Melbourne

Melbourne is easy to listen to, but hard to make sense of.

The hype experienced by budding artists like Scott can be unsettling. Generally, it elicits polarizing reactions: listeners are either staunch supporters or fervent detractors. Seldom is there an in-between. In spite of that, after digesting Scott’s debut LP, in-between is exactly where I feel.

Unfortunately, Scott is more often than not lyrically uninteresting.

As a debut, Melbourne is about as honest an expression as it comes.

The cozy impressions brought to mind both by Scott's music and the image of him at work in his Asheville refuge are also set against some relatively dark themes.

Melbourne is just the type of promising debut destined for a either cult following or a prosperous career.

For a guy who nails the ’60s and ’90s indie pop sound so well, he didn’t do quite enough research; at least not enough to make an individual statement that’s unique and captivating for the rest of us.

Try as he might, though, he can’t cover up his odd but undeniable talents.

His debut album (named after his street, not the city in Oz) is a charming collection of lo-fi bedroom pop ditties that has the thematic naïveté of someone who’s just left his teen years and hometown behind.

Scott already has his songwriting tools in place; once he finds his voice, look out.

Beneath every stoner vocal or woozy guitar line there’s enough melodic nous to ensure Melbourne never wobbles too far into drug casualty territory.

The songwriting is pretty much entirely solid, and there are brief flashes of idiosyncrasy, but this album boils down to being a product of the excitement of influence and just being young playing and writing music, without ever remotely threatening to stand up as something worthy of all the critical saliva that’s already dripped onto bedroom carpets worldwide.