Pitchfork

Travis Morrison got his ass kicked. He tells the whole story here, about the random beatdown he suffered in front of a Gap, a humiliation so surprising he couldn't fight back. Even cracking jokes about it to friends doesn't disguise his embarrassment, or hide the hollow in his mouth where his teeth went missing. And that's not the only crisis in Morrison's life: After nearly a decade of leading The Dismemberment Plan to indie stardom, he's watched the band slowly dissolve, and now been thrust into a solo career by default. The D-Plan's XTC- and Talking Heads-derived spaz-rock had propelled the band to rarely met heights of underground glory, but it was Morrison's bug-eyed eloquence that sealed the deal. Their strongest album, 1999's Emergency & I, brilliantly nailed the post-collegiate urban anxieties of the young, frustrated and smartassed, fluent in ironic prime-time catchphrases and all too familiar with the sensation of finding adult freedom at last, only to waste weekends in a crappy apartment because they're never invited to the good parties. Did I mention he also turned 30?

You might expect Morrison's solo debut to build upon the mellower sound he cultivated with The Dismemberment Plan on 2001's Change, and Travistan does occasionally flirt with it. But mostly, Morrison takes the record in a completely unexpected direction-- and when he does, he leaves the listener far behind. Travistan fails so bizarrely that it's hard to guess what Morrison wanted to accomplish in the first place; the guy who led sing-alongs to sold-out crowds can't find the words on his own album. I've never heard a record more angry, frustrated, and even defensive about its own weaknesses, or more determined to slug those flaws right down your throat.

Morrison went into the studio with Chris Walla and Don Zientara behind the boards; John Vanderslice guests, and Death Cab for Cutie's Jason McGerr attempts to recreate Joe Easley's polyrhythmic drumming. The music Morrison's written for the project, however, is mostly undistinguished. Once again, his monotone winds through modulating melodies while synthlines unravel like ribbon candy or squeal to meet the harshness of his screams. On this familiar ground, Travistan starts with a relative bang: The first of the album's four (!) "Get Me Off This Coin" interludes can nearly be forgiven when Morrison kicks off "Change", whose rhythmic anxiety-attack, twisting hooks, and (of course) title cleanly evoke his previous work.

But, following "My Two Front Teeth, Parts 2 and 3"-- in which he relays that story about getting his face pounded-- we discover where Travistan fails: its lyrics. Throughout the record, Morrison seems dead set on sabotaging the music's few positive attributes with fatal dorkisms and a surprisingly dad-like sense of humor. Here, he reflects on his post-brawl aftermath in a mirror wondering, "Why me?/ Why now?/ I look like Gordie Howe!"-- before breaking into the keening, repeated climax, "All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth/ My two front teeth/ My two front teeth."

It worsens. "People Die" finds Morrison trying his hand at Shel Silverstein's dark-tinted child-poems: "People Die/ It's the facts/ So there, I said it/ Now you can relax.../ People die/ La de da/ It gives the day a certain je ne sais quoi." "Change" opens, "Moses comes down from the mountain and he's pissed.../ He says, 'Y'all coulda built a boat/ If anybody had the guts/ While I was up there talking to trees and growing my beard to my nuts." But those aforementioned "Get Me Off This Coin" bits seem to house the highest per capita stinkers. Each presents a former U.S. president protesting his likeness on American currency, and features a line like, "I like my nations in constant revolution/ And my booty wide."

At times, Morrison's matter-of-fact lyrics and fascination with history actually recall Schoolhouse Rock. Can you identify each president in the "Coin" tracks? Which one smoked dope with black girls at Monticello? Which one had a town named after them in which no one is able to vote? Can you draw all of the animals he names on "Song for the Orca"?

A bigger problem with Travistan is Morrison's tendency to leave themes unresolved. In "Che Guevara Poster", he nearly seems ready to offer some sort of criticism or approval of the revolutionary figure's recent ubiquity, but then loses focus. The brutality from "My Two Front Teeth, Parts 2 and 3" returns on "Song for the Orca", in which he sings about zoo animals who dream of retaliating against masters who abuse them, but never makes it past the gruesome panorama. After years of turning hyper-detailed imagery into terrific stories, Morrison now seems to lack the sustenance or patience to provide closure on the books he opens.

Along with the album's hidden track (a pretty blur of indietronica), the second half of "Che Guevera Poster" stands out as a rare exception. Here, Morrison relates his grandfather's tribulations as a union-employed immigrant in early 20th century St. Paul, detailing his hardships and personal flaws in a tone that's simple and sincere. Even his voice sounds different as he lets down his guard and begins to communicate, and maybe because the lyrics sound so genuine, the song takes on a more affecting air than his other two ballads. On the sub-Eels "Any Open Door", he tries to make lines like, "Alone with my thoughts/ Yeah, alone with my cell phone," sound soul-searching. And the big finale-- piano ballad "Angry Angel"-- never even gets off the ground: Morrison's thin, reedy throat was never at its best outside his signature sing/speak, and his decision to aim for soaring Disney ascension is grossly misguided, to put it kindly.

"I don't want to fight," sings Morrison at the end; "I don't want revenge." But as Travistan winds down into one final "Get Me Off This Coin", it doesn't appear to be quite that simple. By claiming to make peace with the corporeal blows he suffered in that Gap-front melee, he reveals not just the kernel of potential that's buried in this record, but also the very problem with it: Travistan only allows us to briefly glimpse a series of images and storylines, but makes no effort to help us understand them, or to see them through his eyes. Morrison makes a spectacle of his almost physical reaction to stress, as he faces a new crowd and a new phase of his career. We watch him take shelter behind the familiar, then launch into one bad idea after another with the faith that at least one of them might work. We all get there someday-- turning 30, feeling doubts, taking chances that might get us knocked down. But someone with Morrison's talent should communicate these insecurities, dissect them, and ultimately make them melt away. Listening to Travistan, it seems doubtful he can even do that for himself.