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Museum of Love is a new project from Pat Mahoney, founding member and chief percussionist of the now-disbanded LCD Soundsystem, and his long-term friend and collaborator Dennis McNany. Their self-titled debut (which is named after the Daniel Johnston song of the same name) is out on DFA, which should tell you something about the way it sounds. There are, however, a few crucial differences. Whereas many bands on that label have leaned towards a kind of frantic sarcasm - not least LCD themselves - Museum of Love's sound generally aims for a sweeter spot.

Lead tracks 'In Infancy' and 'Monotronic' are cases in point. They are both remarkable in different ways, the former making use of an exceptional vocal performance in building to a climax that could convincingly be described as 'euphoric' - though without any of the Euro-trance connotations that word has come to represent. 'Monotronic', meanwhile, both builds and tears down within its extraordinary five minutes. At points, the arrangement toughens, introducing a drum machine or a disconcerting keyboard line before dropping everything away again to leave the line "I wasn't meant for this much happiness: to float in its own ambiguity. It is the album's standout moment, and those who have been fans of the track since its release last October will be thrilled to see it sitting among songs of a similar high calibre. And Mahoney's voice is a revelation, by turns melancholic and maleficent.

'Monotronic' is also perhaps the closest that Mahoney comes to replicating the sound of his old band, recalling LCD at their most tender (Sound of Silver's 'Someone Great' in particular), but elsewhere their influences are more elusive. I was reminded variously at times of Matthew Dear's Asa Breed; of the more hushed moments on Talking Heads' Remain in Light; of Brian Eno's non-ambient solo works.

Museum of Love is not all sweetness and light, however. There are moments of disconcertion to be found, in particular on 'The Large Glass' and 'Learned Helplessness in Rats (Disco Drummer)', both of which operate at a level of tension that frequently threatens to topple over. The result is nevertheless thrilling, providing a neat contrast in a set of songs that could otherwise suffer from a similarity in tone. None of the eight tracks (and one short introduction) on this record necessarily sound like each other, but there is a shared sense of tenderness in them; of rejoicing in resignation.

It is no surprise to learn that Dennis McNany is also a sculptor; his arrangements have the mark of a trade whose representatives must - in the words of Barbara Hepworth - "be entirely sensitive to the structure of the material that he is handling". McNany's own sensitivity on Museum of Love can, at times, feel like fastidiousness; each track is so carefully structured that the album as a whole suffers from a slight lack of flow, as if the listener is simply moving from one exhibit to the next. However, that is a small complaint on what is overall a satisfying and deeply rewarding project.

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