Contributed By: Lion on The Table
Created On: Thursday, 10 July 2008
Hits: 137
 Never Never Love 2008 sophomore album from this Pop (no pun intended) singer/songwriter and former Ladytron member, probably the only contemporary musician in the world beloved of both Jarvis Cocker and Noel Gallagher. Recorded entirely in Hollywood at Quincy Jones' old studio, Westlake, where both Thriller & Off The Wall were laid down, Mr. Levi has returned with an album about the madness of love - 100% autobiographical, 100% clever, 100% dumb, 100% unique. And that's giving 400% already. From transitional rockers like 'Wannamama' and 'Oh God,' Pop spreads his wings, relying on a production flare, which makes the record feel fresh and slick as well as charmingly hi-lo-fi. 'Never Never Love' shows that while he hasn't abandoned the dynamics of the Rock group he has also been steeping himself in contemporary R&B.
The indie pop trickster from LA, who has enjoyed stints with Super Numeri and time with Ladytron, loves to mix up psychedelic motifs, glam-rock scams, subliminal pop sonics, electronics and rock. Imagine Mud (you know, ''that’s right, that's neat I really love your Tiger Feet'') crossed with Led Zeppelin's Black Dog and you have some idea of the who'da-thunk-it mix-up that is the opening big bang of Wannamamma. The audacity of this iconoclastic combination is initially striking and startling in a so-bad-it's-good kind of way. Yet within a few minutes of this self-style assault and disassembling of popular culture, what at first appeared audacious quickly begins to wear thin and becomes simply tedious. Very quickly it's so bad it’s just, er, bad.
Like some musical alchemist, perhaps Pop Levi is attempting to turn base metal into gold. Perhaps he is on some visionary quest seeking a greater truth about the world by sifting through the things it throws away. Perhaps the man who once claimed to develop his writing through the occult practice of scrying, finds connections and ineffable correspondences between musical bodies that would ordinarily cancel each other out. Thus in Pop Levi's world the Bay City Rollers lay down Dub, The Sweet play Springsteen at his own game, and Rick Astley is the new Nick Lowe. Perhaps all of this is possible in the world of a performer who, in addition to his psychic-inspired song writing, has also declared he wants be a giant cult.
Showcasing all the emotional and spiritual depth of a gnat, he struts, pouts and cartwheels through 13 songs like some hyperactive kid in a frenzy of self-absorbed prattle. Just when you think it can't get any worse, any more gormless, or any more contrived, along comes the blue-eyed reggae tosh of Mai's Space. Sounding like Cher on helium, this is exactly the kind of abomination Jonathan King used to come up with. If pop music is meant to be utterly disposable, trivial and forgettable then this record is a triumph.
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