David Sylvian's career has never been less than remarkable. Given that he was the frontman for the classic 80's panstick-and-synth band Japan, and that he's played Icarus so many times with the ferocious prog-rock sun, the fact that he's not a punchline to a Where Are They Now segment on VH1 persistently astounds.

Japan, contrary to the beliefs of the uninformed, were not just another panstick-and-synth act. Entirely separate from Ultravox, Visage, Spandau Ballet, and of course, Duran Duran, Japan confused New Romantic signifiers and slipped some awe-inspiring songs past the phalanx of make-up artists and featured-in-The Face costume engineers. Though Japan never had the overwrought campy wit of ABC or the low-rent wink of the Human League, Japan can justifiably claim to have written a song (maybe even two) that should become a standard.

When I first heard "Ghosts" (my prime candidate for elevation into the Canon), my head had previously been cluttered with Duran Duran's "Planet Earth" (primarily because my classmates and I would recreate the rhythmic synthline by tapping our wooden rulers up and down the edges of our desks) and Depeche Mode's "See You" (primarily because my yet-to-break voice could just about carry that simple tune whilst replacing "see" with "bonk" or any scatological verb we could come up with in fits of short-trousered laughter). The slow thrump of marimbas and Sylvian's dry, too-many-Gitanes lament of this track gave my 12-year-old mind extreme pause and sent me into a premonition of mid-life anxiety.

Even at twelve, I knew I would never compare that song with "Girls on Film." Like "Autumn Leaves," it's an indelible, perennial melancholy. It's one of the realest, most human, songs I have ever heard. And even if David Sylvian had turned into a bloated sack of toss like some of his VH1 vaudevillian New Romantic contemporaries, I would still praise him for giving the world that song. However, Sylvian habitually overeggs the custard; he simply can't resist the temptation of slipping some arty prog-rock beneath the radar. Remember, two steps from David Sylvian lies Marillion's toss-strewn territory.

I think Sylvian recognizes how epochal "Ghosts" was and remains to be. Though the other songs on its host album, Tin Drum, attempted to incorporate a similar curl of deep contemplation, nothing managed the simplicity and grace. Sylvian's post-Japan career, I believe, has been a striving for another "Ghosts." And while I don't believe he's succeeded, his attempts have always fascinated me. Sylvian's songs, their blend of poetic regret and delicately dismal cadences, are like loved ones who clasp their hands against your cheeks to hold you still in order to tell you a hurting truth. Alas, he's not achieved his goal. You have a whole lot of earthmoving to do to reach that tender core.

The two discs of Everything and Nothing compile previously unreleased, re-recorded, and lesser known tracks from Sylvian's post-Japan career. Though the ponderous title of this collection is occasionally mimicked in the music, this retrospective is largely contemplative and charmingly overblown. This is such pretentious toss that I can't help but adore it. Unlike the pretension of Gary Numan or Rush, Sylvian never forsakes beauty; he just chooses to shine a trillion-lumen floodlight upon a tender moment.

Sylvian will never escape the often justifiable charge that he expresses his emotions in a studied, calculated manner. Everything and Nothing provides ample material to back this up. Sylvian sounds burdened by the cachet that his collaborators will bring him. He sounds as though he's got to make the most of working with Holger Czukay, Jon Hassell, and Marc Ribot. Though these collaborations never collapse into utter muso-boarishness, these songs have an undeniable plod factor to them. "Weathered Wall," excerpted from the Brilliant Trees album, and performed with Czukay twiddling a Dictaphone and an SW radio, sneaks away without sounding too much like a stodgy art piece. "The Scent of Magnolia" (previously unreleased and drawn from the Dead Bees on a Cake sessions) mixes Bill Frisell's indie-sanctioned jazz guitar with martini-lounge beats. The naked sincerity of "Heartbeat (Tainai Kaiki II)" is spoilt by the screeching guitar that marauds its cock-rock way across the song's sweet sward.

"Blackwater," excerpted from the Rain Tree Crow project that served as a reunion for the members of Japan, sounds like a Mike and the Mechanics song that's gone hoity-toity and entirely too uptown. "Albuquerque (Dobro #6)" is a brief but utterly Saks Fifth Avenue appropriation of twanky American folk that features a dobro and Sylvian imagining himself as-- heavy-handed wordplay ahead-- a soul proprietor. I suppose the New Mexico tourist board can at least thank Sylvian for not crooning about a mistaken left turn at Albuquerque like Bugs Bunny did so many times. Hey, if your state were being turned into a dumping ground for nuclear waste, you'd be grateful for such crumbs, too.

"Ride" picks up Sylvian's Western theme, as he shouts "saddle up and ride away!" against the tsunami swells of a nine-thousand piece orchestra and some lone trumpeter who's spent way too much lolly on mystic Miss Cleo's attempt to draw down Miles Davis' mojo from some ethereal plane. "The Golden Age" is a lounge-industrial indictment of decadence, reminiscent of a cello-and-clank version of Talking Heads' "The Overload" as performed by doom-and-double-mochachino string quartet Apocalyptica. "Pop Song" is hardly true to its title. The late 80's synthfunk and the fuck!-my-keyboard-player's-a-nutjob solo would sit awkwardly in Carson Daly's playlist, and Sylvian's moaning about the Sunday Supplements' being at the beck and call of the government isn't exactly graceful, either. Besides, by harassing the glossy magazines that accompany the Sunday New York Times, isn't Sylvian attacking his own audience?

Since Gentlemen Take Polaroids, Sylvian has shown his ambivalence towards popular music. When he wrote and performed "Nightporter," he was flashing his contempt for new-wave rawness. He was courting the conservatoire while thumbing his nose at the kids. Or perhaps he wanted to make sure that Ultravox wouldn't get away with the amateurish "Vienna."

Sylvian is an awkwardly transgressive artist that fails more often than he succeeds in combining avant-gardish elements with his unmistakable grasp of the pop song form. Nonetheless, I'd like to suggest that Sylvian explore more electronic territory. As "Godman" and the bowed-cymbal ambient project Approaching Silence prove, he has a Prince-like appreciation for sound. In the same way that Pete Astor reinvented his shuffly jangle pop into the lo-fi electronica of the Wisdom of Harry, if Sylvian dropped his Peter Gabriel by way of Bryan Ferry shtick, he would truly achieve something remarkable. While he persists being an irritatingly partial success, Sylvian will garner only the fawning empty praise of his fans and stark indifference from the rest of us.

-Paul Cooper