Pavement Brighten the Corners (Matador/Capitol)

In the 1967 film version of the Broadway musical How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying, lead actor Robert Morse gives what can only be described as a bizarre performance. He jerks his body and mugs like a knockoff Jerry Lewis, and he crawls under the viewer’s skin every time he flashes his crocodile grin. But he sings like a dream, and his dancing during the musical numbers has an energy that redeems all his shameless flailing. Whatever its limitations, Morse’s presence is unique.

All of which goes to show how the line between originality and awkwardness in art can be disturbingly thin. For further evidence, take a turn through Pavement’s latest album, Brighten the Corners. The record has beautiful moments and unlistenable moments, and the two seem inextricably connected.

The new album starts auspiciously with “Stereo,” the first single. Lead singer Steven Malkmus raps a little over a low hip-hop beat as the song builds to a thrilling, head-banging chorus. “Stereo” is short, snappy, and fun, with a memorable lyric that’s seemingly about how the loudest voice gets the most attention (though the words might just as easily be random lines from Malkmus’ notebook). No other song on Brighten the Corners is as pleasurably concise, though each has its strengths: “Shady Lane” sports a fine, spinning melody, while “Transport Is Arranged” juxtaposes the plaintive sound of a recorder with a loping country break. “Old to Begin,” “Type Slowly,” and “Starlings of the Slipstream” are dynamic, heartfelt ballads that spread like wings, and “Blue Hawaiian,” with its quiet pulse, is as urgent as a whisper. The tunes come at the listener from an angle, with quirky constructions and unusual phrasing. It takes a verse or two to get adjusted, but ultimately the songs penetrate.

For every fine point on the album, however, there’s a jagged edge. Ever since the band’s startling leap into the semi-mainstream with 1994’s Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain, Pavement has been reacting to its success with increased brattiness. 1995’s Wowee Zowee was sprawling and sloppy, and Brighten the Corners—although superficially tighter than its predecessor—offers purposefully jarring sounds and vocals. A tossed-off chorus of “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God” almost deflates “Shady Lane.” Similarly, the off-key vocals on “Old to Begin” and “Type Slowly” seem planned to annoy, while the way Malkmus stretches the word “dead” to seven syllables on “Starlings of the Slipstream” is downright infuriating.

And though the individual songs on Brighten the Corners generally pass muster, the overwhelmingly slow pace of the record makes it sound lethargic rather than dramatic. Matters aren’t helped by the two hardly-there songs by guitarist Scott Kannenberg, or by Malkmus’ “We Are Underused.” This last number is the worst track Pavement has ever recorded, and it’s similar enough in tone to the other songs on the album that it calls the entire collection into question. In fact, it took me a good month to warm to Brighten the Corners. At first, the record sounded hopelessly uneven; listening hardly seemed worth the effort. After all, if I want to hear a band that sounds like Pavement and writes good songs, I can just turn on college radio. Groups such as Joe Christmas, The Simple Ones, and The Godrays are all currently giving a fresh shine to Pavement’s angular melodies and off-kilter earnestness.

What those bands don’t offer, though, is a sensibility as thoroughly felt as Pavement’s. What finally won me to the charms of Brighten the Corners was Malkmus’ oddball worldview, reflected in lyrics such as “I’m sick of being misread/By men in dashikis/And their leftist weeklies,” or “Open call for a prison architect/Send me your blueprints A.S.A.P.” These lines stick in the head, as do “Embrace the senile genius/Watch him reinvent the wheel,” “Kiss me into the past,” and “There’s no coast of Nebraska.” The words, full of vivid images and fever dreams, and delivered with Malkmus’ peculiar spin, keep Pavement from collapsing under its own slackness. Even when the music or the vocals sound tossed-off, the lyrics are clearly inspired, the result of much effort. They’re like little puzzles: If we could just make the connection between Malmus’ disjointed thoughts—or understand why he’s singing as though he were walking barefoot across a hot beach—then we might be able to glean some worthwhile knowledge. But even if nothing emerges in the end, it’s still fun to work through these verbal tangles.

Dozens of bands may be able to deliver a clean, Pavement-esque fix without the accompanying warts, but these bands are not Pavement, and that’s important. Pavement has such an unmistakable personality that even its horrible shrieks sound compelling. If anything, its discord makes all the chords sound sweeter.

Lilys, Better can’t make your life better (Primary Recordings) Critics are generally divided on what the next wave in popular music may be. Some give the nod to electronic dance music, à la Tricky and The Chemical Brothers. Others (myself included) predict that the waning days of the millennium will be dominated by lush, multilayered pop, à la Stereolab and The Cardigans. Whatever the new breed, don’t expect old-fashioned dual-guitar rock just to disappear—at least not without raising a final clatter.

Boston-based guitar-trip band the Lilys open their latest album with a fine dust-raising. “Cambridge California” starts with a twangy riff, which is soon joined by another, more guttural-sounding guitar, and then by a rattling drum. Over the emerging din, a high, British-sounding croon takes the lead and carries the song into the chorus—a soaring, hyperactive shout of “Kick off your shoes!” With that rocket launch, Better can’t make your life better roars through 40 minutes of garage-tested hooks, shifting rhythms, esoteric lyrics, and upper-register harmonies. The effect is like a grunge Monkees, or like The Fleshtones if they had known how to write truly original songs.

On winning cuts like “Shovel into spade Kit,” “Who is moving,” and the title track, the Lilys start with a classic-sounding riff and make two or three changes mid-song until the entire structure almost drifts away. Then the riff returns, often accompanied by vibes; when the song is over, the listener is left with an unwieldy, albeit interesting, package.

About eight songs into the 11-track program, the album finally runs out of gas. Ironically enough, the culprit is an excess of invention. The Lilys’ wandering paths are engaging at first, but as they develop, the unusual song structures become harder and harder to latch onto. When it commands the listener’s attention, though, Better can’t make your life better is marvelously entertaining. The Lilys may not break new ground, but they grow fresh fruit from old roots.