My father has always refused to accept that he truly hates any food. Therefore, ignoring more than a half-century of unwavering evidence of his distaste for them, he will periodically take a lusty bite out of a beet. The inevitable look of revulsion, quick spit into a napkin and desperate reach for a glass of water are certainly rewarding parts of this ritual, but only to spectators.

The thing is, though, that the idea underpinning his dogged perseverance is a solid one: frequently, our first impressions of something are flawed, rushed, or simply wrong. Moreover, the older we get, the more likely we are to recognize those things that we should like, given our tastes in general, and the more likely we should be to give a second chance to certain experiences that might, at first blush, leave us cold.

This is all a roundabout way of saying that it took about four solid listens before I really started to get into Foxes and Hounds, even though lush, witty, slightly over-the-top chamber pop is normally my bread and butter. Now, looking back on my initial resistance to The Sharp Things, I can still identify the less-than-perfect elements of their sound that kept me from embracing them wholeheartedly. But now, the strength of singer/songwriter Perry Serpa's compositional and lyrical muse overwhelms those initial doubts, and I find myself interested in both the stories he's telling and the lush musical tapestry over which those stories are being told.

From the moment the opening acoustic strum of "There Will Be Violins" is augmented by the titular instrument, you shouldn't worry too much about the possibility of sparse, barren soundscapes on Foxes. Serpa and company have never met a melody they didn't want to augment the shit out of. Said augmentations include not only the standard guitar/bass/drums, violas, violins and cello, but go so far afield as to incorporate french horn, trumpet and (what the hell) glockenspiel. This more-is-better approach can really bring out the dramatic subtleties of these songs' simple melodies in a way that a more troubador style could never match. When Serpa goes up for a final, sustained "yes" before plunging into the last line, the delicious tension comes courtesy of the highly enriched melody that has preceded it. Naturally, the string-strewn closing phrase is just choice.

In general, Serpa's lyrics are fairly witty, though he does have some difficulty with concision; I strongly recommend that you avoid reading along with the lyrics (available on the band's website) until you're pretty familiar with the songs and have hashed out most of the words for yourself. The line breaks can be a little tough on the first-time reader, especially one who isn't familiar with the degree to which the author himself ignores them.

While the wordiness and the occasional lyrical awkwardness are usually easy to ignore amid the sturm and swirl, there are points where they stand out a bit too starkly ("Letting Go"). There are other points at which the ever-present drama that defines Serpa's vocals gets nudged over the side of Mount Saint Overblown. But again, The Sharp Things are pretty much a perfect vehicle for this singer, and for these songs. While they're pretty, the songs wouldn't be half as ear-catching without their more baroque tendencies, and Serpa's vocal stylings would never work with anything less than a huge sound behind them (though they sound nothing like any track on Foxes, it's worth imagining a tune from Bat Out Of Hell being shorn of all of Steinman's bells and whistles. But still sung at full bombast by Mr. Loaf).

Foxes and Hounds is a big, big record, and it's far from perfect. Don't be surprised if you find yourself nitpicking its lesser traits at first, especially if you have some experience with the genre. Given enough time, I'm sure that The Sharp Things' talent and craft will win you over as effectively as they did me.