You can't tell a record by its cover, but you can judge a book by its contents. For Alfie's second album, the former is the latter: you've got an illustration of a dog-eared old volume lying open, with the title printed on the left page and a painting of the band on the right. The five Brits are sitting on a bench with a newspaper and a football, looking like right proper lads in their natty sweaters. Fans of Coldplay and Travis rejoice-- we've come upon another charming trad-rock boy-band, right? As if! For Alfie are telling us that you can't judge a group by their lame-ass name or album title.

Instead, Alfie are a song-oriented rock band, and they shuffle effortlessly through a number of different styles. "Gee, I've never heard that description from a reviewer before!" Shut it, you sad bastard. As with all good pop, your reservations are lowered when you actually listen to the music. The title track starts the album with acoustic picking and a soft, skiffling drumbeat. Singer Lee Gorton lets down his defenses, singing that "it's yours if you want it, no one's berating me/ Try not to be so afraid, it's your move." The interplay of piano and organ at the end makes for a warm, pleasant opener. "Cloudy Lemonade" gets more flirtatious with a funky percussion intro and lyrics about flowers and such. A flautist fills out the song with a keen midsection, and the technicolor swoon of the guitars adds to the romance.

"Don't groups of this sort usually have a charismatic lead singer?" Well, how convenient that you're here, rhetorical question, because Lee Gorton does have an endearing presence. That is, if you don't mind the slurry wash of vowels that he sings through his nose. The nasal factor really isn't bad, and on the beautiful "Rain, Heaven, Hell" his slow drawl allows for a sensitive tone. Of course, it also aids him in impressions, as on "Bends for 72 Miles," named appropriately since it's an (unannounced) tribute to Radiohead's The Bends. The sultry bass groove copies Colin Greenwood's very carefully, and Gorton adopts the same sneering Britpop sass that Thom Yorke was going for back in those heady mid-90s.

It's all forgivable, though, since it's done so well; it's "The Reverse Midas Touch" that threatens to turn it all to shit. Gorton mumbles this cod-hip-hop introduction, like Fun Lovin' Criminals ripping off G. Love aping John Lee Hooker. In case you missed that, it's white boys copping black blues, thrice-removed. His affections are awful, but forgivable since it's just a bad page in an otherwise good book. When Alfie stick with influences closer to home, they're quite convincing. "Halfway Home" breezes through with muted trumpet swells, and Gorton's fey vocals remind me of Gorky's Zygotic Mynci. Later on, "Summer Lanes" drops into an infectious, bouncy beat reminiscent of the Wedding Present.

There may be some skeptics out there for whom the cycle between shuffle-pop to indie rock is not the best example of 'eclecticism.' Fear not, naysayers, for Alfie deviate even further from your expectations! "Not Half" boasts a washboard-pluckin' New Orleans-style breakdown complete with a trombone, and as a swanky diversion it actually works. "Me and Mine" plods through an interesting rhythmic lilt, punctuated by piano and what sounds like rusty pipes being scraped and glass bottles beaten. Meanwhile, the closer, "The Lighthouse Keeper," contains perhaps Alfie's best and worst impulses at once. The band plays a gentle waltz, bolstered with brass accents. The sweet pace doesn't do much to distract from Gorton's annoyingly whimsical vocals. But then he disarms you with the line, "Tell me when you'll give me to the sea," and the other bandmembers begin echoing his lines, one measure behind each time, obscuring his words as if the waves were washing up against the rocks.

XL Recordings licensed A Word in Your Ear from Twisted Nerve, the label started by Andy Votel and the Badly Drawn Boy himself, Damon Gough. As fitting for those two, Alfie's new album retains a slightly folky atmosphere despite the different stylistic arrangements, and a near-twee confidence that makes you want to stick up for the underdogs. It may not have you dropping your Sarah Records vinyl off at the Salvation Army, but at 43 minutes it's a brief, satisfying read. It does well to rip open the rain-soaked cardboard, as predicted by Father DiCrescenzo in his review of the band's previous EP collection, If You Happy With You Need Do Nothing. I can only end this review with an endorsement: as albums go, it's better than a turd in your ear.

-Christopher Dare, August 13th, 2002