Cousteau, Sirena (Palm Pictures) 9
At first listen, Cousteau sounded like a band that aims for the cinematic mood of the Tindersticks and wounded melancholy of Scott Walker, but ends up a bit of the smarmier side of Chris Isaak. It's difficult to believe this slick-sounding, thirty-something, well-dressed, good-looking, MTV (or VH1)-ready band's sad-sack songs of heartbreak and yearning. They seem like the kind of smooth chaps who will have dates lined up with mid-range movie stars. And for sure, after seeing their audience at a live show, the ladies love, LOVE Cousteau. They do fill a somewhat vacant niche of sensitive male crooners of torch ballads. And given a closer look, there just might be something more to them. There's a nice consistency between the blue satin and gold cover art that suggests underwater treasures, and the lushly aquatic imagery of the songs. Australian Davey Ray Moor writes all the songs, and the Irish Liam McKahey, with heavily tattooed arms, a weathered face and mysterious past involving addiction and interior decorating, sings 'em. Every song is impeccably arranged with pianos, strings, stand-up bass. Always tasteful and silky, when the songs work ("Nothing So Bad," "Talking To Myself," "Salome"), they have at least as much sensual and emotional impact as anything by Bryan Ferry or David Bowie. But after a while, the songs bleed into each other and sound too similar. They need a bit more variety, perhaps some whiskey-soaked grit of some seventies Tom Waits, or Nick Cave's darker lyricism. But then again, after all, it is for the ladies. Keep it around and program the best tracks before easing into Al Green, Tim/Jeff Buckley and Jacques Brel.
