Andrew Karnavas
Film Noir
Self-released

Aficionados of Houston music may already be familiar with Andrew Karnavas from his work with roots-rockers Runaway Sun. Then again, maybe not; though the band's already got an EP, an LP, some touring, and spots at the Houston Press Music Awards and SXSW under their belts, they've only been around about two years. Karnavas is already out with this solo project. So, clearly, he is not messing around.

This impression is borne out through a close listen to Film Noir. The album's style is of a piece with the windswept Americana that has settled over indieland in the past decade, but where many guitarists are content to chunk along on year-one chords, Karnavas uses deft, bold finger-picking as accompaniment. Karnavas plays rhythm, not lead, in Runaway Sun, which makes his guitar work something of a secret weapon in this project, especially since, though capable of intricate and demanding technique, he's not at all showy. But the album's clear sound and nearly naked orchestrations give the intent listener the opportunity to hear some first-rate folk guitar.

"Soft Spoken," in particular, showcases Karnavas' consistent tone and creative fills. On other tracks, like "Valentine's Day" and "Film Noir," Karnavas displays a knack for riffs that is rare and valuable in an acoustic guitarist. The waltzing guitar work on "Fireflies" is just so nice that the track could be an instrumental. And throughout the album, Karnavas is assisted with arrangements that teem with talent and taste -- the drummer's crush roll on "Irish Blessing" alone practically makes the song.

Karnavas is also a good singer, with a pleasant, gauzy voice, and though there's plenty of melody on Film Noir, he has a tendency to take the high road, delivering hooks only sparingly and rarely selling hard. One exception is "The Ballad of Marylou," though it's hard to fault the indulgence, given the sheer beauty of the overdubbed chorus that closes the song.

This is tasteful, clever, and well-crafted music. However, lyrically, Karnavas stumbles. Though his intelligence serves him well in avoiding cliche, and he does well with setting and mood, Karnavas has a gift neither for the sound of language nor for storytelling. At best, his lyrics are diverting but incomplete: "Film Noir," for example, starts with an inviting descent into the conventions of the genre ("The woman was in trouble, the man was a private eye. They both smoked Lucky Strikes"), but ends up simply reciting the the formula for a couple of verses. "The Ballad of Marylou" gives us a few very brief glimpses of the life of a young girl ("In an old dusty town where the air's never new, there's a pair of lungs breathing of a girl, Marylou. Kicking up rocks in a lost parking lot, with memories of nothing but all of the things she forgot"), with no sense of how they are connected or what they mean. "Fireflies" has a number of interesting images, but again, if the song means anything, that meaning is extremely oblique:

I dreamed of fireflies lighting up our night skies
Daisies and daffodils growing on our windowsills
Bones from the dinosaurs buried under bedroom floors
Gold in a treasure chest makes all our lives a mess
And the pirates are waiting for us to all fall asleep

In music that is so spare and intimate, the seeming insubstantiality of the ideas behind the songs, and the resulting inaccessibility of the persona that created them, is frustrating. Karnavas is neither a poet nor a prophet, neither a jester nor a lover. He's not a rebel, a mystic, a preacher, or a bard. He doesn't need to be all of these things, or any of them, but until he's something, he's just a guy with a guitar. There's nothing wrong with that, but he's talented enough to be a whole lot more.

Karnavas will celebrate the release of Film Noir with a performance of the entire disc along with full musical arrangements. Karnavas' band Runaway Sun plays after. 9 p.m. Saturday. $10. Continental Club.