So, Hamilton Leithauser is forty-something and that is amazing. But, also, not that amazing. It’s 2020. That’s how time works. 

Maybe what’s more amazing is that he is only forty-something. After all, his name is “Hamilton Leithauser” — a title befitting some nineteenth century archduke. Also, for years he’d wear a jacket and tie while performing in concert. Plus, he’s been recording music since he was a teenager, which distorts our perception of his age. So, in my mind he’s young but he presents like a young man in an old man’s costume. So, maybe he’s an old soul in a young man’s racket. Or maybe a young punk in an old man’s uniform. I can’t say for sure. But, what I do know is that, back in 2004, during the course of one song, he aged at least twenty years. In the four and a half minutes that comprise “The Rat,” you can quite literally hear him go from seething brat, to sober adult to old and jaded. It’s all there.

That song. That fucking song. It might be the greatest punk rock song ever made. I don’t think most people consider The Walkmen to be a punk band. They are not. But “The Rat” is punk. It is not the most important punk rock song ever made. It’s not the most influential. But “Anarchy In The UK,” “White Riot,” and “Sheena is a Punk Rocker” sound positively quaint next to “The Rat.”

That song is the sound of Lower Manhattan in the early 21st century. Not The Strokes. That’s the cleaned up version, ready for its headshot. Not “All My Friends.” That’s the slightly drunk, but still heady, bougie version. “The Rat” is the secret, frustrated, smart and just a little dangerous New York. You don’t leave that song the same age you enter it. Not even close. The punk that starts singing that song exits as Bob Dylan. And for the next decade, you got the feeling that he wasn’t content just making great music. Each time out, he was going for “Like a Rolling Stone.”

But, how do you balance that sort of creative ambition with, say, marriage and fatherhood? You can’t be Icarus and Daedalus. Leithauser — and all of The Walkmen — knew that. After “The Rat,” they would continue to make great music. Right up through their swan song in 2012, their singer would still howl at the moon frequently. But, they would never get back to their Manhattan Project — “The Rat.” They would grow older. They would make rich, wonderful albums, full of heartaches and heart-bursts. They would become the band for hipster Dads. Then, they would become hipster Dads.

And that is where we find Hamilton Leithauser in 2020. Forty-two years old. Husband. Father of two. A local celebrity in his Brooklyn neighborhood. A semi-popular name for NPR listeners. A maker of more modest, critically appreciated solo albums. “The Loves Of Your Life,” his fourth solo album, was going to be different, though. For one, it was a concept album. Every song was very specifically written about a person Leithauser had met. Some were veritable strangers. Most were much more. But each person and each encounter was the basis of one song.

Additionally, he was beginning to employ collage as part of his writing technique. He’d come up with sonic parts and concepts and connect the ideas through the words and stories. The approach required a lot of flexibility and spontaneity — in voice, meter and style. It a method more common in Hip Hop, wherein artists like Outkast or Frank Ocean realize songs through artful “quilting.” But, the most unique aspect of “The Loves of Your Life” — the headline that I buried — is that, with the exception of his wife, his daughters and their school teacher, Hamilton Leithauser is the only musician playing on the album.

While “The Loves of Your Life” falters in spots, in part due to the lack of collaborators, it does not suffer from lack of ambition or vision. Additionally, Leithauser’s voice is a great instrument, able to conjure Leonard Cohen or Bob Dylan on their best days, and within a single verse. But, as a player, Leithauser is not Prince. His guitar, bass and piano work are basic (in a good way). He even takes a go at the drums and, while he not Levon Helm, the go for broke, figuring it out-ness works for the record. Ultimately, the songs ride not on his playing or even the stories so much, but rather the gusto of vocal performances and the cogency of his quilts.

As is the case with many of the tracks on “The Loves of Your Life,” the opener, “The Garbage Men,” takes a few tentative stabs in search of the moment to take flight. It begins with minimal instrumentation and Leithauser’s practiced croon. It’s barely stitched together — the time signatures feel unsteady. But then, he goes big on the chorus and it pays off. The former aimlessness feels like an intentional set up for something soaring and definitive.

This trick — going from hushed, minimal or, even rickety into a payoff worthy of late 60s Dylan — is employed for good effect on several songs. “Here They Come” begins in hushed tones, whispered from a room designed by Elliott Smith. The tip toes turn into a walk, to a stroll and, ultimately a gallop where the singer can run free. 

“Isabella” and “Don’t Check The Score” feature female singers alongside Leithauser and, in each case, the pairing works. Both songs also have a Country flavor — a dash of slide guitar here and upright piano there. They are fun, tuneful and sloppy before their full-hearted, full-throated choruses. Leithauser sings from the vantage of someone who knows well what he didn’t know then, but also as someone who feels the immediacy of that tragedy.

While the album’s first half is uniformly good and occasionally great, the back half of the falters here and there. “Til Your Ship Comes In” experiments with discordance. The beat thuds. The vocals are processed. And whereas Leithauser is well served with volume, this sounds like shouting that never finds its tune.  “Wack Jack” and “Stars and Rates” similarly feature intriguing set-ups but then build anxiously towards no resolution. Leithauser needs more than just structure — he needs catharsis. And these songs get lost on the way there.

There are, however, bright spots in the home stretch. “The Stars of Tomorrow” is big, bold and wholehearted. “The Other Half” is an interesting drunken, Soul number performed by a band of NYC lounge lizards who are all named “Hamilton Leithauser.” And, “The Old King” — the closer — is an old fashioned cabaret song, performed on piano, with the ladies from his family joining in. The cabaret act becomes a celebration. And then an Irish funeral for the death of someone they love but who is not dead, yet. And when the whole family closes with a big “Ba Da Da Da Da” refrain, I find it hard not to smile. It’s sweet and poignant. It’s also evocative of that late Beatles’ clip where fans — strangers, really — jump on stage to help Paul and John close out “Hey Jude.” John’s chewing gum and looking disaffected. Paul is trying his darndest to finish the task at hand.

Hamilton Leithauser was never going to be Paul. And certainly not John. No way. He wants to be great. He can be great. But, he wants his family on stage for the song. For the time being, he wants to be Icarus and Daedalus.

by Matty Wishnow