by Thom Jurek
Cousteau is a hopelessly romantic, refined act whose musical aesthetic comes from the territories where the most sensually enticing, emotionally wrenching elements of Bryan Ferry, David Bowie, Scott Walker, Nick Cave, Jackie Leven, and even Tom Waits come together to reminisce, drink cognac, and weep. On the band's debut, sheer pop invention and brash, over-the-top, emotive delivery carried the swagger to the masses, selling 150,000 copies aided by relentless touring. Sirena stands the chance of moving past that mark on the strength of its pure musical craft and emotional commitment to the material, as well as relentless touring. Sirena is a strange record, albeit a completely accessible one. As full of oceanic imagery as its title, songwriter, keyboardist, and producer Davey Ray Moor crafts hedonistically elegant pop songs that echo the lushness of Walker's early Phillips material with a more direct lyrical delivery, courtesy of frontman Liam McKahey's original and steamily passionate singing. Songs like "Salome" feature a muted horn section that swirls around lilting strings in a breezy jazz and bossa nova cadence. McKahey sings without irony or affectation, "Salome, between us, the love we make/has become the hunted kind/And I recall, my surrender/I saw you dancing barefoot in the garbage and the leaves/We were small, worn and tender/Salome, the games we played/Woke the dogs who prey on me...Salome maybe between you and me we made some mystery...whatever will become of me." The horns swell, a harmonica enters winding around them in the dusty, dimly lit back corner of the mix, and the lyric wraps it's lithe arms around the listener's neck seductively, slipping down the back and into her or his pockets, only to vanish into the night with its contents -- the human heart. Such romantic melancholy is not only a method for getting a lyric and musical arrangement across, it is a way of communicating directly in images and metaphors that are not the everyday tropes of Anglo-Brit love song fodder. If Moor were a little less jaded, he might be Neil Finn; if he were a bit more ruined, he might be Nick Cave. As it stands, he's himself, using jazz, precisely elegant and luxurious pop, and the right amount of rock & roll swagger to craft his gloriously broken narratives of love, lust, spilt whiskey, and loss. On "Please Don't Cry," McKahey croons in a near falsetto like a soul singer his intention to leave his beloved, feeling every bit of the pain the separation will exact. Moor's keyboards engage Robin Brown's guitars, dropping the heartbreak like a dirty rain on the ears of the listener. On the Steely Dan-tinged electric piano and snare drum riff in "Heavy Weather," McKahey... Read More...