Adam Schlesinger and Chris Collingwood didn't stumble upon adulthood -- adulthood landed on them.
For seven years the two, as Fountains of Wayne's wits, have voiced an alternately nostalgic and embittered dialogue between the glorified effervescence of youth and somber reality of an impending adulthood mired by responsibility and banality.
The New York boys' radiant eponymous debut celebrated with endearing nonchalance the simple desires of adolescence -- taking the long way home, courting sweethearts, or just sinking to the bottom -- while blatantly trying, though ultimately failing, to disregard the concerns of the real world just burgeoning on the horizon.
Two years later, "Utopia Parkway" continued the grappling with maturation's perils, but in place of expressing any frustration, Fountains of Wayne submitted and even romanticized the monotony of suburbia. The band's drollness remained intact and its willingness to conceptually paint a thorough picture of late 90s suburbia heaven was admirable (cover bands, valleys of malls, and laser shows, oh my!), but it simply lacked any thematic and musical conviction or bite. It never seemed like more than a concept, a neat trick, a band wanting to please too many people, much like a group of the overzealous and overachieving teenagers they so badly wish they could be again.
In the world of "Welcome Interstate Managers," however, nothing reaches the complacent satisfaction of "Utopia Parkway" or "Fountains of Wayne."
Protagonists perennially pine for loved ones kept distant by the pangs of reality: Business travails ("Bright Future Sales," "Little Red Lights") or the allure of the big city that steals belles away ("Hackensack") and then spits them out ("No Better Place")."How did it come to be that you and I must be far away from each other every day?/ Why I must spend my time filling up my mind with facts and figures that never add up anyway?" Schlesinger pouts on the addictively sweet "Hey Julie."
The occupational stresses that once seemed only annoying detours now weigh down as glaring dead ends, the "bright futures" promised by big men in suits a cruel joke. "Heading for the airport on a misty morning/ Gonna catch a flight to Baltimore/ Trying to kill an hour with a whiskey sour/ If there's time I might have just one more/ I gotta do some quick reading for the big meeting/ But my hand is spinning and I can't quite open my eyes," Schlengier and Collingwood vent, expressing both their dissatisfaction and the recurring conflict between the thirst for autonomy and self-imposed dependency on the escapism found in alcohol and nostalgia ("Bright Future in Sales").
And yet, in the midst of purging the pent-up angst and depression at the onset of middle-age "Welcome Interstate Managers" at moments exudes ebullience more vibrant than anything Fountains of Wayne have done before.
The cascading "Mexican Wine" rides the strongest hooks this side "Electric Version." "Bought for a Song," "Bright Future in Sales" and "Little Red Light" stomp through the band's traditional power-pop landscape with a strengthened rhythmic backbone and tightened structure that echoes the heightened sense of urgency while maintaining a loose melodic glee. On "Supercollider" the band even channels the Pink Floyd psychedellia that came out synthetically sticky on "Go Hippie."
Most glaringly, while Schlesinger and Collingwood have enjoyed limited success ("Sick Day," "Amity Gardens") in the past expressing a sedate, sensitive side without tripping over its slightly melodramatic sap, they finally have distilled the strongest elements of their softer side to provide the warm core of the album: "Hackensack," "Valley Winter Song," "Hey Julie," and "Yours and Mine." Melancholy, rich harmonies comfy up to a muted electric guitar and a deserted Collingwood professing a hopeless devotion to an aspiring ex-girlfriend on "Hackensack," a banjo that gently saunters across the sparse "Valley Winter Song," and an acoustic Simon and Garfunkel jangle on "Hey Julie."
But, again, like a couple of over-ambitious teenagers, Schlesinger and Collingwood self-consciously strive to avoid classification as a pop band, cramming "Welcome Interstate Managers" with swanky 70s power ballads ("Halley's Waitress"), honky, pedal-steel-driven country ("Hung Up on You"), and ridiculous hippie love-ins ("Peace and Love").
Clearly Fountains of Wayne don't harbor any delusions of Super Furry Animals versatility, but the attempt to mimic genre styling in hopes of maybe garnering legitimacy or maybe just getting a good laugh only spoils an album that already has to be forgiven for lapsing into the trite nostalgia of "Fire Island," "All Kinds of Time" and "Stacy's Mom."
Adulthood's a pain, but when Schlesinger and Collingwood learn to just satisfy themselves they'll see they can take two steps forward without taking one back.
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