Aimee Mann

Since Aimee Mann fought the record-biz law and won, she’ll probably yankee hotel foxtrot through good reviews for the rest of her career. But along with all the what-nice-melodies-you-have that accompanied last year’s Lost in Space, critics dished out complaints that Mann sounded cold and unemotional, unmoored from some supposed humanism that’s underpinned her post-Til Tuesday solo work. But Mann’s always been our iciest, least sympathetic assayer of grown-up Hollywood disillusionment, fleshing out the doubt and misgivings lurking in that which we mistake as endlessly durable. That’s why the Magnolia thing worked so well: Who else could’ve provided such a revealing voice for a bunch of characters scared to death of facing themselves? Fucking Bono? Lost in Space just amplifies that disquietude until it is its characters’ reality–no longer a sense that the good times might not last, but that they might not end. It’s top-notch alienation-pop, sweetened with strings and keys and Mann’s own deadly pretty voice so you’ll come close enough to realize that’s all there is. I mean, she’s lost in space, you know? Even the ice cream is as dry as toast up there.