David Mead – Indiana

The loping, sentimental opening track, “Nashville,” captures the paradox of heartache and exhilaration felt by a lonely soul who ends up on the right side of a 20-something breakup. Its self-indulgent solitude threatens no real pain, but twinges with a satisfying, nostalgic ache. It’s an aura Mead seems intent on sustaining for most of the record—almost every tune performs an artistically death-defying tightrope walk along the razor-thin border between sentimentality and affecting songcraft. “You Might See Him” is another tempting bit of melancholy, filled with cryptic images of Christ-like chimeras and helpless figures that tug at the corner of your imagination. The song’s meaning retreats from a direct gaze, unfolding with rich ambiguity.

This indirectness saves Indiana from death by overstatement; the melodies and arrangements telegraph emotion like a John Williams soundtrack, but Mead’s lyrics are evocative and occasionally brilliant. The fourth track, “Beauty” is really all you need to know about Indiana; a deceptively obvious power ballad with a soaring chorus that shows how far Mead’s best poetic instincts can take him. The piano-driven “Bucket of Girls” is well-written, and Mead’s turns of phrase are nothing short of impressive, if somewhat self-conscious. The cover of Michael Jackson’s “Human Nature” is smart, but certainly doesn’t improve on the original, and from there the record coasts home at a steady, dreamy, unperturbed pace. More than anything, Indiana feels like a transitional album—from David Mead, power-pop hipster, to David Mead, heir to AAA royalty like Shawn Colvin and Marc Cohn. Next album, he should just bring in producer John Levanthal and be done with it.