Pitchfork

Let's face it-- the Sunshine State isn't the same laid-back surfing and smoking utopia once immortalized by the Beach Boys and Grateful Dead. The smog is terrible, energy costs are ridiculous, its cities are overcrowded, and, hell, things got so bad its residents turned to the conservative Arnold Schwarzenegger for political guidance. Due to this discord, bright-eyed California bands like Grandaddy and Beachwood Sparks still carry the torch "Surfin' Safari" lit 40-some years ago, though grim undercurrents like technology and pollution bog down what would otherwise be a happy-go-lucky sound. And yet, the Radar Bros. are an ultra-mellow California trio whose previous three LPs combined couldn't wake a baby.

Frontman Jim Putnam's voice is still softer than the Charmin bear and each song has the noise and intensity of an ocean breeze. Even with his most perturbed lyrics, Putnam maintains a lulling half-whisper while delivering his playfully winding, Wilson-esque melodies. However, although most of the tracks resemble permutations of Pet Sounds and Zombies chord progressions, the persistent dark undertones can't be ignored.

Like Neil Young's After the Gold Rush, The Fallen Leaf Pages was recorded in Los Angeles but sounds distinctly un-L.A.. It opens with the gentle acoustic strums of "Faces of the Damned", a disillusioned dirge lamenting the city's violence and debauchery: "Women lie...so gaudily on bus stop benches/ The sunlight making sure of the hatred on their faces." Most songs, however, opt for a more implicit protest consisting of bucolic backdrops and somber pensiveness, two staple subjects not exclusive to any one Radar Bros. record. "The River Shade", "The Fish", and "Sometime, Awhile Ago" musically and lyrically sum up the Radar Bros. sound, and their proximity on The Fallen Leaf Pages emphasizes the band's monotonous songwriting.

"To Remember" begins with a tense, jazzy piano line that unfortunately dissipates into a drowsy two-chord verse. "Papillon" churns like an angry Elliott Smith waltz, with piercing guitar licks complementing Putnam's dejected vocals. However, they're too often content to toy with a folksy acoustic shuffle and unabashedly sport their Beach Boys and Neil Young influences. I wouldn't accuse them of ripping off tunes, but their penchant to recreate the music they love leaves little room for innovation, and ultimately the album has the freshness of an unearthed time capsule.