For all his talent and
verve, it's always struck me as strange how little attention Dan
Bryk has gotten from the music community as a whole. Bryk has
all the makings of an indie pop superstar -- a nerdy yet
intoxicatingly tuneful voice, giggly lyrics which tell stories, and
more than a few coyly infectious hooks. His last album, Lover's
Leap, contained odes to computer game programmers, chunky girls,
and dysfunctional relationships, and received glowing
recommendations by the likes of Pitchfork and the perpetually
unimpressed Robert Christgau. Yet still, his name is far from
ubiquitous.
Nine years down the
line, it's finally time for Bryk's third bona fide full-length, the interim
having produced a Christmas record and one catchy if slightly inconsistent EP. And it's
great to have Dan back. Pop Psychology (clever title, no?) may lack some of
Lover's Leap's exuberantly youthful pop potency, but it's also
a much more mature and fleshed-out record than its predecessor. At its
defining moments, this album has the makings of a melodic miracle --
something which is evident as early on as the first track. "Treat of
the Week" is an endearing piano ballad crossed with a soulfully
smooth chorus, the sort of song you hear once and recognize forever.
Clever lyrical turns reward the listener who's in it for more than
the melodic rush. Equally sublime is the album's other high point,
"The Next Best Thing," a song which mines one of Bryk's patent
themes -- compromise. "I'm always waiting for the next big thing/But
I settle for the next best thing," he muses, encapsulating the sense
of smirking cynicism which inflects many of his most memorable
songs. In the past, this clever jadedness came out in the likes of
"And Now Our Love is Dead" and "She Doesn't Mean a Thing to Me
Tonight," whereas here it is twisted up in several of this record's
stronger moments. Consider resigned "Discount Store," which converts
a seemingly innocuous premise ("I'm going to the discount store")
into a sweeping examination of adulthood's epiphanies. Then there's
the painfully honest "My Alleged Career" and its hardened
reflections: "Trying to pass/For some kind of cool modern rock
masochist/When I'm clearly a slave/To the song." But despite all the
self-effacing rhetoric, Bryk seldom drifts into self-pity; the whole
affair conceals a deep-seated knowingness that renders Pop
Psychology refreshingly clever instead of head-shakingly
pathetic. Only bitter "My Own Worst Enemy" -- Bryk's harsh
dissertation on a life's worth of pathos -- removes tongue from
cheek and veers into astonishing earnestness.
Ben Folds
comparisons are inevitable as Bryk's main weapons are his ivory
keys, with a rotating cast of bandmates rounding out the sound with
everything from lap steel to a trombone. Yet Bryk's sound is never
derivative or generic, even on the album's weaker tracks ("Horizons
in My Way" leading that charge). Instead, this disc is electric in
its irresistible whimsy, with sparse ballads and full-band charges
mingling joyfully to create a a far more complete venture than was
witnessed on Lover's Leap. When all is said and done, this
brilliantly reflective passage of Pop Psychology is a long,
long, long overdue opus from this frightfully talented slave to the
(perfect pop) song.
