Thinking about it, you could probably blame Brian Wilson. Ever since smitten music critics started mythologising the head Beach Boy's mental illnesses, madness has been ineluctably connected with a certain kind of musical genius. Only the unhinged can make authentically skyscraping pop music, goes the dubious rationale.
Sadly, dotmusic doesn't have access to any psychological reports on the health of Luke Steele, The Sleepy Jackson's singer, songwriter and sole constant member. But frequently, we've been confronted with evidence of his supposed madness: studiously erratic gigs; a procession of ex-bandmates who find him impossible to work with; a history of alcoholism and subsequent rescue by the forces of Christianity; photos of the 23-year-old with a beard, blue eyeshadow and "God is in your bath" felt-tipped on his face.
An amateur diagnosis might conclude that Steele is trying a bit too hard. And a cursory listen to The Sleepy Jackson's first full-length album seems to confirm it. Here's Steele on 'Fill Me With Apples', a spoken-word pause halfway through the album: "I feel like cement. . . Fill their faces with farms. . . Make them become a pregnant man and woman of good spirit."
Sixth-form surrealism is not always a reliable indicator of psychological disrepair.
Steele's self-conscious attempts to create a legend for himself only distract from what is actually a very good album. 'Lovers' deals in what we might call Cosmic Australian Music, an Antipodean correlative to the American bands who take country and folk roots then imbue them with a psychedelic extra dimension. In contrast to his public persona, Steele's music is predominantly warm and easy-going. Opener 'Good Dancers' (salvaged from the band's mini-album from a few months back) sets the tone: willowy strings and swooning falsetto choirs; an atmosphere of intense heat and languor; some tasteful backwards guitars; obvious nods to George Harrison and Mercury Rev; a terrific tune.
Clearly, Steele's a talented man with decent taste. 'Vampire Racecourse' is punchy post-Velvets dronepop. 'Come To This' sees him adopt the pinched swagger of Bob Dylan. 'Rain Falls For Wind', 'This Day', 'Tell The Girls That I'm Not Hangin Out' and 'Don't You Know' expand on the model of 'Good Dancers', all with faint electro pulses and great choruses that seem to glide out of a heat-haze. Unlike this summer's other melancholy beach party album, 'So Much For The City' by Virgin labelmates The Thrills, 'Lovers' doesn't wither and die in comparison with its influences.
What grates, really, has nothing to do with the quality of the Sleepy Jackson's music. Instead, it's Steele's apparent desire to upstage (or at least detract from) his songs, as if their relative conservatism has in some way failed to measure up to his extravagant self-image. He shouldn't worry: 'Lovers' is an auspicious debut, even if it were made by the sanest band in the world.
