Pitchfork

You can look at the eight-year gap between Sean Lennon's first and second album two ways. On the one hand, his sporadic output speaks to the luxury and security of belonging to a family whose net worth increases every time "Imagine" comes on the radio. But the other, equally plausible explanation is that Lennon isn't the sort of artist who needs or wants to be in your face all the time, and who feels an ongoing musical career shouldn't be guaranteed by birthright.

While the personal iPod list he revealed recently in Rolling Stone displayed an affinity for Lightning Bolt, Lennon's directed his more brazen, aggressive impulses to other people's projects, be it Cibo Matto, Soulfly, or his mom's noise-rock band IMA. His own music, by contrast, is humble and resigned to a fault. Like his 1998 debut, Into the Sun, Friendly Fire rarely raises its voice above a breezy-listening lilt. However, the new album is noticeably bereft of the pancultural pastiche that marked Into the Sun as a typical late-90s Grand Royal product. In its place are baroque piano-bar melodies, foreboding Jon Brion string arrangements, and a palpable sense of empty-bed despair.

The stately presentation of these 10 songs belies their recurring theme: Being the son of a rock'n'roll legend and an avant-garde matriarch doesn't make your romantic life any easier. The word "love" appears in pretty much every track here, but it's often followed by a well-worn oppositional metaphor-- love is "like a hurricane" and "like the ocean" and "such a dangerous game." (The simplicity of Lennon's sentiments stands in stark relief to Friendly Fire's accompanying DVD of elaborately costumed period-piece videos, featuring Lindsay Lohan, Asia Argento, Carrie Fisher, and much sword-fighting.) Lennon's delivery is as plain as his words; he knows his wispy voice isn't the most powerful instrument and never tries to stretch it beyond its modest parameters, punctuating his most salient points with backing vocalists (including former flame Bijou Phillips) and organ swells. It's a tactic that contributes greatly to the swooning allure of "Parachute", but Friendly Fire's meditations on romance beg for more impassioned performances; catharsis too often takes a back seat to composure. The pervasive soft-rock-seductive ambience serves to create a distance between singer and subject; on the opening invective "Dead Meat", Lennon sounds like he's pouring his spiteful thoughts ("you just messed with the wrong team," "you get what you deserve") into a carefully worded e-mail when he should be growling them in your face.

But encouraging signs emerge in Friendly Fire's closing act, which finds Lennon getting more restless and risky. Though it may be churlish to say that Friendly Fire's best song is its only cover, fact is "Would I Be the One"-- a Marc Bolan obscurity given a wondrous, space-age makeover-- is Lennon's most persuasive showcase, thanks to a gloriously glammed-out guitar solo and a ghostly harmonizing effect that lends his voice a desperation that's too rarely heard on the other songs. And if the closing track tells us something we already know-- that Lennon's "Falling Out of Love"-- its mounting orchestral pressure and laser-beam Moogs force Lennon and his band out of its usual languorous gait and establish a game-plan for the future: less friendly, more fire.