Pitchfork

This is not a good album. I have too much respect for Freedy Johnston (and you, loyal Pitchfork readers) to obfuscate that point by beating around the bush with an awkward setup or clumsy metaphor. So let's get that clear right off the bat. Let's also make it clear that Freedy Johnston putting out a blah album is much more serious than say, Gluecifer or Joan of Arc doing the same. As far as I know, Gluecifer never recorded and released their Can You Fly, an album so stick-in-your-head good, it was like peanut butter-flavored crack. I think it's fair to say that expectations color enjoyment as much as smell influences taste.

So what did I expect with Right Between the Promises, Johnston's sixth studio album? Well, not problems; and the problems on Promises are myriad. There are no hooks in the melodies, which used to be his forte. And the strong, unique narrative voice that Freedy has always flaunted since the beginning of his long and dramatic career is entirely absent. Having shifted from literate to literal with his last release, Blue Days, Black Nights, Right Between the Promises proffers the interchangeable-parts insights of any dime-a-dozen, generic singer/songwriter. As if that wasn't enough, the production by the normally reliable Cameron Greider is lackluster and even hackneyed at times.

The songs themselves are a bland bunch. "That's Alright With Me" sounds like a song by 70s AM radio staples, Bread. A sluggish melody glides along on airy, insubstantial pop, and the result is absolute, unqualified boredom. The included cover of Edison Lighthouse's "Love Grows" might be fun on the first listen, but it's hardly inspired. In fact, upon repeated listens, it quickly grows comical, which is brutally out of character for the normally wry Johnston.

However, a couple of tracks hold some merit. There's a strained, whiny moment of earnestness in the opener, "Broken Mirror," a song which otherwise sounds just enough like Johnston's earlier, outstanding material to suffer from the comparison. "Save Yourself City Girl," a skipping, Turtles-like song is the first moment on the disc when Johnston sounds like he's actually enjoying himself. And "Back to My Machine" pounds out a dissonant blues riff on top of a quirky 6/4 beat. A mismatched, cerebral bridge full of strings goes perfectly well with oddball lyrics which tell, once again, the old familiar story, "Boy Meets Girl, Girl Turns Out to Be a Robot, Boy and Girl Unable to Surmount Societal Taboos on Animate-Inanimate Love."

I guess it really boils down to expectations. As a fan, I suppose mine were a little too high. This rating isn't a result of "not getting it," the most common cop-out attack thrown at us poor, maligned music critics. It's tough love; I know Freedy has better than this in him. Let's hope he knows it as well.