Tracks
Jens Lekman: "The Opposite of Hallelujah"
(2007)
By Conrad Amenta | 31 January 2008
Lekman opens up his latest goopy homage to the forlorn and limp-wristed with a great big Broadway-sized exposition that had me simultaneously curious, remembering his eight piece band at festival performances last year, and worried that Night Falls Over Kortedala would be as overreaching as his lyrics are overly precious. But quickly the album returns to the familiar territory of his toothache sweet (if immaculately produced) indie pop pastiche, exemplified by catchy but cringe-inducing "The Opposite of Hallelujah."
Lekman takes his sister to the coast, where he tries to tell her about "unstoppable sorrow," picking up "a seashell to illustrate my homelessness," but all of his "metaphors fell flat." Romanticizing and envying his sister's naiveté, our reaction in the end is as predictable as Lekman's hypoglycemic navel-gazing: this music sounds pretty great, as catchy as his "Black Cab" or "A Sweet Summer's Night on Hammer Hill," but to be caught listening to it won't help reaffirm one's deflated sense of cool. Lekman is a musical stylist first, savvy purveyor of culture never.
As usual, Lekman's lyrics are both the cornerstone of his appeal for some and a flashpoint of easy ridicule for others. His heart is worn so shamelessly on his sleeve that he can't help but draw unintentionally from the listener's buried Darwinian impulses -- the object of bullying power fantasies or unfairly held up as spokesperson for the perpetually heartbroken. "The Opposite of Hallelujah" contributes to Lekman's thin caricature as alpha male of the betas.
Lekman takes his sister to the coast, where he tries to tell her about "unstoppable sorrow," picking up "a seashell to illustrate my homelessness," but all of his "metaphors fell flat." Romanticizing and envying his sister's naiveté, our reaction in the end is as predictable as Lekman's hypoglycemic navel-gazing: this music sounds pretty great, as catchy as his "Black Cab" or "A Sweet Summer's Night on Hammer Hill," but to be caught listening to it won't help reaffirm one's deflated sense of cool. Lekman is a musical stylist first, savvy purveyor of culture never.
As usual, Lekman's lyrics are both the cornerstone of his appeal for some and a flashpoint of easy ridicule for others. His heart is worn so shamelessly on his sleeve that he can't help but draw unintentionally from the listener's buried Darwinian impulses -- the object of bullying power fantasies or unfairly held up as spokesperson for the perpetually heartbroken. "The Opposite of Hallelujah" contributes to Lekman's thin caricature as alpha male of the betas.