Benjamin Gibbard’s first solo record is a collection of bland and forgettable indie-pop songs. There was no expectation that the Death Cab for Cutie vocalist would produce something innovative, but after the success of Transcendentalism, something as insipid as Former Lives didn’t seem likely either. Don’t play this record expecting shivers of excitement, or moments of unexpected splendour, because you won’t find them. Gibbard has created a waste land of generic chord progressions that blend together to form an album that is both featureless and lacking vigour.

The pedestrian sound of the track ‘A Hard One to Know’ characterises the whole record. Its uninspiring lyrics (“you change your signals like a traffic light”) fail to provoke any reaction. The poetic themes are predictable and the sound proves equally unsatisfying. It’s not just the songs themselves that fail to gratify; the album doesn’t feel like a cohesive unit: the county twang on ‘Broken Yolk in Western Sky’ seems a world away from the distorted guitars of ‘Oh, woe.’

This is perhaps explained by the exceptionally long period of time over which the tracks were developed. Gibbard told journalists that “these songs span eight years, three relationships, living in two different places, drinking then not drinking.” It feels like the sheer diversity of events in Gibbard’s life – and the consequent disparity of emotion – has prevented him from achieving a sense of musical unity. Former Lives isn’t a careful selection of songs that thematically interpenetrate; it feels like a bunch of unrelated tracks thrown together with no consideration as to how they interact with one another.

The lyrics provide no relief from the monotony. Gibbard’s poetry feels unsubstantial – he simply treads over the same old territory: “I toss and turn but I just can’t get to sleep / When I start thinking about what you do to me.” The feeling may have been genuine but his inability to express it in an interesting or beautiful way means all the energy of the original emotion is lost. The listener can’t anchor their thoughts to any sort of narrative because the album doesn’t have one.

Nor does the record consist of intriguing fragments which the listener must piece together. It just ambles along, happily churning out tired sentiments.There are occasional bursts of energy, but these brief periods aren’t sustained enough to save the record. Gibbard’s gentle moaning during the interlude of ‘Dream Song’ hints at the incorporeal, sounding like the disembodied voice of a visionary state. The best song on the album is the collaboration with Aimee Mann, ‘Bigger Than Love.’

The track feels purposeful and provides some much needed impetus: a dark guitar melody overlaps with Mann’s gorgeous delivery and a rousing crescendo rounds off this superb song. Sadly, such fleeting moments of brilliance only serve to highlight how dull this record is when taken as a whole. They prove that Gibbard has the capability to write great songs–yet it leaves the listener brooding over why, when the talent is evidently there, Gibbard has produced such tedious music for the majority of the album.

This is the kind of inoffensive record that plays in the background at a coffee shop. After reaching the final track, you just want it to end. Aside from ‘Bigger Than Love’, there isn’t anything here to stir the listener or make Former Lives worth purchasing.