I put off reviewing this CD for weeks because I just knew I would hate it. I would hate it with a passion uncommon in us laid back cool cats. I'm talking a "rather swallow the contents of my grandma's colostomy bag that listen to this rubbish" level of hate, here. You see, on the surface, this album looks about as appealing as scratching your testicles with a rusty fork. After gazing at this disc's goofy retro- lounge artwork for a few minutes, I knew that by listening to the record I was risking selling a little bit of my soul to another piece of pretentious, shitty art- pop.

Now don't give me crap about judging books by their covers, I had good reasons for feeling this way. About seven out of ten times, you truly can tell if you're going to enjoy an album just by peeping the cover art and liner notes. It sounds superficial, but it gives you a feel for where the artist's head is at, and it looked like this guy, one Kevin Wright, had his planted firmly up his own baby- smooth ass.

For starters, our boy Kevin (Mr. Wright, if you're nasty) is British, so that's one strike right there. And boy, is he British. He's so British that he actually looks British-- all small and hunched over with that pasty, sour milk complexion that comes with being born under the Union Jack. (Note to Pitchfork readers: Kevin Wright may or may not actually be British, but for the purposes of this review, he is. He sure sounds like he is. Just pretend he was born in a small boarding house in Cockney Upon Limey and you'll be alright.)

Along with silly accents, a tendency towards colonialism, and teeth that could chew water, the Brits have another thing in common: interesting musical talent. Look at the case studies: Radiohead, the Cure, the Sex Pistols, the Smiths... the list goes on. And I guess I should have remembered this benefit to Britishness, 'cause Mr. Wright here is another weird little guy making strange, intelligent music for all us lazy, dumb Americans. It's enough to make a man want to take up cricket and dress for teatime.

But, despite my many initial reservations about Star Time: Sidereal Sounds From Mr. Wright, I was quickly converted. All my prejudices were shattered as this warm, thick musical honey poured straight from my headphones into my ears. It was so new and unique that I smiled at every original, inspired note. And there was more joy to come, too.

As the album went from song to song, I realized that it would take about ten pages from Webster's Dictionary to accurately describe Kevin Wright's music style. Usually structured around piano, his songs vary from ambient sounds to soft pop to minimalist art music with raw techno beats. He changes genres the way most of us change underwear. His lullaby- quiet vocals paint quaint pictures of life, stories of love and devotion, memories from childhood, and all that warm, flowery stuff. These finely crafted tunes soothe the ears better than novocaine as Wright's narcotic music washes over us, offering a peek into the world of this man's mind and filling us with mellowness up to the eyeballs.

Coming up somewhere between the relaxed, easy- listenin' sounds of Bacharach and the postmodern sonic massage of softer Bjork, this music makes you listen. It's a very individual album. Not extremely personal as we understand it, but very distinct-- a million miles away from the uniform, clone bands of modern day music. This reserved, bright record offers benefits not often seen in music today. There are no useless frills, no cheap gimmicks, no simple arrangements. And I respect that.

Sadly, respect is not exactly the same thing as "really dig." As Star Time played through, I realized I liked the concept of Mr. Wright a lot better than the actual execution. Unfortunately, that individuality-- the record's main strength-- eventually becomes a thorn in its paw. The album loses serious steam as it wanders along, not due to any drop in the quality of the work, but because it's only human nature to endure so much unusual, clever stuff before we want to rip our own ears off.

The fact is that Star Time is almost too unique, too idiosyncratic to really relate to. The disc spends its entire life floating in a grey haze between emotions; it's too low- key to appreciate when you're happy, and too wooden and cerebral to enjoy when you're depressed. To really get into this stuff-- especially the later tracks-- you have to be in a "Kevin Wright kind of mood," which is a pretty fucking rare thing.

Wright would have done better with a shorter record because, all told, it's the running time-- over 50 minutes-- that kills Star Time. By the album's eighth track, you've hit your "smart stuff" quota. You're stopping up your ears and ignoring every interesting beat and sharp lyric, willing to trade it all for just one Eddie Van Halen guitar solo from Hell. What can I say? We humans have a certain hunger for booty shakin', and Wright simply doesn't deliver.

Cleverness alone doesn't make an album, and even though what was creative on the first track may still be creative on track ten, it's just too hard to bring yourself to care anymore. We want messy emotions and rock, not intelligent contemplations of a child's balloon. (I'm not kidding. Listen to "The Balloon Race," if you don't believe me.)

As good as Star Time is, there's just no emotional punch. It's all head and no heart. It sounds like music made by guy who constantly corrects other people's grammar during casual conversation. Sure, it's a good listen, but it's good like a well- prepared vegetarian meal is good. It may taste great, and you know it's good for you, but where's the fucking meat? They made a meal without the meat? That's the whole point of the meal is meat! Goddamnit! I'm American and I want meat! I mean, Christ, even Morrissey rocked out every once in a while, and he hated meat. Shit. I guess I am just another dumb American after all. Stupid friggin' Brits. Where's my remote control?

-Steven Byrd