night", "Still This Desire"), with an effect not unlike that of Daniel Knox, but with a far different degree of control over his own art.

The self-awareness in "Dark Eyed Messenger", and awareness of his own "art", precisely, is what makes the record so laboured, with tedious impersonations ("Silver Birch Tree") that have no poetic grace whatsoever, and post-Velvet-style experimental affectations ("Catherine In The Dunes"), employed however in songs devoid of any melodic personality.

Add to all this the chronic vocal (and also musical) resemblance to Bill Callahan, of whom, all the more so in such a depleted sonic setting, Crowley seems like the brother who tells you about the discussions at the last monographic film club he held. There are some good ideas here ("Lullaby To A Lost Astronaut"), but built and executed in the most pedestrian way possible.

Overall, a record with zero artistic vitality, which seems designed to bore the listener - perfect, in other words, if you consider boredom a mark of intelligence, or of artistic "superiority".

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28/11/2017