One of the most beloved, bewitching, misunderstood, and eventually disappointing bands in recent history, Belle & Sebastian did the near-impossible in the Internet era: They seemed to appear out of nowhere. Admittedly, there was also a time (recently, in fact) when I'd wished they'd have mysteriously vanished as well, exorcising the dark spots of their post-1998 output in order to keep their reputation-- or at least Stuart Murdoch's-- in respectable shape.

From their inauspicious beginnings in 1995, the collective emerged from Scotland with wistful, nostalgia-laden indie pop that examined sexual frustration, shiftlessness, loneliness, and isolation. Murdoch's songs-- often punctuated by proper and place names-- painted expressionist, detail-oriented worlds that, when they connected with a listener, often left an indelible, deep impression. What went wrong is typically chalked up to a split in songwriting duties, a practice that made their third and fourth albums, The Boy With the Arab Strap and Fold Your Hands Child, You Walk Like a Peasant, disjointed, frustrating listens. The band's choice to democratize, allowing a fair number of songs from each band member, negated the singularity of Murdoch's vision, often at the cost of his wit and charm. This all-inclusive measure also resulted in the band drifting toward a pastiche of too-familiar touchstones: 60s baroque pop, Northern Soul/Motown, and folk-rock.

On their fifth proper album, Dear Catastrophe Waitress, Belle & Sebastian continue their exploration of pastiche, diversifying their sonic palate to include 70s soft-rock, the irreverent pop of 10cc and Squeeze, and bubblegum. Here, the band's once-misguided ambition is tailored and cut by famed producer (and founder of notorious 1980s art-pop groups The Buggles and The Art of Noise), Trevor Horn, who aids the band in making a complete 180-degree turn from wry, wistful folk-pop to sophisticated, tight, sometimes-complex arrangements with a keen attention to detail. Horn's touch is most effective on "Stay Loose" and "I'm a Cuckoo", two ambitious classic AM pop gems that-- like the best of his past production work-- threaten to spill over into the absurd but instead remain delightfully audacious.

Ironically, with a new-found ability to rectify their once at-odds musical interests, Belle & Sebastian have emerged as shiny happy people, becoming that of which they were always falsely accused: t*ee. That label was always more appropriate to the infantilism-obsessed, Sanrio-loving element in their fanbase, while the band itself traded in innuendo, sinisterism, anxiety, and sketches of unfulfilled childhoods. But here, songs such as "Roy Walker", "You Don't Send Me", and the semi-creepy Godspellian "If You Find Yourself Caught in Love" are so bubblegum they could have been staples of any number of early 70s TV families, from the Bradys to the Osmonds to the Partridges.

That may sound dreadful but Belle & Sebastian manage to do a lot of things right-- including "You Don't Send Me", whose strength lies in its effective application of aesthetic. "Piazza, New York Catcher" manages to come off like a woozy, drunken version of the Murdoch demo "Rhoda", and it's his most lyrically complex work here, reminiscent of highlights from the past couple of albums such as "Sleep the Clock Around", "The Boy With the Arab Strap", "The Model", and "There's Too Much Love". Certain tracks do flirt with reminders of Belle & Sebastian Mk I-- namely "Lord Anthony", finally given a proper release years after it was written, and "Wrapped Up in Books"-- but these throwbacks are temporary, bones tossed to diehards unable to cope with the band's decision to trade their bedsit infamy for bouncy, pogo-pop.

On one hand, Dear Catastrophe Waitress ranks as one of the most delightful surprises of the year, although that's primarily because I'd completely given up on them. On the other hand, it's a very flawed record that at its quirky worst features harmonies so brow-furringly cheery they'd be comfortable amidst a cruise-ship revue or one of Up With People's halftime routines. It's not at all what one might call a "return to form"; rather, it's a large step toward a new, more appealing direction than the band had otherwise been heading. At present, they're almost a new entity entirely, which makes this the Belle & Sebastian album for people who never really liked Belle & Sebastian.

I realize that for a large portion of Belle & Sebastian fans-- most of them young and American-- lots of elements of the band's past matter little. The myth, the shambolic performances, the radio sessions, the dubbed cassettes of Tigermilk, the band's refusal to talk to the press, releasing only non-LP tracks as singles, not featuring the band on its sleeves, Murdoch's place in a songwriting lineage that includes early Orange Juice, The Smiths, and Felt-- it's now all ancient history. If that's indicative to you of what's become problematic with the band, you may want to approach this album with caution. If, however, "Legal Man" is among your favorite Belle & Sebastian songs, buy this immediately.

-Scott Plagenhoef, October 6th, 2003