Everybody Hates Lovejoy

Lovejoy's third album starts off riding a wave of contempt and bitterness with "Everyone Hates Us and We Don't Care" and never looks back. Everybody Hates Lovejoy is a sour hate letter to the world wrapped up in a glittering package of shimmering dance beats, chiming guitars, and bubbling synths. Imagine if the Field Mice wanted to kick your ass or Saint Etienne pulled a knife on you in a dark alley, and you are getting close to Lovejoy territory. Throw in some paralyzing melancholy and some tears and you are spot on. Richard Preece, who has whittled the band down to just himself with a few guests here and there, sounds about two steps from some kind of capitol crime throughout, a feeling heightened by a careful reading of the lyric sheet (which isn't recommended to anyone under the age of 35 or so). Even the songs that aren't totally angry are pretty bleak like the Felt-referencing "This Could Be an Ending," which tosses off cheery lines like "These days we rarely raise a smile/I feel the need to disappear." Preece's mumbles and groans seem more exaggeratedly menacing and off-key. He sounds unshaven and in his bathrobe (even though a look at the sleeve photo shows a rather handsome and sharp-dressed fellow). The contrast of his voice and lyrics with the bright and engaging music makes for an interesting contrast that almost makes the disc worthwhile. There's also the idea of wrapping unpleasant sentiments in the slickest indie pop. Ultimately though, the dour and nasty tone of the album is too much of a bummer to overcome. No one is saying that indie pop needs to be all sweetness and light. It just helps when there is at least a pinch of it to go along with the darkness.