Personnel: David Levy (flute, clarinet, saxophone).

Audio Remixers: Kode9; Morgan Geist; Alex Smoke; Marsen Jules; Carl Craig.

Recording information: Bad Habit Recordings, San Francisco, CA; Hamilton, Canada; St Martin Tonstudio, Dusseldorf, Germany.

Illustrator: Jacqui Oakley.

Photographer: Timothy Saccenti.

While Junior Boys' debut indie sleeper LAST EXIT leaned more toward pastiche--a product of influences as far afield as 2-step garage and Timbaland's stutter-funk--their sophomore effort, SO THIS IS GOODBYE, is a step toward pop song form (albeit of the slowly unfurling, epic variety). Junior Boys recast the notion of northern soul in terms of blue-eyed crooners born of icy Canadian winters, as opposed to the inner-city blues of the American rustbelt. Jeremy Greenspan's weightlessly gorgeous voice contrasts with the music's frigid, prickly synth arpeggiation--extending like icicles from aerated frozen tundra. Steeped in elegant melodies and artful textures, Junior Boys remodel new romantic pop as etherealized neo-soul.

So This Is Goodbye involves no input and no apparent residual fingerprints from original member Johnny Dark. On their second album, Jeremy Greenspan and Matt Didemus depart completely from 2-step and late-'90s Timbaland twitter, polishing their sound to such an extent that absolutely no detectable scuffs are left. Improbably enough, the thematic springboard for the album appears to be "When No One Cares," a Frank Sinatra cover that flickers and hisses like a malfunctioning neon sign. Greenspan, whose vocal ability has improved remarkably, puts a typically fragile spin on the Sammy Cahn/Jimmy Van Heusen composition, though you can picture him on the brink of cracking up at the thought of this insufferable, pitiful character -- this underscores a semi-subliminal undercurrent of self-deprecation that carries through most of the album. Fragments of lyrics from the song inspire "Count Souvenirs" and "Like a Child," two other cases where Greenspan croons as if he were leaning against a bank of synthesizers, tie undone and hair disheveled, on-stage at the Sands' Copa Room. (Rest assured, Taco this ain't.) Over half the album consists of slowly unfurling material that projects a cool sense of comfort, as if Chicago house pioneers Larry Heard and Frankie Knuckles were brought in to transform jubilant Italo-disco and foppish synth pop into downcast club tracks and creeping torch songs. The placid grace of the album is interrupted only by the crunchy snap of "In the Morning" -- the only song that breaks a sweat -- which makes like a non-album single plopped in the middle of the album for no good reason (à la those old CD issues of the XTC catalog that slapped the bonus tracks in the middle, rather than at the end). Otherwise, this is a make-out album destined to be played most often by loners who, for whatever reason (a crippling breakup, a fear of human contact, the snowman melted, etc.), are only able to commit the act in their minds. ~ Andy Kellman

So This Is Goodbye involves no input and no apparent residual fingerprints from original member Johnny Dark. On their second album, Jeremy Greenspan and Matt Didemus depart completely from 2-step and late-'90s Timbaland twitter, polishing their sound to such an extent that absolutely no detectable scuffs are left. Improbably enough, the thematic springboard for the album appears to be "When No One Cares," a Frank Sinatra cover that flickers and hisses like a malfunctioning neon sign. Greenspan, whose vocal ability has improved remarkably, puts a typically fragile spin on the Sammy Cahn/Jimmy Van Heusen composition, though you can picture him on the brink of cracking up at the thought of this insufferable, pitiful character -- this underscores a semi-subliminal undercurrent of self-deprecation that carries through most of the album. Fragments of lyrics from the song inspire "Count Souvenirs" and "Like a Child," two other cases where Greenspan croons as if he were leaning against a bank of synthesizers, tie undone and hair disheveled, on-stage at the Sands' Copa Room. (Rest assured, Taco this ain't.) Over half the album consists of slowly unfurling material that projects a cool sense of comfort, as if Chicago house pioneers Larry Heard and Frankie Knuckles were brought in to transform jubilant Italo-disco and foppish synth pop into downcast club tracks and creeping torch songs. The placid grace of the album is interrupted only by the crunchy snap of "In the Morning" -- the only song that breaks a sweat -- which makes like a non-album single plopped in the middle of the album for no good reason (à la those old CD issues of the XTC catalog that slapped the bonus tracks in the middle, rather than at the end). Otherwise, this is a make-out album destined to be played most often by loners who, for whatever reason (a crippling breakup, a fear of human contact, the snowman melted, etc.), are only able to commit the act in their minds. [The deluxe edition, released less than a year after the original version, adds a bonus disc containing seven remixes and a four-track live session for iTunes.] ~ Andy Kellman