Julian Lennon's new album, 'Mr. Jordan,' is the one he needed to make to keep from being pegged as the Frank Sinatra Jr. of the Nineties. After his limp 1986 album The Secret Value of Daydreaming, many rushed to dismiss Lennon as a witless amateur whose success proved only the enduring powers of nostalgia and nepotism. Daydreaming was so consistently flaccid that it all but erased memories of Valotte, Lennon's surprisingly assured and satisfying debut.

After a hiatus of almost three years, Lennon has reemerged with an album that goes a long way toward salvaging his credibility. On Mr. Jordan (the title apparently refers to the film Here Comes Mr. Jordan), Lennon displays a readiness to experiment that's been noticeably absent from his previous work. With the able assistance of producer Patrick Leonard and new songwriting partner John McCurry, Lennon has crafted a batch of songs that are more muscular and cohesive than anything he's done to date. The brash spirit of this record is apparent from the beefy, Who-like opening chords of "Now You're in Heaven" to the swaggering blues of "Make It Up to You" and the romping funk of "Open Your Eyes."

But the biggest surprise is Lennon's newly uninhibited vocal style. While in the past he has tended to sound like a more subdued and nasal version of his father, on Mr. Jordan he repeatedly drops his voice to a low, tremulous range reminiscent of David Bowie's Heroes-period sound. Some may accuse Lennon of merely copping another rock legend's vocal gimmicks, but the imitation is so impeccable and conveys such a delight in pop tradition that it's easy to forgive Lennon for wearing his influences on his sleeve.

For all his new-found aggressiveness, Lennon remains an essentially conservative artist. He seems far more at ease with the sort of bouncy pop confections associated with Paul McCartney than the public soul baring that became his father's hallmark. Indeed, two songs on Mr. Jordan seem directly inspired by McCartney classics: "Sunday Morning" evokes the baroque stateliness of "Penny Lane," and "Mother Mary" continues the dialogue with the song's title character that McCartney began in "Let It Be."

On only one track does Lennon exhibit the brutal honesty that was so typical of his father. "Angillette" is a somber ballad in which Lennon asks a suicidal lover, "Is life that hard that you have to let it go?" In the end he seems to despair of comforting her, declaring, "There's only so much one can do to save a friend." It's a line so starkly mournful that it stands out amid the relatively cagey lyrics that dominate this accomplished album. (RS 553)

DAVID KISSINGER