Carbon Leaf/Love, Loss, Hope, and Repeat: Vanguard

With a vaguely 1960’s pop undercurrent ( ala the near country-era Byrds, meets deep-throated 1990’s under-rated Crash Test Dummies) on this second album by Carbon Leaf, the band shelters under a mostly relaxed strumming vibe, produced by the fellow who undertook the sonic stylings of Lisa Loeb and Jewel. Alas, it’s a routine pop venture that would fit alongside Shawn Mullins, even Tom Petty, without much fuss, but then again, it’s not entirely forgettable either. There’s sun on faces, hearts throbbing, tears, etc., all on the first track “Learn To Fly,” so the sentimentality is flying, right off the bat. “Love Loss Hope Repeat,” with a slight flair for alliteration, has a near-talking kind of delivery, but no, no, not the Lou Reed or Leonard Cohen kind, instead it’s a very Hallmark card type. “Under the Wire” fares better, since it’s a bit thicker around the middle: the tempo pushes a bit, the drums swing, and the song is modern manish — slightly offbeat tender Nashville melodic. Like I said, there is some flannel underneath it all, a discernible streak of roots that pops up on “Royal One,” but again, you won’t mistake this band for Son Volt, even on the acoustic “The War Was in Color,” which, through the narrative spiel of a grandfather, paints a picture of war that avoids glossing over the difficult truths, since “those black and white photos don’t capture the skin…” Sure, there are lines like “bootcamp to battle,” “swallowing sea,” and “crossfire stitching up soldiers,” again, pretty heavily reliant on alliteration, but at least this approaches some kind of poetic presence of persona. Lastly, “International Airport” throws down some near-funk, and is one of the hokey tracks, barely flavored, overly air-conditioned, and way too pre-meditated for the satellite radio age, as if it is skyscraper elevator music waiting to be.

Worth two potato chips.