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David Byrne's new solo album (14 years after “Grown Backwards”) is clearly accompanied by a certain inevitable hype for an artist generally considered as snobbish and sophisticated as his abstract and typically plasticized form of pop is deemed intellectual and "high." Nevertheless, these traits have made him a musician with a massive following that has lasted through the years. I mean, we're undoubtedly talking about an influential artist (mostly due to the reputation regained by Talking Heads over the past ten to fifteen years) who has engaged in various projects over the years, not only musical but also giving historical attention to the visual aspect (I've seen him live several times and can say that he's undoubtedly a great performer). However, if we truly want to judge his discography, it is clearly mediocre. His (fake) verve has only been well channeled by Brian Eno, who is also the substantial co-author of all the tracks on this album, but here too, Eno had to "surrender": the fact is, you can put in as much effort as you like (although here there's a sense of "weariness") but you cannot sell every "scribble" as if it were a Basquiat, and anyway, Basquiat—as a pop phenomenon—ultimately paid a high price for that typically Warhol-brand instrumentalization, which only works as long as you stay inside the magic circle.
Presented in the context of a series of multimedia happenings called "Reasons to Be Cheerful" and dedicated to an optimistic view of life by reassessing its beauties as a method to counter the world's evils, "American Utopia" (Todo Mundo/Nonesuch) develops the concept into pop compositions as joyful as they are imbued with that melodramatic yet frivolous style that has always characterized Byrne's aesthetic taste. Recorded between New York City and London with excellent collaboration (besides that of Brian Eno) from producer Rodaith McDonald and some guests like Daniel Lopatin (OPN), pianist Thomas Bartlett aka Doveman, DJ Jam City, and reggae-soul vocalist and musician Sampha Sisay, the substantial problem with this album is not so much in agreeing or disagreeing with Byrne's pop aesthetic, but in the fact that the songs are objectively so flat that they would leave even the most typical, flabby-bottomed, scarf-wearing, white New York pop-art collectors indifferent.
Overall, nothing new under the sun: the usual melodramatic assaults on gospel music from "Dog’s Mind," "This Is That" to the pathos of "Bullet"; positivist pop-art like "I Dance Like This" and "It's Not Dark Up Here," the pumped-up groove of "Gasoline and Dirty Sheets" or "Everybody’s Coming To My House," and the electro-tropical hymns to joy of "Every Day Is A Miracle," "Doing the Right Thing" (practically unlistenable). In short, a heist on the canvas, a Duchamp toilet smiling.
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