A.C. Newman is neither a Nobel Prize-winning physicist nor an obscure Krautrock deity, but rather the adopted moniker of Carl Newman, who writes irrepressible songs for Canadian supergroup the New Pornographers and previously fronted the underrated Zumpano. That it has taken a man so gifted this long to make a solo album is a wonder. So are the results.
Newman tosses off catchy songs like Hollywood royalty wear borrowed jewelry to the Oscars; the public can only gasp at how carefree they seem despite possessing something so precious. The eight-note keyboard lick that garnishes “Secretarial” rivals anything from Prince’s ’80s catalog, and amidst a host of sharp guitar riffs, Newman varies his arrangements wisely. At other points, key melodies are turned over to a rocking viola, assorted brass, and even a duet between a whistling human and a vintage Moog synth (the bridge of “Drink To Me, Babe, Then”).
Upbeat numbers, particularly “On The Table”, may trigger spontaneous herky-jerky dancing a la Peanuts cartoons, yet tagging Newman “power pop” is too simplistic. Composed of dozens of tiny hooks, his songs are more subtle and complex than anything the Knack or the Romantics ever dropped.
Nor does Newman shout his lyrics in anticipation of a future beer commercial; occasionally, his casual delivery slips into a style that is gossamer light. And where the Pornographers tend to barrel along like a boulder down a mountainside, here Newman permits himself the luxury of stretching out on oddball, Syd Barrett-esque ballads such as “Come Crash”.
“Most of us prizefighters fall from fashion,” laments our hero on one cut. But if Newman keeps delivering goods this hard-hitting, he should hold his title long enough to wind up in the record books.
