Perhaps, somewhere on the Mediterranean coast of France—let's say Marseille—there's an old but lavishly appointed hotel painted dazzling white and slowly decaying in the salt air. Said hotel is almost entirely populated by tragic and lonely souls—aged matinee idols, besotted doctors, magazine editors—that fate has blown hither and yon, only to leave them stranded there. The staff of this hotel, of course, works under the palpable weight of an all-encompassing malaise, barely bothering to acknowledge the meager tips you've left in their spotlessly gloved hands. If such a hotel exists, its elevators will be piping in nothing but the High Llamas's new album, Can Cladders.

It's not that this album is dark, it's not. Its stereo-rama strings and cooed harmonies are polished to a brilliant shine. Its retro, music-hall melodies (think the Kinks on Zoloft), bounce along in a sleepy major key. And yet, there's something about this album that hints at deep longing—a riptide of regret under a placid, symphonic veneer. Maybe because of this, no matter how quaalude-y the album gets, it maintains a dramatic tension. And that makes the album work. Cause I don't know about you, but my life demands music with something to it. At least until I can get away to France.—Matt Thompson

LINKS
• High Llamas Home
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