Don't try to figure out Dan Bejar's next move. That's part of the continuing appeal of Bejar's band, Destroyer, which has put out nine studio albums since the mid-'90s, each with its own character and sound.
 
The latest, "Kaputt" (Merge), is another detour in a career full of them. It explores more lushly textured, keyboard-heavy pop, topped by Bejar's typically conversational lyrics -- a droll mixture of observation, humor and loathing.
 
Bejar, who also moonlights as a songwriter and singer in the indie-rock powerhouse New Pornographers, says he's more like a musical curator than a musician when it comes to Destroyer albums. He hears the record in his head, begins composing lyrics and then works with trusted friends to help him record.

3 stars (out of 4)

Though Dan Bejar is best known for his songwriting contributions to New Pornographers albums, he saves his most adventurous statements for his Destroyer alter-ego. The Vancouver-based musician has been making Destroyer albums since the mid-‘90s, deeply personal and eccentric work spread out over shifting musical terrains that encompass folk, David Bowie-like art-rock, orchestral pop and, now, the shimmering surfaces of ‘80s elevator music. 

“Kaputt” is Bejar seemingly at his mellowest, drifting through a world shrouded in synthetic keyboard fog and saxophones. But surfaces can be deceiving. Reference points include the carefully manicured work of Donald Fagen, Bryan Ferry and Talk Talk, and Blue Nile’s 1989 album, “Hats,” a clinic in how to extract warmth, color and humanity from cold technology. On the ninth Destroyer album, Bejar takes his own voyage down the Blue Nile into that era, with its smooth-jazz signifiers of semi-sophisticated adulthood (saxophone, flute) and gauzy lounge-music textures.

But chilling out and sipping chardonnay to this soundtrack is not recommended. Upon closer inspection of this studied gentility, it becomes apparent that Bejar has a few issues, a longing that verges on loathing. His sing-speak vocals turn innocuous observations (“the tide comes in”) into mantras. Or he’ll paint violent images inside frameworks that sound conversational, almost tossed off: “I’ve seen it all, I’ve seen it all/Magnolia’s a girl, her heart is made of wood/As apocalypse’s go, that’s pretty good, sha-la-la wouldn’t you say?”

The tension between the lyrics and the pretty, pastel music is never resolved. In the background, a muted trumpet blows smoke rings. 

greg@gregkot.com