The Whitest Boy Alive – Rules

Norwegian producer Erlend Øye could pass as a modern day Arthur Russell. He may not play the violin but he does have the curious distinction of being at once a popular house and electronica artist/DJ and one half of Simon and Garfunkel-esque folk outfit Kings of Convenience. Russell and Øye even have a similar singing voice: mild and sometimes melancholy but laconic. Øye's latter day group The Whitest Boy Alive are an interesting proposition, marrying a house-tinged 4/4 rhythmic sense with jangly, occasionally angular post-punk. Their first album Dreams was filled with scratchy but elegantly executed pop, both skinny art rock and funky house without really being either. There was also a textural orthodox, an insistence on simplicity of form and pop perfectionism - coupled with its blank, geometric cover art and odd moniker - made for a rather hip side project.The arrival of The Whitest Boy Alive's sophomore album Rules suggests of course that this is not a side project at all, and while the cover art implies the brand remains the same, the musical goalposts have shifted slightly sideways. Your reaction to this probably depends on which side of Øye's musical personality you identify with more: the house DJ or folk singer. If it's the former you will be pleased, if the latter then perhaps less so. The house aspect of the songwriting has evolved markedly, with glossier, jazzier textures and Chicago-house synths displacing much of the stripped-down stylings from the first album. With some of the rougher-edges smoothed over, results are more mixed: pretty but vacant. The increased mellifluousness makes for a rather chin-strokingly vapid sound that is compounded by some of Øye's more banal lyrical concerns. Opener 'Secret' and 'Timebomb' are particularly guilty of this, and thus feel hollow and posturing where on previous efforts more sombre reflections made an interesting lyrical counterpoint to Øye's milky, detached tones. Occasionally, with Øye barely breaking a sweat over the jazzy, deep-house inflections, The Whitest Boy Alive sound like a lounge band serving up unlikely covers of long-forgotten disco songs to an empty restaurant.Rules has some nice moments, however: the world weary, dusky 'Rollercoaster Ride' did nice things for me over the headphones one bleak winter evening walk, with it's poignant final words "that could never hold our weight" repeated to nice effect. The spooked, more expansive 'The Island' recalls The Cure circa 'The Forest': that textural sparseness, the black and white tonality, the propulsive rhythm. The same could almost be said of 'High on the Heels' but for an obnoxious Italo-house breakdown that totally ruins the song for me. 'Gravity' and 'Intentions' splice some nice high-end guitar work into their Röyksoppian grooves, but the latter in particular is so clinically polished you could see your goatee in it. Despite these nice instrumental flourishes the insistence on fairly generic house patterns becomes lullingly repetitive. The Whitest Boy Alive sound like they could effortlessly churn out hooks and funky basslines all day, but Rules' lack of bite or surprises resigns it to design-conscious hipster muzac. 58%The Whitest Boy Alive on MySpace