If we were expecting anyone at all to out-Haines sullen English pop gentleman Luke Haines (The Auteurs, Baader Meinhof, Black Box Recorder), we fully expected it to be Luke Haines. The man has after all made a career out of out-Hainesing himself on a fairly regular basis. But with this second long-due long-player, Australia’s the Sleepy Jackson (now for all intents and purposes the solo project of the increasingly and purposely enigmatic Luke Steele) adopts that mantle with a competitive edge, evolving into something much more gregariously realised than previous work. It’s a classic, familiar sound played out with bells on, defined to a high degree by its superfluous extravagance, unfolding like an opulent fantasy. And it makes 2002’s Sparklehorse-twinned debut ‘Lovers’, which at the time seemed lavish and overflowing, appear quite scant and guarded.
Although it is other comparisons that he’s more renowned for (the aforementioned Mark Linkous and his Sparklehorse, and the psychedelic pop cartwheeling of the Flaming Lips), on this album in particular there is something mustier, something more grounded to counter the unavoidable excess, hence the previous mention of Luke Haines. Both men share that very stunted sense of enunciated theatricality, like the extravagance is in addition and opposition to the planted seed of reality at its core. It deals in the kind of melodramatic wonder that Billy Corgan toyed with during the ‘Mellon Collie…’ era of the ‘Pumpkins, the juxtaposition between the coldest shadows and the brightest star. And it’s something he’s mastered this time. No half measures, no filler. The glass cannot be half empty when there’s an entire pyramid rack of them.
The album opens wonderfully with ‘You Needed More’, like a warm breeze, a myriad of all the influences mentioned thus far, gliding along buoyantly rather like Mercury Rev with Mr Haines, of course, tempering the draught with an aftertaste of regret. It’s an impression that lasts. ‘Miles Away’ is at its core simply a featherweight Kinks-esque pop song, but entwined with deep perspective by the luxury production values and light-footed vocal overlapping. ‘Devil was In My Yard’ bumbles along on a magic carpet under the stars much like Grandaddy did at their pert peak, with added rich orchestral textures. This is a reoccurring theme. Though there are extremes of character, instrumental stretches towards the stratosphere and much dressing, it is all conducted with a comfortably steady hand and is never temped to race prematurely for the prize. While it may stop well short of becoming as definitive as a ‘Deserters Songs’ or ‘Soft Bulletin’, you can’t knock an album full of successive personal bests.