At first listen, Cousteau sounded like a band that aims for the cinematic mood of the Tindersticks and wounded melancholy of Scott Walker, but could veer toward the smarmier side of Chris Isaak. At first it’s difficult to believe this slick-sounding, thirty-something, well-dressed, good-looking, MTV (or VH1)-ready band’s sad-sack songs of heartbreak and yearning. They seem like the kind of smooth chaps who will have dates lined up with mid-range movie stars. And for sure, after seeing their audience at a live show, the ladies love, LOVE Cousteau. They do fill a somewhat vacant niche of sensitive male crooners of torch ballads. And given a closer look, there just might be something more to them. There’s a nice consistency between the blue satin and gold cover art that suggests underwater treasures, and the lushly aquatic imagery of the songs. Australian Davey Ray Moor writes all the songs, and the Irish Liam McKahey, with heavily tattooed arms, a weathered face and mysterious past involving addiction and interior decorating, sings ’em. Every song is impeccably arranged with pianos, strings, stand-up bass. Always tasteful and silky, when the songs work (“Nothing So Bad,” “Talking To Myself,” “Salome”), they have at least as much sensual and emotional impact as anything by Bryan Ferry or David Bowie at his crooniest. But after a while, the songs bleed into each other, and I crave more variety. Perhaps some whiskey-soaked grit of some seventies Tom Waits, or Nick Cave’s darker lyricism. This music is entirely for the ladies. I will circle back to the debut album which is reported to be stronger. Keep it around and program the best tracks before easing into Al Green, Tim/Jeff Buckley and Jacques Brel.
September 17, 2025
Chameleons – Arctic Moon (Metropolis)
September 1, 2025
Lathe of Heaven – Aurora (Sacred Bones)
