Whence comes that moment when we truly grow up? Does it creep along in the night, stealing away our childhood and leaving in its place the sullen demeanor of a crusty old adult of, say, twenty-five? Or is the passage from childhood to adulthood more jarring -- are you an "adult" when you wake up in a ravine with your pants wrapped around your head on the morning after your twenty-first birthday? Regardless of when, where, or with how much alcohol you grow up, you simply cannot bridge the gap between Nintendo and Metamucil without a soundtrack. I know how persuasive the argument may be that Blink 182's "Dude Ranch" may have already fulfilled that musical chasm in our generation, but David Mead's The Luxury of Time provides a refreshingly non-hyperkinetic alternative.

The man himself admits to the autobiographical nature of his debut disc, which lyrically and musically follows a stalwart young man's journey through love, life, and whatever lies thereafter. "It's about graduating from one part of your life to another," says Mead, "from being the life of the party to realizing that you don't necessarily have to go to it anymore." True to his word, the album starts out with the catchy as hell "Robert Bradley's Postcard" and doesn't let up until our lyrical protagonist has discovered that love is sometimes more pensive than peppy on "Apart From You." "Robert Bradley" is one of those fantastic album openers -- the kind of song that you immediately re-cue to the beginning after hearing it only once. Granted, one does not get through the entire CD very quickly when they are listening and relistening to the first song, but once you do, you are more than rewarded by what comes after. "Sweet Sunshine" is neo-psychadelic free-lovin' pop at its best, and its follow-up, "A Touch of Mascara," winds down with the meditative maxim, "All you dream is real/All you bleed you feel."

Mead grows up somewhere amidst the tent revival pragmatism of "World of a King:" "The fountain of ego learned how to sing / But the truth shall engage him with heartbreak and cold cuts / With an unguarded moment in the world of a king." The remainder of the album is a richly textured symphony of sweeping sentimental pop -- the kind of music that one writes after having had an emotional breakthrough and a nice cup o' decaf with the adult within. "Everyone Knows it But You," the most outstanding track from the latter half of the album, is a beautiful showcase for Mead's distinctive tenor--while the closing track, "Painless," swims in nostalgically melodious fuddy-duddy glory.

Overall the album is lyrical, mature and beautifully produced by Peter Collins (of Brian Setzer fame) and Jason Lehning. I wouldn't recommend it to one still in the throes of adolescence, nor would I dare relegate it to the rear shelf with all those adult contemporary saurians. David Mead is an artist on the cusp of growing up, and his album embraces both sides of maturity without wallowing in either one. Listening to his CD is like flirting with the idea of our own incipient post-adolescence without actually having to accept it.