Plain old vanilla. It is a sure crowd pleaser, but only to a degree. There’s an element of challenge that’s still possible, but no one will be shocked unless your sugar cone has a ketchup smiley-face and a sardine mustache.

So it is with singer-songwriters. I’m a fan, to a point. Folks like Damien Jurado and David Bazan still know how to push my buttons. Mike Kinsella, AKA Owen, has the chops to make it interesting, his Chicago bretheren and pedigree aside. But in the larger world, the most exciting news to come out of acoustic-toting balladeerhood was the disappearance of Cat Stevens and the reemergence of Yusuf Islam.

Now, I’m getting to Matthew Solberg. His record is worth a spin, but if that is my highest recommendation, is it really a recommendation at all? The songwriting is solid to be sure. He has the chops to pull it off and make it interesting enough. A voice and guitar is really the basic unit of popular music nowadays (unless you’ve figured out how to tote a piano around on your back). But somehow, Solberg’s acoustic prowess aside, it’s not enough for me.

Maybe I’m callous, gone past the point of “sad bastard.”

The instrumental tracks are the best part of the album. He’s really a talented player, but the plain old vanilla just isn’t enough for my peanut butter, banana and bacon palette. Sorry, I’m an Elvis man.

There’s a hackneyed sense of sentimentality that I just can’t relate to. The drama seems forced. That’s really the element that would draw me in. It’s the reason I still listen to Springsteen’s Nebraska album, and the same reason why I probably won’t listen to this one.

Plain old vanilla’s a hard sell when there’s a Dairy Queen on every corner.