Nice Hair.

A beautiful sense of irony envelops the work of Canadian singer-songwriter Dan Bejar. The moniker Destroyer seems like a fitting antonym to an artist who perpetually redefines his style, creating an evolutionary process etched into the polycarbonate disc. Since releasing the seminal We’ll build them a golden bridge in 1995, Bejar has embarked on an expansive exploration of sound, transcending categorisation like a prophetic musical chameleon. 2011 sees the arrival of the much-anticipated ninth studio album Kaputt; an album admirable if only for its amalgamation of genres as conflicting as honesty in politics. With brass sections replicating the chaotic cadences of jazz weaving with the effulgent electronica of eighties pop, Bejar’s latest effort certainly seeks to redefine the term “creative crossover”.

The Borderless Blue Eyes opens in familiar territory forming a cosmic crossroads between Bowie and The Cure before veering off the musical map into the untraversed frontiers of free jazz. Bejar’s evocative imagery finds its harmonic counterpart in Sibel Thrasher’s dulcet tones; the intermingling vocal lines create a stream of consciousness culminating in a charmingly candescent chorus. The underlying funk rhythm provides a stable base for the brass section’s detached diatonic runs, adding a semblance of spontaneity to this multifarious mix.
 

The phaser-fuelled scratch of guitar strings ushers in Savage Night at the Opera; a pastoral pastiche of the 80’s shoe gazing new wave replete with taut drum machine fills and repetitive, reverberant guitar riffs. The synth swirls complete this sagacious slice of retro pop creating a song as haunting as an acid trip at the homecoming rally. Suicide Demo for Kara Walker dedicates its first two minutes to a painful pan flute prologue before revealing an emotive eulogy unbound to any particular vocal rhythm. The clarinet-driven middle eight propels the song into a jazzy conclusion that’s sure to unsettle some listeners while luring others into the throes of tonal ecstasy.

Poor in Love finds a middle ground between Bryan Ferry's nasal nuances and early U2. Teeming with acute cultural references, the song’s slow-burning pace casts Bejar’s musings in a more sombre and reflective light, capturing the melancholia of his forebears. As we flow on a wave of nostalgia towards the halfway mark, a faint suggestion of superficiality slowly rises to the surface. While Bejar’s clever correlation of genres conceals the frayed edges, one cannot help but think this ironic intertextuality merely veils a vacuum buried beneath its polished veneer. 
 

Title track Kaputt creates an intriguing series of counterpoints between guitar and saxophone, coupled with the saintly backing vocals of Sibel Thrasher. And yet, the piece flows amicably into its successors without leaving a lasting impression in the mind of its listener. Likewise, Downtown and Song for America maintain the same ‘Pavement meets acid jazz’ juxtaposition that characterises the entire collection, concluding an album as ambiguous as Bowie’s androgyny phase.

An irrevocable and underwhelming sense of déjà vu permeates each track on this album, stretching the parameters of pastiche to the point of its prodigal counterpart Parody. Like the litany of musical merchants currently pilfering the artistic attic of the eighties, Bejar’s ninth outing ultimately fails in maintaining a balance between imitation and originality.
 

The line between replication and reinvention borders on the infinitesimal and Kaputt sadly stumbles along this perimeter with the grace of a drunk during a sobriety test. While the songs successfully recreate the sounds and sentiments of their source material, they never expand upon the original blueprint, leaving a well-produced yet unfulfilled copy of what could have been. Pastiche as an art form lures its audience with the promise of the familiar only to reveal something utterly new in the performance. Kaputt creates a crystalline castle offering little more than reflections of recycled revelations.

6/10

John Ryan