| Sorry to say,
but Lost in Space, the new record from
rehabilitated new waver turned pure pop songstress Aimee
Mann, isn't the rock opera based on Nick at Nite fodder
you were hoping for. Instead, it's an album of snapshots-in-song,
empathic character studies stacked up one on top of
the other of the wretched and rejected, the losers and
abusers, all of them addicted to the things that bring
them pain. Flip through and you find a weary narrator
begging her junkie boyfriend to choose her over his
drug in "High on Sunday 51," a complete communication
breakdown documented on "Invisible Ink" and lurking
alienation menacing a seemingly placid relationship
in "Guys Like Us." The folks inhabiting these tunes
are unmoored and disconnected, lost in an inner space.
As
suits the subject matter, Mann deepens and darkens
her Bacharach-to-Beatles classic (but not vintage)
sound with touches of midnight blue -- mournful slide
guitar, downbeat acoustic strums and contemplative
keyboard lines. But this isn't a pity party. The overall
somber feel just sets us up, rope-a-dope style, for
Mann's trademark moments of melodic uplift to float
in and break the songs wide open. Of course, she may
perversely package those bursts with sentiments like
"It's all about drugs/ It's all about shame," as on
"This Is How It Goes." It only helps that her voice
is in as fine form as ever. Subtle and smooth, her
singing can alternate between a rich, thick timbre
and thinner sections with almost subliminal trills,
and still switch gears to sell the parts that have
to come across "big." Basically, all the pieces are
in place on this strong, moody set that moves her
firmly to the front of the modern singer-songwriter
pack.
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