Not that I expect you to feel sorry for them, but Daryl Hall and John Oates are victims of the pretty-boy syndrome. Gratuitous prettiness arouses primal jealousies and unflattering suspicions about intelligence, moral fiber and how some people gain undeserved breaks because of high cheekbones.

Not only are Hall and Oates pretty, but they make music that matches their looks. No matter what stylistic phase they're going through (pop-folk, soft soul, R&B, AOR-rock, gussied-up New Wave), their stuff has always been terminally well-groomed, impeccably crafted and professional, oh yes. Even the albums that didn't sell so hot (quite a few, actually) sounded pierced by the Billboard bullet. Private Eyes does, too.

Like the two LPs that preceded it, the new record features a bizarre hybrid of island rhythms, arena rock, Al Green, the Four Tops, the Raspberries and a smattering of Suicide. Most of this aural intrigue will probably be ignored, though, because the music is so pretty. That's okay. For the most part, Private Eyes deserves to be ignored.

Hall and Oates' best projects have generally been a Mexican standoff between steam and frost. In contrast to last year's quirky Voices, however, Private Eyes' fascination with posturing and being cool snuffs out the flame. The title tune is a perfect example. As usual, it's a story written from the foxholes of psychic intimacy. Also as usual, there's a wonderfully literate economy to the lyrics. The hard-pop music kicks in fast, punctuated with the imaginative percussion that Hall and Oates have taken such an interest in over the past few years. All signs point to an imminent arrival, a peak, a grudging display of heart. None comes. Same story in the Four Tops-style "Looking for a Good Sign," "Some Men," "Head above Water" and the rest of the cuts, to a lesser degree.

Speaking of fire and ice, few pop singers can capture their fusion like Daryl Hall, when he puts his mind to it. Hall has all the mannerisms and sensuous agility of a soul crooner – and the distance of a taciturn extra in a Scandinavian art film. The latter characteristic dominates Private Eyes. "Your Imagination" percolates with irritation over a paranoid lover, especially at the hair-raising start of the sax solo. But Hall's vocal nonchalance seems out of place, and this casualness cripples the entire album.

Still, even with LPs like Private Eyes, Hall and Oates deserve more respect than they generally get. Daryl Hall is such a natural singer that sometimes the sheer gorgeousness of the sound is enough: e.g., "I Can't Go for That (No Can Do)." Hall and Oates' songwriting certainly doesn't put a premium on originality, yet there aren't many composers who can curl all those strands of popular music around each other and avoid knots ("Tell Me What You Want"). Comparatively speaking, these guys represent a bright and lucid moment on today's commercial scene.

Mostly, though, Daryl Hall and John Oates set themselves apart from other chart-busting bands by utilizing a very distinct protagonist who's shrugged, sneered, wondered and braved his way through ten records. He's incredibly smart, impossibly self-contained, awed and terrified of his own vulnerability, and possessed with an honesty that can make him look like a jerk at times. Like all pretty boys, he gets caught in his pose occasionally, as on Private Eyes. He'll snap out of it, though. He always does. (RS 356)

LAURA FISSINGER