Pitchfork

More than a decade into their career, Saint Etienne look to have mellowed into adulthood, mellowed into sophistication-- the sort that can almost leave a person feeling jealous. One imagines Pete Wiggs and Bob Stanley lounging around hotel bars in tailored suits, discussing real estate and drum programming. One imagines singer Sarah Cracknell lingering over wine at lunch with married friends, snapping up her stylish little pocketbook: "Drat, they'll be expecting me at the studio, we're meant to be arranging woodwinds today." One imagines parties in London where they cross paths with Rushdie.

The image suits them well, and it's a logical destination after the past decade's travels. Was there ever a time when they didn't seem a bit jet-set? It's just that they kicked off seeming young, unmoneyed, thrift-store glamorous, ersatz fabulous: Half of the joy in their earliest records was clocking the ratty seams where their various sonic interests-- dance music breaks and baroque pop, acid synths and sixties swing, Soul II Soul and Bacharach-- collaged into song. If, these days, they seem to have slipped from thrift-store collage into the strictly upscale, it just might be because the joins have vanished from the music. This new album, more than anything they've produced yet, boils all of those impulses into one smooth, seamless thing-- a well-cut party dress that does the same work as those hipster separates.

If any single word describes the results, it's "quaint"-- deliberately quaint, and as charmingly quaint as the album's cover. Tales from Turnpike House is a concept record verging on a musical score, offering a day-in-the-life cycle about the residents of an outer-London housing estate. This being Saint Etienne, those lives are drawn in the same shades of retro-modernity as the music: Up-to-the-minute references sit side by side with a vibe that's all 1960s kitchen-sink English, brightly-colored and respectably working-class, Corn Flakes and teakettles. Morrissey spent half a career plumbing that vibe for its camp and its seediness, but Saint Etienne have no such intentions. Sun rises on the first track, and by the second, the residents are bustling around their breakfasts, each whistling individual parts of the building's "Milkbottle Symphony".

Any American who's ever studied introductory French will recognize the mix: Those textbooks are forever full of cute, sophisticated college students, splitting their time between le discotheque, le picnic, and la maison. That same mix extends straight out into the music here. These songs create a space where nylon-stringed guitars and fluffy Free Design vocal harmonies mingle unawkwardly with well-styled house beats and synth swells. At times it sounds like the bucolic soundtrack from some sunny late-60s television documentary; at times it sounds like a dance club for the most well-adjusted people in the universe; and at its best-- say, "A Good Thing", or the buoyant, breezy disco of "Stars Above Us"-- it sounds like both at once.

All of which leaves it as the most fully-realized thing-- if not the most exciting one-- the band has released since 1994's Tiger Bay. It's like they've finally managed to make the rustic folk of "Former Lover" and the city strut of "I was Born on Christmas Day" inhabit the same track. This development may well make them even more of an "acquired taste" for the rock kids; it's a cozy little dream-world of soft, slick signifiers, and their new dives into arranging vocal harmonies give it yet another coat of storybook gloss. Same goes for anyone craving more of the chilly electro vibe that bubbled up on their last full length; this, more than ever, is the postcard baroque. When the composition here falters its way toward dullness, both groups might be justified. But when it's working, it's the hard kids' loss: This set lets the group cater more than ever to the shimmering chart-pop act they've never been afraid to be. Pop from a quainter and more self-consciously picturesque place than they-- or we-- will ever live, but slick, dreamy pop nonetheless.

Where we live is important, too, as you may well guess from the concept. The one thing American listeners may never fully get out of Saint Etienne is the sheer wealth of cultural detail packed into their work; asking me to get into it may well be like asking Mongolians to explain Kevin Federline. This album, interestingly, gives you a better chance than ever to tap into it. These songs have characters voicing a "Green Acres" duet about whether it's worth moving to the country ("Relocate"), a bossa nova whisper about the fear of street crime ("Side Streets"), and a spoken wrap-up where people text-message around the changing neighborhood: The baker's has turned into a tanning salon, and the pub jukebox has given way to the staff's Red Hot Chili Peppers albums. A bonus EP gets even more provincial/universal, with a selection of "child-friendly" pastorals that break free into ultra-quaint storybook geography.

The package, then: It's less about flash, less about excitement, and more about being good company-- in the same slowly-charming way that a favorite novel can be. A decent portion of the composition works out to be a long-term treat; even when it falters, it's got enough leafy-green musical vibes to last through the summer months. Calling it their "best since Tiger Bay" has the same meaningless vibe as putting the same line on folks like Tom Waits-- but depending on your temperament, there's some chance that it's true.