A day in the (surreal) life

It’s difficult to review anything Sean Lennon does because it’s not just about the music (or artwork, or film, or in the case of his 2006 Capitol release, Friendly Fire, all of the above)—but about his very life.

Sean Lennon lives between pop and a hard place.

I’m watching the DVD that accompanies the CD and thinking, “Is that room where he’s sitting actually in the Dakota? Does he still live there? Does he still live with his mom? Does he ever just wear jeans? Why does he wear John Lennon glasses, and now that everyone else wears square glasses, does he have to special-order round frames?”

See what I mean? It’s hard to focus on the craft instead of the man.

And Sean Lennon knows that. It’s his Achilles heel. He’s famous just for being born, for having famous parents. “I never knew this, but apparently I have a small but loyal following in Prague,” he wrote on his MySpace blog this past February. “The journalists all seemed very informed and interested in my music more than my heritage. As a result the press conference went smoothly.”

While other musicians struggle to land recording contracts, Lennon’s challenge was to find a label that wanted to sign him based on his own merits rather than his pedigree. He finally did (his debut, Into the Sun, was released on Beastie Boys label Grand Royal Records), only to have the company go belly up a few years later. So he switched to mainstream label Capitol and then waited most of a decade to put out a second disc.

But he doesn’t have to make any records. It’s not like Sean Lennon will become less famous, unless the entire planet succumbs to a collective amnesia that wipes out all memory of The Beatles. Until that happens, Lennon can date gorgeous women, wear vintage suits, hang out with Vincent Gallo, play backup in the Strokes’ side projects and doodle to his heart’s content—and the public is required to care.

That said, Fire is far from being a wash. The 10-song disc is buoyed by a tasteful balance of pleasing pop melodies, off-kilter vocals, polished instrumentation and edgy imagery that make it neither wholly fun nor easily dismissible. It sounds like a fluffy confection, but the story line—yes, this is a concept album—is that of Lennon realizing his girlfriend (fellow rock-royalty scion Bijou Phillips, daughter of the Mamas and the Papas’ John Phillips) was cheating on him with his best friend Max LeRoy. LeRoy, to add to the drama, died in a motorcycle wreck before he and Lennon could make up.

Such sour turns of events happen in real life, though few people craft and mass-produce an album (let alone one with a companion DVD) about such lemons. Lennon’s lemons, however, are here for all to view, which either makes him a sympathetic everyman or a serious narcissist—and it’s likely that no amount of listening to or watching Fire will clarify which.

The DVD, a series of short films-cum-videos, illustrates the story behind Fire through surreal and iconic imagery. “Dead Meat” finds Lennon riding a white horse and sword fighting. “Parachute” depicts him as the ringleader of a Cirque du Soleil of sorts, while in “Spectacle” he dons gym shorts and executes disco moves at a roller rink. By the time his cartoon doppelgänger departs for other worlds in a spaceship, extraterrestrial life doesn’t seem so far-fetched.

As the story of Lennon, Phillips and LeRoy unwinds (Phillips actually stars as herself), I find myself again distracted from the art of the production and musing over the contrived intimacy of the DVD. Because—carnival characters aside—Fire is inspired by Lennon’s life, and it’s hard to know exactly where fiction and reality diverge. Is it possible that Lennon is as much a stranger in his own story as his character would have us believe? Does a life of unearned fame, public scrutiny and no day job lead, ultimately, to this sense of suspended animation?

Fire is a good album. It’s well crafted, but not brilliant. It’s consistent, if not particularly memorable. But where Lennon’s real talent lies is in his abilities as an observer. Notes from his tour, posted on his MySpace page, reveal a travel writer to rival the likes of Paul Theroux.

“I awoke to the smell of sunbeams,” Lennon offers. “The last time I saw the sun was in Sicily. Berlin, Prague, Vienna, Zagreb, Munich, Milan, Lausanne, and Zurich were all grey as a pigeon’s pajamas.”

And later, “Mike our sound man recorded Billy saying ‘There’s a Castle on the right …’ and turned it into a song. Thing is, it wasn’t a castle, it was a factory. Profound? I think so.” It’s the golden in the mundane to which Fire aspires; the perfect encapsulated moment that no amount of famous friends, flashy film or slick production managed to capture so consummately.

Sean Lennon plays The Orange Peel (101 Biltmore Ave.) on Thursday, April 5. Women and Children and Kamila Thompson open the 9 p.m. show. $14/$16. 225-5851.