The auteur is a dying breed. Mass audiences ravaged Terrence Malick’s “The Tree of Life.” Though admittedly flawed, it was one of the more complex pieces of American cinema in recent memory; we seem unwilling to accept American films as anything more than populist entertainment. In this sense, we’re lucky to have someone like David Lynch. Though his films can be flawed pieces of cinema, Lynch is one of the few working directors with a distinct voice. His films often contain quirks, idiosyncrasies and visual flourishes that are unmistakably Lynchian.

One of Lynch’s most salient characteristics is his ear for music. His use of, say, Chris Isaak’s “Wicked Game” in “Wild at Heart” (1990) was a large part of why that song has become something of a pop culture mainstay. More importantly, though, Lynch possesses an ability to convey nuanced psychological states through these interludes. There hasn’t been a point in his career when Lynch’s music has seemed unnecessarily stylized while lacking some sort of greater depth.

Sadly, this can’t be applied to his latest effort. “Crazy Clown Time,” his first solo album, shows Lynch at his most ostentatious and self-obsessed. Compared to the rest of Lynch’s oeuvre, “Clown” is hardly illuminating. It lacks any new insight into how his mind works as an artist. The album holds no surprises; it’s what we’ve come to expect of Lynch. A number of the tracks–“Movin’ On,” “She Rise Up,” the title track itself–present worlds that are surrealistic, moody and abstract. In short, they are unnavigable.

Lynch uses cryptic lyrics and numb instrumentals as alienating devices, as if he holds contempt for the audience. He often chooses to mask his voice through odd, grotesque distortion, whispering his way through narratives to evoke psychological distress.

But his songs are no longer seductive. What should be wondrous and perplexing instead has a distancing effect. There are acute instances during which Lynch’s works carry some charge. The album’s opening track, “Pinky’s Dream,” features the vocals of Yeah Yeah Yeahs’ Karen O, and it’s perhaps Lynch’s best–her vocals convey a sense of anguish and thrill, and it’s wondrous. “Good Day Today” has the trappings of an electro-synth, New Order beat that, in truth, masks a morbid subtext. In these, Lynch fulfills what it seems he sought to do with this work–to create self-contained, somewhat cinematic narratives through music.

Because American cinema won’t enjoy a talent like his for quite some time, Lynch should be applauded for seeking to stretch across different media. It is meticulous work. For this, he deserves credit. But he seems to have nothing new to offer to this medium; the album is an instance of David Lynch gracing music with his presence rather than signifying a sense of artistic progression. His work shows little in the way of maturity, quite the opposite of what we should expect of a veteran artist.