Steve Marion’s songs have always been a little too interesting to dismiss as background music. Guided by the cheerful searchlight of his guitar, the vibrant, dependably eccentric instrumentals that Marion has released as Delicate Steve walk a fine line: Even at their most mellow, his songs court your full attention.
On Delicate Steve Sings, though, Marion’s songs have finally faded into musical wallpaper. With its tongue-in-cheek title and smattering of cover songs, the record gestures at classic collections of reimagined standards like Chet Baker Sings or Willie Nelson’s Stardust (which Marion cites as an influence). But Delicate Steve Sings falls short of meeting the genre on its own terms, trying on the smooth lounge act trappings without really committing to the bit. What emerges is a clean but uninspired display case for his prodigious talents, a collection of—how else to put it?—easy listening instrumentals that more often than not feel bland.
The covers, which comprise a third or so of the album, aren’t bona fide songbook standards but more recent tunes, like Otis Redding’s “These Arms of Mine” and Donnie and Joe Emerson’s “Baby.” Marion’s versions are tenderly executed, full of lyrical phrasings and quivering vibrato, though yawningly deferential on the whole—more Delicate Steve sings karaoke than Willie sings Irving Berlin. No matter how proficiently it’s performed, a straight-laced instrumental Beatles cover is going to sound like Muzak. Not even Marion’s crystalline touch can distinguish his rendition of “Yesterday” from the versions piping into hotel lobbies.
The album’s originals aim for the same sepia-tinted austerity as the remakes, as if Marion wanted them to feel like lost R&B classics you can’t quite place. “Cherry” sounds like a repurposed Motown B-side that gropes at your heart without ever really touching it, part Marvin Gaye and part M*A*S*H theme song. “Medieval Eyes” fares slightly better, with twanging guitars that echo in and out of frame as Marion winds his way through a shuffling drum beat. But for the most part, Marion’s guitar traipses across terrain that’s simply too sparse, abandoning the smoky atmospherics and Afrobeat dreamscapes that have textured his previous work.
Light flashes through the gray in the moments when Marion drops the tight-lipped lounge singer act and settles into his own creative voice, as on the album’s high point “I’ll Be There.” Backlit by loping bongos and steadily building strings, Marion activates the choice beach-bum riffing that has marked the best of his recent output. The drums ripple, the violins swell, and Marion’s guitar sings more forcefully than anywhere else on the album. Finally—a song better suited for car rides than elevator rides. It seems to belong to a different Delicate Steve record entirely.
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