Jens Lekman Night Falls Over Kortedala by: Steve Scully Mon:22-Oct-07 Label: Secretly Canadian Year: 2007 WB rating 40 out of 100

His early preoccupation with the theme of his first kiss – a much-dramatised moment in any person’s life – is a sign of Jans Lekman’s romantic aims. This first kiss is a moment so steeped in clichéd grandeur, so over-emphasised by Hollywood types that anything sporting the theme is immediately tainted with the smell of rotting cheese.

Lekman’s music is as trite as any Hollywood rom-com. It’s far from pop music, but the soppy lyricism and the Bacharach-esque easy-listening orchestration (flutes, chimes, even something that resembles a pan-pipe) creates a final product as dense as the Amazon, as shiny as a brand new Cadillac, but as deep and rewarding as a puddle of dog piss. The imagery of a greying crooner, white-suited – high-pants and all – strutting the Vegas stage comes too readily to mind.

There’s not an inkling of half-heartedness in Lekman’s work. His deep drone may deter some, and the excessive orchestration pervading Night Falls Over Kortedala can seem self-indulgent and inaccessible. Lekman toys with themes (lyrical and musical) that the layman would have no problem grasping or relating to, but in a manner so effete and aloof as to counteract this simplicity. In short, he straddles the fence of the esoteric and the everyday so uncomfortably that he fails dismally to present the charm of either.

Lekman’s verbosity is his most blatant vice, clumsy phrasing and repetitive wordplay a hallmark of his approach: in ‘And I Remember Every Kiss’, he sings the graceless lines “I swear I’ll never kiss anyone/Who doesn’t burn like the sun/And I will cherish every kiss/Like my first kiss.” In perhaps his worst display, the lyrics of ‘The Opposite of Hallelujah’ are laughable: “I picked up a seashell to illustrate my homelessness.” Why exactly the ocean made him “feel stupid”, we can only speculate.

There is the occasional shining light amid this retreat into the dregs of easy listening, but such pleasures are merely momentary. ‘Postcard to Nina’, conceptually the stand-out track, is the story of the songwriter’s infatuation with Nina, a lesbian: “Your father is a sweet old man/But it’s hard for him to understand/That you want to love a woman.” It’s a strange little love-quadrangle (Jens, Nina, Nina’s girlfriend and Nina’s father) and one that makes for a humorous commentary on difficult relationships. ‘Shirin’ is similarly pleasant – its somewhat absurd lyrics wrapped in a lovely ‘60’s pop, Beach Boys arrangement: “When Shirin cuts my hair/It’s like a love affair.”

‘Friday Night at the Drive-in Bingo’ starts of in a ‘Bright Side of the Road’ vein, and is propelled by a ‘Mr Postman’ classic rock ‘n’ roll sensation. Nonetheless, it’s all a bit Happy Days, cherry cola and sundae – and like the album as a whole it comes off unconvincing and shallow.

Night Falls Over Kortedala is a concoction unlike any I’ve come across. As a work of art, it’s full to the brim with references: the old-Hollywood orchestra, the 1950’s roller-derby pop to name but two elements. Even Lekman himself croons in his characteristic monotony with as little energy and inspiration as Elvis minutes before that fateful trip to the gents. The lushness and romanticism given life in Lekman’s music is wasted on Night Falls…, as tedium prevails, and what should be romantic and nostalgic is nothing but an irritating and repetitive mis-hit of a record.