Bryan Estepa - Sunday Best (Album)
Although a veteran of the Sydney band scene, Bryan Estepa sounds just as comfortable by himself. Throughout Sunday Best Estepa delivers 11 comfortable, light hearted pop songs with a country twang.
Unlike other Australian neo-troubadours (Bob Evans) Estepa’s country sound is more forced than natural. True, the guitars are permanently set on Jayhawks type jangly, but Estepsa’s voice and lyrics and –at least in a country context- feel forced. His voice is endearing, but doesn’t carry the grunt the songs need (although there are a few seconds on Different With You where you could swear it was Ryan Adams singing). Ultimately, Estepa just sounds too damn nice to be talking about abusing alcohol, drugs and women. His confessional warble works best on summer songs that glimmer with sanguine hope and promise.
Probably not surprising, considering the albums highlight, the superb Carl Wilson is a nod to where Estepa real influences lie. Although the song starts as awkwardly as its subject matter (Estepa dives headlong into self indulgence when he whimpers "Youngest child syndrome/ what was that?") it evolves in an only slightly creepy ode to the departed Beach Boy Wilson sibling (and yet I get slapped with restraining orders when I write love songs to celebrities. Where is the justice?) Fairly brimming with Pet Sounds in-references and Barbara Ann vocal harmonizing, it’s an enjoyable take on a brand of musical devotion that’s been done to death.
Other highlights includes the slightly America (the band, not the country) sounding Aches and Pains. Complete with a vocal hook with veers into ‘annoying catchy’ (with the best possible connotations applied) and a too-short guitar solo that cries Allman Brothers, it’s four of the best minutes in the year of Australian music. Similarly enjoyable is acoustic guitar dueling Stars. Estepa’s hard to coax voice is perfectly suited to the paper thin guitars that whisper early 70’s AM radio righteousness. It’s also where Estepa has the most to say- on other songs Estepa appears scrambling for the right words. He’s by no means a bad lyricist- he just seems to occupy that position between annoyingly tortured and annoying happy. He can just sound annoyingly...bland- like he’s filling up time between the next speck of gorgeous vocal harmonizing.
The album highlights demonstrate the area where Estepa ultimate strength lies- when he takes parts from different genres. It’s not musical sightseeing, more like chronic musical buffet abuse; he takes equally from country, folk, contemporary music and sixty’s pop.
Although the album doesn’t always work- Roses gets a little too sing-song for its own good, and Myself is a regrettable journey into pseudo punk- it’s clear that Estepa is a gifted musician. Although still looking for a niche, he possesses an uncanny ability to write mesmeric choruses that are equal parts Matchbox Twenty and Beach Boys.
With debatably less capable musicians getting ARIA nominated backslaps, one hopes that Estepa’s strikingly polished elegy to pop music will be recognized come awards season.
