On the back cover of Nick Lowe's absurdly titled new release, the British pub-rock veteran is seen leaning against a brick wall, glumly staring up at a street sign that reads, Market Place. With his head wedged into the bottom corner, Lowe seems in danger of falling out of the picture altogether. This, of course, symbolizes his lackluster pop career. (And, typically, this bit of cleverness probably won't help Lowe sell any extra copies; the front cover is a garish mess.)

Wry popmeister Lowe has always been less famous for his own work than for his formidable résumé – producing Elvis Costello and Graham Parker, teaming with Dave Edmunds in Rockpile and playing bass on tour with Paul Carrack and on John Hiatt's recent masterpiece, Bring the Family.

Yet Lowe deserves better. His first solo effort, Pure Pop for Now People, was clever and often hilarious, as was Rockpile's lone release as a band, Seconds of Pleasure. Ever since Lowe's early days singing with the legendary group Brinsley Schwarz, his laid-back hoedown-R&B sensibility has been a pleasant constant.

But constancy does have its drawbacks. Coproduced by Lowe and Colin Fairley from sessions in London and Austin, Texas, during the past two years, Pinker sounds as if it could have been culled from outtakes over the past decade (or two). For his band, Lowe has called in his musical debts: ex-Parker axeman Martin Belmont delivers guitar leads, Carrack provides peppy keyboard fills, and ex-Rockpiler Terry Williams does most of the steady drumming. Cameo appearances include Costello's drummer, Pete Thomas (on a smartly punked-up version of Parker's silly "Black Lincoln Continental"); Hiatt on guitar for his own "Love Gets Strange," the album's tastiest confection; and Kim Wilson and Jimmie Vaughan of the Fabulous Thunderbirds on the strangely subdued bluesy opener, "(You're My) Wildest Dream."

Strangely subdued, in fact, is a term that applies to most of Pinker. It's an affable enough hodgepodge of styles and hooks: "Lover's Jamboree," guest produced by Edmunds, might score with the Thunderbirds' crowd, and there's a reggae lilt to "Cry It Out" and a country twang to "I Got the Love." Yet Pinker would work better if Lowe was an established Nashville star; then it would simply be another solid set of originals and covers ably serving its built-in audience. In contrast to Lowe's best recent solo effort, 1985's overlooked Rose of England, however, Pinker isn't compelling enough to break Lowe big. So it goes. (RS 524)

DAVID HANDELMAN