Well that didn't last long. At this point in the career of 26-year-old New England songwriter Damon McMahon, such an assessment seems somehow long overdue. Just after his short-lived, semi-buzz Brooklyn rock band, INOUK, released an LP, they called it quits, the sudden demise of their punchy, harmony-built guitar exclamations leaving some pundits holding their next-big-thing cards. The 10 tracks from his solo debut, Mansions, make a similarly rapid entrance-cum-exit, together clocking in at just above 28 minutes. Dude doesn't dawdle.
Here, in the truncated, largely unadorned hallways and rooms of Mansions, that's more often than not a plus. McMahon, who was writing solo guitar material as a teenager in Connecticut, pens the type of initially enamoring tokens that are comfortable and familiar, if occasionally humdrum. His simple acoustic guitar-- accompanied sometimes by bass and light percussion-- even feels trustworthy, referential of proven icons. Through McMahon's six strings, the grace of Nick Drake brushes against the bustle of early Billy Bragg. It's capable of being loved.
Likewise, McMahon's voice-- here, his greatest asset, just as in INOUK-- is magnetic. With an uncanny vibrato and an off-the-cuff rhythmic ease, he is casually convincing, as if confiding secrets that are new even to him. He toils through "Honk Kong" with a genuine dejection, but he bounces along "Paradise Vacation" with a carefully controlled hopefulness. And, when hooks happen, he nails them: "Somewhere in France," the best and most exposing song here, boasts a perfect chorus, McMahon glowing as he sings about free living on the beach with his friends.
But these are songs that, even after being accepted to memory, say little about their subject and, ultimately, their author. These are simple, manageable tacks to nowhere. McMahon refuses to deliver much of significance, singing pretty melodies molded out of nothing. Expectation-defiant platitudes like "You keep them wanting more/ 'cause son you got the gift/ And if you got it, give it to me" hold the hooks high with pregnant expectation of verses, hopefully setting up something more than the sort of vagaries David Gray handles more poignantly.
But, when he gets image-specific inside the verses, it's again for naught: His allusions are either esoteric, sans-context memories or slightly curious, one-joke symbols. He relates reading French children's favorite Madeline and lusty visages of Marseilles at dusk. The images, standing alone, neither communicate directly nor open the songs to interpretation and internalization. Alternately, during "Elizabeth Taylor," McMahon calls Derek Khan-- a big-time fashion consultant and convicted small-time jewelry crook who became infamous when he was caught pawning gems he had "borrowed" for celebrity clients-- by name. He relates all the minutiae of that episode, from the $250,000 diamond he took in the name of Nicole Kidman to Khan's lavish habits, as though they mean something. But the details fail. When songwriters pass off tabloid clippings as ideological and emotional metaphors, the real picture doesn't stand a chance.
But at least McMahon knows he's not saying much: Recorded in two days just before Christmas during a turbulent time for INOUK, these quick, simple takes seem to know they come up shallow. Indeed, albums of acoustic guitar and voice are often about intimacy, and at least this one tries. But after cozying up to Mansions' cold glow for days, it's still possible to see McMahon as a complete stranger, even though he pleads as though he'd like to be best friends.
