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Alternative PressThe isolation that came from recording in a remote cabin in the woods of upstate New York is palpable, and the sly inclusion of cello and viola upstage the requisite tambourines, handclapss and acoustic guitar. [May 2010, p.108]
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It's the balance between delicate guitar, lush cello and the singer's rich vocals on "Brooklyn Fawn" that proves Matt Pond PA is ready to stretch out, not compromise.
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The Dark Leaves is no less unassuming than anything else they've released, and about half of it is squarely in line with the material on their recent albums.
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They’ve amassed a collection of songs that stand together, proudly. It’s not a life-changing moment, nor is it even something that will win tons of new fans but it is a solid album, from front to back.
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It's rarely as lively as 2007's Last Light, but the interplay of organ, cello, and acoustic guitar on "Brooklyn Fawn" has a genuinely comforting warmth.
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Pond still fills his lyrics with snark and deadpan cynicism, a move that gives complexity to his otherwise soothing music, but even that has gotten old by now, and The Dark Leaves rarely distinguishes itself from the music that came before it.
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The project's shortcomings are even more pronounced this time out since The Dark Leaves sounds like it's striving and somewhat succeeding in being the band's most rhythmically vital record.
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Twelve years into a career made leaden through a devotion to keeping up appearances, Matt Pond PA finds itself spinning in an ever-deepening hole, where questions of good and bad become secondary to the material's unvarying refusal to do anything but match expectations.
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The Dark Leaves is too uneven to transcend its shortcomings, and that poses more of a conundrum than if it had been simply awful. There are great songs here, but it’s frustrating to see them so outmatched by the lesser efforts.
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But even the songs I’ve just praised feel somehow blank and flat. Pond’s strength is also his weakness. One one hand, he clings stubbornly to his radio-ready songwriting chops, unable to lay down his skills for even a moment to let things bleed and seethe. On the other, he’s too melancholic and disaffected to embrace the transcendent possibilities of empty pop.