Rhett Miller

Rhett Miller (Shout Factory)

By Erin Wolf
Published: July 5th, 2009 | 12:05am

Rhett Miller must have dipped into the famous Fountain Of Youth that Juan Ponce de León had his eye on in his early explorations of Florida. Not only does the boyishly handsome singer (most famous for his work with alt-country honky-poppers, the Old 97’s) slyly appear to be minus 20 years his actual age, but his solo musical style has managed to remain that of the shell-shocked boy in love who still can’t figure out how to navigate his trials and tribulations.

The problem with this Fountain Of Youth approach is that it comes off as slightly insincere. Themes of single-boy heartbreak have shown up again and again in Miller’s previous work with both the 97’s and his three solo albums. Sensitive and romantic suits Miller just fine, but when he’s crooning about bad reputations, heartbreaks, and "Drivin’ and cryin’ with a stuck needle in the groove mentality, the hiss and static ultimately ruins the purity of the melodies.

Admittedly, Miller remains a witty lyricist with a wonderful knack for creating characters with whom the listener can feel genuine empathy for. In “If It’s Not Love” he sings about love gone awry, “Now my bad reputation is shot and you’re to blame / I am the loser in the corner and I’m whispering your name”. Relatable? Yes. Charming? Definitely. The only smudge on the glossy finish is that for every song centered around forsakenness with lyrics like, “This is what the bed feels like without you in it” and “I am my own archenemy” (where Miller is clearly the protagonist), there lies a sneaking feeling of listening to the teacher in a Charlie Brown cartoon: whimsical, but static.

Miller is at his best when letting alternate plots creep into his songs, such as on “Happy Birthday Don’t Die,” a straight-up rocker that is addressed to his daughter on her 100th birthday. Miller’s wry sense of humor, when paired with a more stripped-down, roots rock sound, sparkles and shines above all the slightly over-produced and sappy, sad-bastard crooners he could ever dish out.

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