leefeldman+++++++++++
+++++++++++* Living It All Wrong *++Pure/Mercury

Lee Feldman wants to take you back to those innocent days before critics applied the term "singer-songwriter" to any prefabricated pixie who tossed Babyface a few lyrics over sushi; when labels like Warner/Reprise kept five-star talents like Randy Newman and Van Dyke Parks under contract even though they only had five-figure sales; when the gap between art and commerce was as wide as Laurel Canyon.

While the only canyons in Feldman's world are New York City potholes, he, like Newman, is a piano-playing auteur who delights in grafting bitter lyrics onto sweet melodies. And, like Parks, he has an eye on posterity. On his debut album, "Living It All Wrong," Feldman (who looks like he was born sometime between white bucks and miniskirts) offers a sound that is in no way contemporary. Yet, despite its synthesizer-free production, it couldn't have emerged at any other time. Instead of reheating old recipes, Feldman and producer Roger Peltzman have cooked up a new sound bite, one whose unique flavor blends beautifully with vintage vinyl.

Unlike the ladies and gentleman of the canyon, Feldman's lyrics have a dark, urban perspective. His universe is populated with hopeless, often hapless characters unable to see the world that exists beyond the skyscrapers. He clearly enjoys having his narrators make unwitting contradictions, as in "Carolyn": "Don't try to say the right thing, 'cause it'll come out wrong." Sometimes, as in the opening lament of "Living It All Wrong," his sour elegance is breathtaking: "I talked to Rebecca on the phone last night/I made her feel bad when she was feelin' all right." In two short lines, he encapsulates the entire emotional content of Richard and Linda Thompson's "I Want to See the Bright Lights Tonight," Neil Young's "Tonight's the Night" and Dorothy Parker's "Two Volume Novel."

In contrast to the Feldman's lyrical tension, the album's production is open and warm, although it too follows the less-is-more rule. With Feldman's piano -- accompanied at intervals by a string quartet, clarinet, accordion and sleigh bells -- the effect is like a diet "Pet Sounds."

Vocally, however, Lee Feldman is no Brian Wilson. Plaintively nasal and audibly neurotic, he gives the impression of one who not only has seen all of Woody Allen's films in theaters, but also owns them on video. Yet, at a time when hipness is measured in cynicism, his irony-free delivery is refreshing. The neo-lounge acts who share some of his influences flee from sincerity the way uptight macho men flee from drag queens. Feldman sings with the confidence of one who knows that just because he is honest like Jimmy Webb doesn't mean he is like Jimmy Webb. By the time he gets to Phoenix, he'll be plotzing.

SALON | Oct. 13, 1997

Dawn Eden is a freelance writer whose work has appeared in Mojo, Billboard, Request and New York Press.