The Postal Service
Give Up
Sub Pop

The Postal Service, a team-up between Dntel auteur Jimmy Tamborello and Death Cab for Cutie frontman Ben Gibbard, caused no small amount of subcultural mouth-watering in advance of its release. The breakdown: In the red trunks, an underground rock veteran who has graduated to being the electronic act of choice for the thrift-store set (apparently a viable niche); in the blue trunks, the singer from one of indie pop's young leading lights.

The two first worked together on "(This Is) The Dream Of Evan and Chan," a standout from Dntel's Life Is Full of Possibilities, and decided to pursue a collaborative album, created via mailing tapes back and forth between their homes in Southern California and the Pacific Northwest (thus the band name). And Give Up is more or less what one would expect — laptop skitter-and-pop from music man Tamborello supporting tuneful sensitive guyisms from words man Gibbard.

But beyond niches, one could hold out hope for utter greatness. Those not turned off by the sad-boy posturing can find in Gibbard's songwriting plaintive melodies and poignant lyrics that show rather than tell what it's like to be young, heartbroken and out of cash. Considering other key ingredients — Joy Division, Eurythmics and Magnetic Fields songs in his repertoire, a voice ever reminiscent of Pet Shop Boy Neil Tenant's pinched yearning — some of us believe that within Gibbard gestates a synthpop masterpiece waiting to be unleashed. Who better to birth that monster than Tamborello?

As a matter of fact the Dntel piece of this puzzle stands up well. Quirky beats support rich tapestries of sound, working a tension between repetition and variation expertly and effortlessly. Thus, the songs float or drown depending on the contributions of Gibbard, who unfortunately brought his "B" material. This makes Give Up somewhat of a disappointment even measured against diminished expectations, a pleasurable but uneven set that makes for occasionally compelling, but not addictive, listening.

Things start out strongly enough, with a downcast/uptempo snapshot of ex-lover awkwardness "The District Sleeps Tonight," sporting a signature catchy Gibbard melody. It is followed a few tracks later by the perfection of "Nothing Better." Tamborello takes his best swipe at a big four-on-the-floor house move and Gibbard practices some deft self-parody. Best of all, Jenny Lewis of Rilo Kiley steps up from backing vocal duties to take a wonderful lead turn in this duet. Her arrival heralded by a rush of faux-strings, Lewis provides what every single mope rocker needs: a girl to deadpan, "I feel I must interject here/ you're getting carried away feeling sorry for yourself."

The disco inferno that follows on "Clark Gable" — all driving octave bass, synth horns, tick-tock cymbals and insistent kick — is so joyous we can even forgive the contrived premise that finds its narrator setting up a movie shoot to cadge a final kiss from (who else?) an ex. Elsewhere moody and pleasant material like "Recycled Air" and "We Will Become Silhouettes" floats along pleasantly, these two songs notable mostly for their light-and-poppy takes on lyrical concerns as heavy as fear of flying and the apocalypse.

On the other hand, the single, "Such Great Heights," wastes a perfectly fine chorus and falls into dudhood on the weakness of verse vocals whose melody, rhythm and phrasing (inadvertently, one might hope) hew way too close to those of Jimmy Eat World's once-inescapable guilty pleasure "The Middle." "Such Great Heights" is not the better song for this similarity, and it can't be what anyone hoped for from this post-emo meeting of the minds.

The run of missed opportunity continues on the following track, "Sleeping In." Again, there's a nice chorus, this time cannily cribbing its vibe and message from that one song about how that guy in the Beatles doesn't like it when people bother him early in the morning. But the verse contains some ridiculous faux-naïve utopian blather that starts at its nadir, as unlikely as it sounds, an unbearably twee yarn involving Lee Harvey Oswald (or maybe Oliver Stone). This is either a one-off misstep or more proof that everyone needs an editor.

Of course, working together via mail service can't be the ideal set-up to allow the critical feedback between collaborators. While it's not the disjointed trainwreck that could result, Give Up doesn't make for essential listening. Fans of dance music you don't really dance to are better served going back to Dntel's work, and those invested in rock music's search for the saddest chord will no doubt give heavier wear to the grooves of their Death Cab albums — at least until these two take another shot at that unborn synthpop masterpiece, when maybe the Postal Service finally delivers.

— Wayne Lewis (capsighs@pacbell.net)