In an alternate universe, E. E. “Doc” Smith’s Jek Lensman…
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[4.12]
Anthony Easton: I must have listened to this half a dozen times — and I mean I should hate it, it’s just too self conscious, and of that indie folk genre that prides itself as clever. The problem is that it kind of is clever, and the self consciousness slides into a kind of self-loathing. I find the self-loathing charming.
[5]
Brad Shoup: As a lyricist, Lekman’s always been too clever by half. Here, he attempts a weird detente between Paul Simon and Jason Mraz. The internal rhymes occasionally gleam (points for the galaxies/taxis/backseats/drunk suites/half-Greeks set — I understand others might have abandoned ship at that point), but this is facile romanticism at its most ingratiating. Lekman attempts a cod-Afropop groove, but while pleasant enough, the thing comes off (if I can get even more reductive) like David Byrne scoring Morrissey’s travelogue.
[3]
Josh Love: I’m typically fond of Lekman’s Morrissey-but-cuddlier schtick, but this one doesn’t belong on his top shelf. It’s a good concept –- a lovesick guy wanders the streets of Melbourne warring against his own mind and heart, while still finding time to get annoyed by his surroundings (there’s a terrific image of backpackers pouring out of a hostel “like a tidal wave of vomit”). Unfortunately, Lekman keeps undercutting the power of his conceit and of his pipes with abrupt shifts into a more boyish, chatty voice that can’t come close to selling a vulgarity like, “Fuck you / No, you fuck you.” If that wasn’t bad enough, he goes full-on spoken word smack dab in the middle of the song, grinding everything to an inexorable halt.
[5]
Alfred Soto: Lekman’s timbre — the dolor which lends his sad songs their gravity and the funny-sad ones their warmth — can’t match the polysyllables tumbling from his mouth, and his melodies sound limp over the galloping beat. Footnote: is this the first time anybody purloins musical ideas from Rei Momo-era David Byrne?
[6]
Katherine St Asaph: Three problems: one structural, one stylistic and one fundamental. Everyone has silly internal monologues, or so I reassure myself. Folding them like origami to showcase their most self-deprecatingly flattering excerpts does not constitute songwriting. If you must do that, and you’re a Swedish guy, it’d help not to rip off reggae and patois. And if you must do that, and you’re Jens Lekman, you could at least not tempt inaccurate cross-Atlantic comparisons (Mraz, Buffett) and instead make it shatteringly gorgeous.
[2]
Edward Okulicz: Jens Lekman is at his best when he takes on slices of life with whimsy. But when he takes on a whimsical conceit in his lyrics, everything just sounds so forced. His musical ideas work for the most part but some of his affectations and lyrics reek of “aren’t I clever?”. Cleverness is best shown not told.
[6]
Ian Mathers: Jens, either you’ve changed or I have; circa the early singles and the first album I thought you were brilliant, insightful, even charming; now you’re reduced to “stop hitting yourself” and overly busy arrangements. I’m almost scared to go back to my old favourites; I’m hoping that it’s you, not me.
[4]
Zach Lyon: When Jonathan Richman tried this kind of thing, he typically made sure that a general audience might find his words, in some way, useful or interesting or valuable or anything, anything at all, besides this self-entitled time-waster.
[2]