t the beginning of every summer, I find myself latching onto a new album that crystallizes the mood the season for me. It’s often a record that offers up relatively few challenges and complexities. A record that’s breezy, warm, and inviting; much like summer itself should be. For example, previous summers have seen me placing this prestigious title upon records such as The Jayhawks’ Tomorrow The Green Grass, the Beach Boys’ Pet Sounds, and The Las’ self titled debut.


This summer, however, it seems that the decision has been split. I recently was introduced to the endless carefree pleasures of the Kinks’ The Kinks Are The Village Green Preservation Society. But the new release from the Doves, The Last Broadcast, is also vying for the honor of scoring that big Country Tyme Lemonade ad in my head. There’s an obvious reason for this. The Kinks seem to fit the hours of daylight more, with their effortless melodies and jovial lyrics. The Doves, on the other hand, are a perfect fit for those lazy summer nights, filled with lounging, longing, and the much-treasured waft of cool air. The Last Broadcast fits this mood perfectly. From the dense submarine pinging of the introduction to the sweeping electrified balladry of the closing “Caught By The River,” The Last Broadcast is at once relaxing and exhilarating; the epochal background music to front porch gatherings, or the ethereal world created for your solitary moments, depending on the need.


The Last Broadcast show the British act at the top of their game, and considerably more at ease, improving upon the often emotionally restrained, color-by-numbers feel of their debut, Lost Souls. The elastic rhythms and playful instrumentation of cuts such as “There Goes The Fear” and the hook-driven anthemic pop of “Pounding” and “N.Y.” show a group much more comfortable with themselves, and less concerned with lofty expectations of producing arty, “important-sounding” rock.


While the showy, moody mini-epics of Lost Souls were occasionally enthralling, too often they were robbed of any sincerity or real emotion by the dense, ever-shifting textures and production. Everything on Lost Souls was colored in shades of gray, resulting in music that was always impressive on a level of pure musicianship, but also mired in listlessness. The former synth-pop collective (then known as Sub Sub) seemed more concerned with crafting a technically impressive Radiohead clone, rather than forming their own identity.


In some ways, this still holds true – the Doves really don’t know how to achieve an intimate sound. Even the most delicate and personal tracks on The Last Broadcast are not so much minor pieces of bedsit melancholy as they are expansive vistas of wet, shimmering sound. Brooding string sections unobtrusively float in and out of the mix in “Friday’s Dust,” reaching the grandeur of a John Barry score at times. Mournful woodwinds and acoustic guitar dot the horizon while vocalist Jimi Goodwin emotes over an underpinning of bubbling synthesizers. It’s a sound meant to fill mountain ranges (or arenas, for that matter).


This is all fine – nobody accused the Doves of being the Smiths, anyway. It does result in many of the songs blending into one another, though, even after repeated listens. In its own strange way, this all adds to the charm of the album, however. As I said before, the album works equally well in many settings, and for many moods, and if this means sacrificing a little bit of personality on the way, The Last Broadcast isn’t that much less of an album for it.


Of course, the biggest strides The Last Broadcast makes is when it shows the Doves lightening up a bit; taking themselves less seriously. The leadoff single, the irrepressible “There Goes The Fear,” is nearly seven minutes in length, but floats by on a jaunty acoustic guitar refrain, uncharacteristically sunny lyrics and interweaving vocal harmonies that are the very definition of bittersweet. Also check out the stellar percussion on the outro, which wouldn’t seem out of place on one of Paul Simon’s Graceland or Rhythm Of The Saints.


The unabashed melodicism of “Words,” which seems as tailor-made for Top 40 rock stations as can be, and the audacious brass and string arrangement of “N.Y.” might be a little off-putting to older fans, used to a sound based in minor-key guitars and dirge-like synthesizer arrangements. Given time, however, they’ll work into your head, and won’t leave anytime soon.


Certainly, the Doves do falter at times. The overly long and syrupy “Satellites” is an earnest enough stab at white-boy soul, but can’t find a melody captivating enough and peters out at the halfway point. Junior-high poetry assignments such as “Sweet Lord, I swear I’ve seen the darkness/ Sweet Lord, I swear I’ve seen some pain/ Satellites ahead, so hold on” aren’t helping the situation any. “The Sulphur Man” marks The Last Broadcast’s biggest misstep, as it reaches for a hollow grandeur too closely resembling a shot at their own “Champagne Supernova” (much like the debut’s messy “The Cedar Room”).


But those moments are few and far between, and the firefly-flecked soundscapes of the wafting “M62 Song” and “Friday’s Dust” more than make up for it. To truly appreciate The Last Broadcast, slap on a pair of headphones, where the album truly takes flight, and the impressive production forms vast canyons and valleys of sound for you to explore.


If you buy The Last Broadcast in time, you’ll get with it a limited edition disc of bonus tracks. Truth be told, this isn’t much incentive, as the only real standout track contained within is the piano-driven “Werewolves Of London” knockoff “Hit The Ground Running.” It is an impressive track, though, and showcases the lighter side of the Doves they seem to be fond of sharing lately.


Does The Last Broadcast feature anything really groundbreaking? Not at all. Is it a ‘hip’ record to enjoy? Certainly not. Does it have much staying power? I’m not sure about that either, but for this particular moment in my life, it’s perfectly transcendental. That’s all I can really ask of an album, in the end.