Aimee Mann returns with another disc full of emotional isolation and eerie ambiance on Lost In Space, the follow-up to 2000’s Bachelor #2. Bachelor #2 established Mann as somewhat of an alt-rock legend after she bought back rights to the record in an effort to avoid the market pressures of labels, smelling a potential goldmine after the success of the “Magnolia” soundtrack. The soundtrack was nominated for an Oscar thanks to Mann’s ballad, “Save Me.” Despite the fiasco, Bachelor #2 was a success, and Lost in Space continues the trend. It’s more of what Mann does best — well-crafted, emotional pop.
Lost in Space sees Mann emerging as one of the most distinctive voices in current-day popular music. The album contains enough variation to keep a listener interested, with no tracks that beg to be skipped. Each song has its own unique merits, but there is a coherent sound that continues from past songs like “Driving Sideways,” “Save Me” and “Wise Up.”
The title seems to be the right one. Echo is everywhere. Swirling chorus and expansive guitars are used liberally, creating a dreamlike experience. The theme is prevailingly dark — comfortable territory for the songstress. It’s music to heal by and to sing alone on the worst days.
If Mann falls victim to any fault, it is a draw to the formulaic. “Humpty Dumpty,” the awkwardly titled and somewhat obvious first track, leans in this direction. But the writer of the love song has always courted the cliché in some respect.
Mann’s lyrics are at their worst, a vehicle for melody, and at their best, brilliant. In truth, the nursery-rhyme metaphor is really the secondary focus of the song, as Mann sings, “all the perfect drugs and super-heroes / wouldn’t be enough to bring me up to zero.”
If any track should be a glaring example, it’s “High On Sunday 51.” “The monkey knows how you’ll react / causing doubt by holding back / some reverse power-maniac / let me try, baby, try.”
The most dangerous line on the album is Mann begging the object of her affection, “let me be your heroin,” but her temperament is so deathly serious and resigned that doubting the emotion behind the words is a vain exercise. The instrumentation is too earnest, and the voices are too forebodingly powerful to be anything but totally believable.
In “The Moth,” moth and flame are fleshed out in Mann’s characteristically sardonic words, singing, “Once he’s in he can’t go back / he’ll beat his wings ’til he burns them black,” and “The moth don’t care if the flame is real / because moth and flame have a sweetheart deal.” It’s an oddly lovely song, with haunting synthesizer lines and a thin acoustic guitar ringing in the mid-ground.
No review of an Aimee Mann CD could be complete without making note of her voice. It is an ethereal instrument all its own. She sings with a detachment that sounds like offhanded, witty remarks set to instrumentation. It’s a rich alto that somehow manages to capture the full range of disparate emotions without ever sounding strained or maudlin.
The quiet rage and undertone of resentment pervade every song. Soft explosions and swelling melody charge the disc with energy. It’s a joy to listen to, a world of emptiness that leaves the listener feeling healed. Mann serves as the focus and direction of a suppressed feeling, of words we wish we had said and emotional scars we couldn’t put a name to. It’s a lump in your throat and the hairs standing up on the back of your neck.
