Matthew Sweet / Blue Sky on Mars by John Golden Zoo Records With his boyish good looks, Bumblefuck Kansas background, cult of Anchor-Splasher devotees, and reputation for being so gosh-darn-and-golly-gee nice he wouldn't say "shit" if he stepped in it, Matthew Sweet has always seemed more suited to a job at the Peach Pit than the life of a rock star. The result of all this is that Sweet's music has become practically irrelevant -- at this point he could release an industrial concept album about raping dead baby seals, and Bush and Jesus Lizard fans would still agree that Matthew Sweet is pussy shit. Which is grossly unjust, especially considering that he was years ahead of the pop-revivalists, both good (Fountains of Wayne, Chisel) and bad (Zumpano), who are currently enjoying so much critical and popular attention. If Sweet wasn't so good natured, he'd be running around yelling, "Who built this house? Huh? I think I know. Who's your daddy? Yeah? Yeah? Me, that's who!" and if he wasn't so sensible he'd be running around like pathetic ol' David Bowie, making industrial concept albums about, er, raping dead baby seals (or something) and touring with Trent Reznor. Fortunately, the Rodney Dangerfield of rock is both good natured and sensible, and rather than boring us with sour-grape moans he has released another modestly fantastic collection of songs of innocence and experience. The album is called Blue Sky on Mars, which is totally appropriate because, like, duh, Sweet's music is just like Total Recall -- slip in the disk, and then sit back and relax as the songs implant in your mind the memory of the perfect middle school girlfriend you never had. You know the one: big, sparkling eyes which contained more hope and promise for the future than a campaign speech, a mouth that could cure all of your pubescent insecurities and answer all of your own private I- don't-knows with one quick smile, candy red nail polish, long soft hair, perfect complexion, and, and, and, Christ, somebody get some bactine, I think I just had a schizoid embolism. In any case, you get the point, she's the same one who dumped your ass on the first day of ninth grade for the varsity quarterback (yes, ladies and gentleman, Sweet-heart Recall delivers the total, unabridged relationship package). Of course, I must admit that Blue Sky On Mars isn't a perfect album. But then again, inconsistency is to pop what "in medias res" is to the epic -- it's part and parcel to the art form. And when we consider that Paul McCartney was completely useless, and that therefore no Beatles album could ever hope to be more than half a great album, and that furthermore, like most Matthew Sweet albums, Blue Sky's hit-to-miss ratio hovers somewhere around 8 to 4, it becomes clear that by pop's most trusted yardstick Blue Sky on Mars is a startling success. Do I really have the audacity to suggest that Mr. No Respect is really more talented than the Beatles, you ask. Well, no. But, umm, well, yeah, I do. And that's the point: Sweet's songs (when he hits), like all truly great pop songs, are so impossibly contagious, so utterly mind-infecting, it drives you to do and say stupid things, things which you would never normally say or do. Just like that girlfriend.

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