Gizmodgery was recorded using only toy instruments.

There. Now we can conduct our serious record criticism like adults. After all, upon hearing Gizmodgery a few times, I've come to the conclusion that Self (aka Matt Mahaffey) could have ditched the schtick and recorded this, his fourth release, with a couple guitars, a few synthesizers, a drumkit and a decent sampler for all I care. Besides, now that we know what he was going for, we might as well realize that Mahaffey's only trying to distract you from the fact that not much else separates this record from the rest of the pack.

There's nothing that screams "unique" about this music. In fact, it could be pigeonholed into the mundane category of "quirky pop," or at best, into one of quirky pop's vague subdivisions. And I defy you to listen to this record without being reminded of other artists. I know I couldn't. At the start of each new song, I'd add another artist to my mental Artists Self Has Been Influenced By list. You can see how that might serve as a distraction. He covers "What a Fool Believes," for Christ's sake, and without even bringing anything interesting to it. What's the point?

Okay, one more thing, and then we can get to the good part of the record. Mahaffey's love of noise and clutter seems to act as an excuse for running low on decent ideas. Clear examples lie in the intro to "5 Alive" and the entire following song, "Chameleon." In the case of the latter, Matt offers a booming drum loop and some distorted noises, along with a repetitive, nonsensical vocal line. The only break in the song is the bridge, which features a sample of some drunk guy yammering. Only melody-- or silence-- would have provided sufficient relief.

Gizmodgery's strong point comes when Mahaffey starts actually having fun. The album's kickoff, "I Am a Little Explosion," is a perfect introduction; it's one of the strongest tracks, exuding the kind of childish, exuberant energy that one might expect from a toy-lover. "Dead Man" is a marvelous slice of power pop, trading off programmed beats and a synthesized harpsichord progression with a Rentals-esque, power-chord-laden chorus. "Ordinaire" kicks new wave ass, recalling Devo with alarm sounds, wacky guitar lines, and caffeine-fueled hyperactivity. And "Miracleworker" gives me the perfect chance to make the obligatory Beck comparison (and by Beck, I'm talking about Odelay-era Beck), which, in this case, ain't so much a bad thing.

But the highlight of the album is "Trunk Fulla Amps," which has been clearly designated as a single (yeah, wishful thinking, fella) with the inclusion of a radio edit after the final track. The gist of the song: "Got a trunk fulla amps, motherfucker," ad infinitum. But while that may seem weak in print, he sings it with an infectious glee unrivaled by the rest of the record. Verse by verse, Mahaffey trades off emulating his heroes (Queen, ELO... Danzig?), a sign of his wry sense of humor finally working to his advantage. And the instrumental bridge is simply beautiful, an unexpected but somehow perfect transition into a smooth Brazilian-flavored interlude on subtly rhythmic guitar and an uptempo bossanova beat.

Mahaffey has never made a cohesive record. Clearly, though, like all his past efforts, the potential to craft a strong pop song around a catchy hook is there, and it shines through the mediocrity. If only he were more selective in his album-crafting process, then perhaps we'd have a Self record we could thoroughly enjoy. It might take a little longer, but hell, I'd wait.

-Spencer Owen