Barry White

Tonight, Stephin Merritt peforms with Lemony Snicket in the Union Square Barnes and Noble. Earlier this week, Max Abelson sat down for some chit-chat with the most infamously white man in downtown indie music.

"All the articles begin, 'Stephin isn't such an asshole after all!'" said Stephin Merritt on Monday, the night before the release of his new album.

He was sitting in a lady's salon chair in 14th Street's Beauty Bar, with his head beneath an old domed hair dryer. "No one who is not an interviewer has ever called me an asshole," he said. "People regularly tell me how nice I am."

It's hard to imagine niceness when Mr. Merritt's songs are so forlorn, and his words are so cataclysmic witty, and that voice has such gravity.

But Mr. Merritt is disliked for other reasons besides lyricism. Two years and some months ago, The New Yorker's Sasha Frere-Jones described Mr. Merritt's musical tastes as those of a rockist cracker. Also, Mr. Frere-Jones wrote: "Get that fucking chihuahua away from me, NOW." Mr. Merritt has a chihuahua.

Earlier this year, Jessica Hopper continued the conversation, expressing distates for Mr. Merritt's love of music from "Song of the South."

John Cook, writing for Slate, took issue. David Carr did a blow-by-blow of the lengthy affair, and wrote in The New York Times that Mr. Merritt "clearly needs help with his bubblegum issues."

Speaking of which, his new release is under the name The Gothic Archies, which is his side-project for bubblegum-pop Goth. The Tragic Treasury compiles memorably absurd songs written for Lemony Snicket's A Series of Unfortunate Events.

"It's over-the-top misery," Mr. Merritt said. "It's perfectly sincere, but there's no effort to make it tasteful."

With polka-like baselines, refrains of harmonized birdcalls, amateur accordions and circus sound effects, it's his whitest album ever: white like Agnetha and Anni-Frid eating un-toasted Wonder Bread.

Mr. Merritt agrees, sort of. "That's not insane, just incomplete," Mr. Merritt said. "I think there's an enormous African-American tradition of over-the-top misery, going to back to the blues and Screamin' Jay Hawkins--no, back to spiritualist work songs."

But "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot" and "The Banana Boat Song," the examples he brought up, feel more sincere than "Smile! No One Cares How You Feel" or "The World Is a Very Scary Place."

"If you get too maudlin it's just funny," he said. "That doesn't mean maudlin isn't sincere." Tragic Treasury is indeed very maudlin, but it's also very catchy, and most its songs are textured and even beautiful.

"Finally, Stephin Merritt can sing in the register he was born to sing," he sighed, meaning that he allowed his voice to go to its deadpan depths. Mr. Merritt claims he sings lower than Johnny Cash, Lee Hazlewood and Tom Waits. This is probably true. "It's sort of a supernatural ability, kind of like a magical power, except it's completely useless."

"I think if you have a really low voice it automatically makes you a good lyricist. No one wants to hear you just say, "C'mon, baby."

On Friday the 13th, Mr. Merritt will be performing with Lemony Snicket in the Union Square Barnes and Noble, singing lyrics like, "The world is a very scary thing/ I find it's curled all my toes and it's curling my mind" or "Even geeks, even other freaks, hate the freakshow."

Maybe he would stick to straightforward romance if his voice were more like Barry White's. "Such a sexy baritone," Mr. Merritt said. "Listen to Barry White when you want to get to third base."

— Max Abelson

AIMEE: "I want to thank all of you for being here to share this in person when you could've just waited and read about it on Aimee's blog," my dad opens his speech to a roomful of laughs.

The spotlight shines down on my father, who holds a mic in one hand and a champagne flute in the other: "My favorite quote about marriage is 'Don't just marry the person you can live with, marry the person you can't live without.'"  read more »

AIMEE: "Beautiful! Elegant! We'll ghjkflshgkhkhgjkfsd and hgfsdhlkh and BOOBIES and fhkdsahhjkl," the sweet little seamstress with the accent says to me, poking and prodding and pinning my dress all around me. I am trying very hard, but quite honestly, "boobies" really IS the only word I can make sense of and, incidentally, mine are just not voluminous enough to hold up this dress.

My fitting room at the Saks in Virginia is a zoo: my parents are smiling and so happy and my sister is taking pictures with my camera (for this blog...and you're welcome) and my bridesmaid Jen L. from Florida is also scooting around taking pictures (and wait a second, why is MY camera not working? My sis is struggling with it and now she's showing it to my dad who can't figure it out either and they're giving me that "Don't upset the bride" look while my mom distracts me by telling me how good I look, which works) and the seamstress is running around and what's she saying? And now my sister's bringing me the camera and I'm trying to figure it out. And where's the woman who sold me the dress, the one I adore who might be able to tell me why it's so loose on top? And now I'm sweating. NO! Don't sweat, this is YOUR dress now!

This is so not what I expected to feel when I put on my satin Elizabeth Fillmore gown (style name: "Diva," I kid you not) for the first time. My friend Jennie had told me of the tears she shed when she tried on her gown at her first fitting. I'm a major crier, so I figured I would be trying and failing to hold back torrents of joyous tears. Instead, I'm feeling kind of manic, but, you know, maybe that's better than the tears. Apples and oranges.

First thing's first: I love the dress. LOVE it. But now that it's mine, this thing needs to fit exactly right so...

"I know you've been doing this a lot longer than me, but just to doublecheck," I say sweetly, "this will eventually stay up and fit flush against me, right?" I look down and--pardon me for getting personal--but with these cups I've got in to amp me up and fill the thing out, there is now a gap between my chest and the dress big enough for me to hold a drink in there during the cocktail hour.

Jen, ever the shy one, translates: "She doesn't want her BOOBS"--she pats her chest--"flying OUT"--she opens her hands as if to signify cups that have runneth over. Granted, I don't have much to runneth over, but still, I mean, I have to be able to move, you know? Brian and I have ambitious plans for a little "Dancing with the Stars"-esque number to a Barry White tune.

"Don't worry, here's what I do, I ghfjdsklhlk hfjklshk...." a long explanation ensues, and then, at last, comes what I need to hear. "Don't worry, will be perfect!"  read more »

Unfolding the CD booklet included in Paris Is Sleeping, Respect Is Burning, Volume 2 (Astralwerks),  read more »