Call him Captain Hook

I mean this as a compliment to Ron Sexmith: He writes songs that I can’t get out of my head. Usually that’s something to complain about, but I’ve been singing these songs for a few days now, and I don’t feel like listening to anything else.

Each track on Retriever is a minor masterpiece of pop that bursts like a camera flash and leaves little glowing spots all over your brain. The songs are short enough never to wear out their welcome, deceptively simple at first and then packed with unexpected key changes and delightful turns of phrase, poised between sentimental diary entries and poetry. Sexsmith sings them with the same effortless grace that he’s known for, each plaintive performance as clear and tart as a good glass of gewürztraminer.

We’re fortunate that this guy was discovered. He sings without ego, sounding sincere and humble and reflective, the kind of talent that usually slips by unnoticed because it lacks anything indulgent. But Sexsmith’s career really took off when Elvis Costello began waving that “I’ve found a genius!” flag in various magazines, and the discovery lived up to the hype. His greatest strength is melody, putting him in good company with Rufus Wainwright, Ed Harcourt (who plays piano on the album), Chris Martin of Coldplay, and, yes… his ballads can stand alongside any of Costello’s.

Sexsmith's 7 first few albums were a seemingly endless stream of radio-ready gems, each one sincere and honest, lacking any studio compromises. Then came Cobblestone Runway, last year’s unexpected leap into pop experimentation, drum machines, one foot in Coldplay and one on the edge of disco. The risk paid off, and it proved Sexsmith’s most savory dish yet.

Now comes Retriever, Sexsmith's fourth outing with producer Martin Terefe. The two are a perfect match. Retriever is a return to the guitar-focus of earlier efforts, with a bit of the Cobblestone Runway's pop-production gloss. It may just be his best yet. The first half of the album is one knockout after another, and then comes the 70s-soul number “Whatever It Takes,” as classic as anything he's written. The song is a triumph of nostalgic bliss, and it's followed by a beautifully bittersweet post-breakup lament—“Dandelion Wine.” It’s the strongest 1-2 punch I’ve heard so far this year.

Lyrically, Sexsmith is at his best addressing smaller, more soulful subjects. When he steps up to attempt something along the lines of social commentary, he stumbles into generalizations. But one of the things that keeps me coming back to Sexsmith's songs is his subtle acknowledgement that true love finds its inspiration in Divine Love. The album's opening song, "Hard Bargain," is a song about the relentlessness of God's love, and how grace puts all hardships in perspective.

But this album is best classified as a treasure chest of love songs. And one of the pleasures of his love songs is their honesty about the hard work of love, the lingering feelings of love after a relationship has crumbled, the willingness to acknowledge that part of the secret of true love is learning to live with, even embrace, each others’ limitations and weaknesses. He closes the album with something reminiscent of a Shakespeare sonnet, singing his affection for his true love’s foibles. It’s the kind of music that rejects immature and empty sentiments, taking instead the hard truths of love and redeeming them, making the flaws just something more to cherish.

Song-by-song Review

The album is relentlessly optimistic, hopeful, shot through with musical sunshine.

In the first four songs, Sexsmith sings about the rewards of love, the reality of betrayal. In “Hard Bargain,” which Sexsmith admits is "part love song, part letter to God," he celebrates a relationship that gives him hope when the grand drama of the world gets him down. “How’s a guy supposed to fail / with someone like you around….” That's my favorite musical prayer this year.

“Imaginary Friends” mourns the loss of those who have given lip service to friendship and support and failed to deliver.

“Not About to Lose,” the most singable song in the program, contagious, airborne, and joyful, pays tribute to the love that gives him purpose and focus. “Though my heart is overcome at times / still it knows / Where it’s coming from / And where it must go.” “Tomorrow in Her Eyes” follows that with an achingly sweet McCartney-esque love song about trust.

“From Now On” is a full-speed-ahead anthem of optimism in the face of a culture of fear. “We live in times / where choice is frowned upon / Afraid to even raise / Our voice in song / Or speak our minds / For fear of falling on / The wrong side of opinion / Where has freedom gone… But it’s a new day from now on…”

Compassion is the theme of “For the Driver,” in which he looks at violence and tragedy and finds feelings for “the driver” and the “child who chased a ball across his path,” “the one who hides” and “the one who chases.”

Part of the album’s punch comes in his constant acknowledgment of the hard realities, giving authenticity and strength to his affirmations of hope. In “Wishing Wells” he says, “Magic spells / Still hold no currency / Where people are lining up to sell their dignity / When reality’s a show / They’ll crawl through the mud.”

Then comes the masterstroke, “Whatever it Takes,” a wholehearted 70s soul number so smooth that you can imagine it as the great undiscovered Al Jarreau song. It floats along smoothly on a lush bed of strings and background vocals. “Whatever it takes my love / I’ll find it / Whatever it takes my love / to put the lonely days behind us / I’m laying it down…”

“Dandelion Wine” looks back at the love that had to fall apart for him to learn the lessons that make these other songs possible. “Oh I believed in us / Long before deceit and lust / Had lost the trust / Forgive me girl…”

“Happiness” is a rollicking rock song a la Van Morrison with a playful piano pulse provided by fellow pop crooner Ed Harcourt. I challenge you to listen to this song in the car without rolling down the windows and pushing past the speed limit a bit. It ends abruptly and stumbles headlong into the song that sounds like the one he’s been heading toward through the whole album. “How on Earth” keeps asking the question in bewilderment, how can love like we dream of take place here? But he’s not asking so much in longing as he is asking in wonder. “Yes how on earth did we ever find us / We thought tomorrow was behind us / So glad to be wrong / She fills my heart with song.”

“I Know It Well” brings it all together, a vow of true love that accepts and embraces… even cherishes… the bruises and the flaws that the singer sees in the other. While musically the song does not quite satisfy as a closing number, it’s every bit the equal of the other love songs in this essential work.

Recommended second opinion:  Paste