After decades of standing at the fringes of whatever kind of pop seemed modish, snickering, L.A.'s Sparks reinvented themselves impressively with 2002's Lil' Beethoven. That record's premise-- Russell Mael overdubbing himself into a mock-operatic chorus and playing up his mock-operatic diction, his brother Ron supplying mock-dignified orchestrations and keyboards, songs built around amusingly banal phrases endlessly repeated--was also the basis for 2006's even better Hello Young Lovers. And it's returned for this record, whose theme, to whatever extent it has one, is the collision of dignity and indignity, hence Ron Mael being replaced on the front cover by a chimp in a tuxedo.
This time, though, the premise has worn thin. Virtually every song enunciates its central joke, then repeats it and repeats it and repeats it. And repeats it. And repeats it. And so on, with the repeating. (And repeating.) Very often, the title ("Let the Monkey Drive", "(She Got Me) Pregnant") gives the whole thing away. Admittedly, "Intro Reprise" is a pretty good joke. So is "I Can't Believe That You Would Fall For All the Crap in This Song", by far the best song here because it's got actual dynamics and an actual groove: a smirky glam gallop underscored with a fabulous buzzing synth.
Still, they're almost all jokes first and foremost, and very shallow jokes. The best Sparks songs-- "Angst in My Pants", "Dick Around", "Throw Her Away (And Get a New One)", "This Town Ain't Big Enough for Both of Us"-- have almost always twined emotional cut-and-thrust with their boffo yocks. These don't, even when they have the opportunity to. "Good Morning", for instance, starts with the premise of waking up next to a gorgeous stranger, and never gets very far past it: "It must have been the best line from me ever" is potentially funny, but not exactly biting, and it's undercut by Russell's lookit-me-I'm-a-stuffed-shirt delivery.
"Strange Animal", in fact, addresses the problem with the current state of the Maels' songwriting head-on: a stranger walks into a song, does a bit more fourth-wall-breaking tomfoolery, then apologizes for noting that "the song lacks a heart, comes off overly smart/ An emotional core, ain't that what songs are for?" A bit later, he complains that it doesn't have a specific goal: "Entertainment or art, one should know from the start." Either the Maels think those ends really are distinct, which given the last 35 years' worth of their career is mighty unlikely, or they're trying to make their character look churlish as a proleptic response to their audience. Both possibilities are vaguely insulting.
Even when the Maels' wit maintains a bit of its gleam, the incantatory, cod-classical mode in which they've entrenched themselves doesn't reliably work for them. "Lighten Up, Morrissey" is a great title, and a solid if lightweight lyrical conceit: "If only Morrissey weren't so Morrisseyesque/ She might overlook all my flaws." But it's so neo-Sparks-esque-- so stiff and mannered, so reliant on pounding in its catchphrase and central hook to the point of absurdity and beyond-- that it turns tedious. Loosen up, Sparks.
