The cover of Jeff Mueller's solo debut, Fold and Perish, matter-of-factly reveals the contents of the album: "seven songs, fantasy music." And all I'm thinkin' is that this ain't the music of my fantasies. Not by a long shot. (Where is the funktastic full horn section? The distorted dub bass? The mad rappin' skillz? The deafening feedback? The vocal hybrid of Marvin Gaye and David Yow?) Then it occurs to me: while it may not be the score of my wet dreams, it is fantasy music, nonetheless-- droning, minimalist songs that send the listener into an inner world far removed from external, physical space.

If you've paid attention to any of Mueller's other work (the recently defunct June of 44, the Shipping News), you could see this album coming from a mile away. The manner in which June of 44 rocklessly fizzled out into some kind of delay-pedal-fixated jam band on the disappointing Anahata suggested the testosterone-free direction they were headed as songwriters. And Fold and Perish thus follows pretty much as expected: quiet, elegant songs, completely lacking in any urgency whatsoever.

That Mueller's writing doesn't assault the listener is not necessarily a bad thing, though. The songs are, without a doubt, pleasant and relaxing in their repetition and layering. On the first (and best) track, "Formed in Atoms," simple acoustic guitar riffs are interwoven with clean, sparse electric guitar noodlings, while Mueller floats his whispered vocals overhead. Other tracks, like "Drake Hotel" and "Reptile Hands," take a page straight out of the Gastr del Sol book of ambiance, complete with irritating off-key vocal melodies.

It's Mueller's vocals that seem to detract most from this album; his whisper often comes across as though he were bored by the thought of singing-- or worse yet, as though he hadn't proved to himself that his songs were inspired by true passion. So why sing at all, then? I don't doubt that Mueller is passionate and inspired about his music, but somehow his utter quietness comes off as just a bit too dull to warrant repeated listens.

If you, my reading friend, are sensing some kind of ambivalence here, it's only because I'm unsure of how to take Mueller's album. It certainly has its moments-- moments where you'll realize you haven't typed a word in what seems like hours because you've drifted off somewhere while listening to his music. But at other times, Mueller's vocals are just too pretentious, too spineless, and too much of a caricature of the disaffected indie rocker to be taken seriously. His ethereal songs end up sounding beautiful, but somewhat lacking in the harnessed electric energy that sustains and typifies the best art, which he has certainly shown himself capable of in past outings.

-Andrew Goldman