Songs from the Red Room is a concept album, the concept being that it's a relatively non-conceptual album that's been immoderately drenched in a warm, rusty-orange aura. Now, I'm no new age tarot hippie; I wouldn't bring up auras unless a record absolutely demanded it. And A-Set's second release should throw in a free pair of blue-blocker glasses-- yes, the ones "as seen on TV."

An argument could be made that the album's title is just a complementary twist of the color wheel away from the "green room," but I'd prefer to believe that A-Set's Albert Menduno (also of Duster) saw the subtle irony in naming his so-obviously-orange record, Songs from the Red Room. I mean red! This music is just a shade away-- yet so far-- from the danger, blood, stop signs, passion and spaghetti sauce that any properly socialized American would free-associate with the color.

The opening track, "Blue Line," begins with a soothing collage of traffic sounds and warm orange ambulance sirens. The aural landscape of tamed urban angst is then slowly flooded by a rusty orange organ drone that cushions the arrival of upbeat rock drums. In a somewhat desperate attempt to convey just how orange this record is, I spent all last week slaving over an interpretive painting that represented A-Set's songs. Warm orange watercolor ballads seamlessly washed into one another, lacking differentiation despite their full textures. Sometimes the paint built up into denser pools of burnt sienna and other earthtones, representing that old standby, 70's guitar rock. I titled the piece "Rock n' Roll's Last Orange-Dance" and submitted it to Pitchfork editor Ryan Schreiber. Ryan promptly rejected the "Orange-Dance," reasoning that while a picture may figuratively be worth 1,000 words, he prefers 300-800 literal ones. He also said that Pitchfork readers want to know more than what color a record's aura is, and that I can't paint. Fair enough.

Songs from the Red Room is a more substantial release with a fuller sound than last year's The Science of Living Things. This time around, he offers mellow and pleasurable pop songs that almost anybody would like. The underside of this accessibility is that it's difficult to imagine anyone truly loving or loathing them. If A-Set had a sharper, slightly more energetic sound, these catchy, easily digestible songs might see radio-play; but in their present state, they lack the aggressive production necessary to hold up in the bright and brassy world of commercial "modern rock." Not that A-Set is all that modern, but the music does avoid categorization as a full-blown retro or kitsch album by taking the warm sounds of 70's pop melancholia and planting them into a more recent retro context-- the lo-fi jangle-pop of the late 80's and early 90's. It's a pleasant listen, but it'll probably just remind you how much better your Big Star records are.

Songs from the Red Room almost sounds like the score from a 70's ski cabin weekend getaway. But Albert Menduno's sincerity brings the orange aura of such an event into the present, begging you to turn on your apartment's gas-powered faux fireplace and pull out the old bearskin rug. Smores are optional, but wine in a box is suggested. Then, A-Set will fill the air with an orange goo that will seep into your pores and integrate you into its warm, rusty orange world. Under the orange aura's spell you won't be irritated by the variation of Pachabel's "Canon" played on a cheap chord organ. In fact, you might not notice as one song becomes another at all. You might even forget that music is even playing. Filled with orange aura-goo, you'll sit before the burning fake logs, falling asleep in this rust-colored time warp nexus where 1972 and 1992 have met. And you won't remember a thing about it in the morning.

-Kristin Sage Rockermann