Donovan Frankenreiter is the kind of guy who goes through life with his feet up on an overturned milk crate. Four albums in, his shaggy shambolism is so nonthreatening as to be almost entirely unreal; the more treacly elements of his driftwood pop–the parts where his reedy vocals trend toward the Mayer-like–barely even register. Songs are vaguely formed, happily monochromatic ideas: “Glow,” “Home,” “Free,” “All Right.” If you asked this guy mid-tour to help you move a couch, he likely would. Just don’t get pissed if he ends up taking out your girlfriend’s sister instead. With Ximena Sarinana.
Wed., Dec. 1, 8 p.m., 2010
This article from the Village Voice Archive was posted on November 24, 2010