In his own way, Lindsey Buckingham is a rock-ribbed traditionalist, but the tradition he valiantly and self-consciously upholds on his first solo album, Law and Order, isn't hallowed and funky like rockabilly or Cajun music. Buckingham's tradition is that of the big-time Hollywood wacko–perfectly symbolized by Brian Wilson in his sandbox – who creates, amid decadence and craziness, pop songs that are drenched in sweetly accessible innocence. It's the tradition of the copyright-royalties royalty whose fortunes have been made in three-minute bursts, a subculture as hermetic and all-American as the Mardi Gras Indians, albeit at the opposite end of the economic spectrum. At its best, it boasts its own wild-eyed naiveté. The idea of a grown man sitting in his basement singing "rah-ta-ta-ta" repeatedly into a microphone that cost more than my whole stereo–well, somehow there's a certain ironic charm.

Of course, Buckingham has earned his playtime. With a little help from group chemistry, he turned flat-footed, middleweight Fleetwood Mac into a sparkling ubiquity (even if you don't own Fleetwood Mac or Rumours, it's guaranteed you know someone who does). An avowed Beach Boys fan, Buckingham probably coaxed his band mates into intricate harmonizing, and he definitely had a hand in giving Fleetwood Mac's records that everything-is-beautiful California gloss. Based on the evidence of Law and Order, however, Lindsey Buckingham's biggest contribution to Fleetwood Mac has been his unabashed fondness for pop music at its most hokey and hooky – not just sculpting vocal harmonies but carefully designing each phrase to tickle some pleasure center, no matter what the lyrics happen to say. Pop must come to him almost by reflex. Interestingly, Buckingham also has a rock & roll urge that shows itself in screaming guitar solos (as on Fleetwood Mac Live) and funny noises (all over Tusk). As Los Angeles archetypes go, Buckingham is definitely more Turtle than Eagle: at a certain point, he's happy to let his silliness conquer his perfectionism. And once Rumours went over the top, the artist apparently decided he could trust his reflexes and use loose ends as embellishments.

So now that he's proved himself a pro, Lindsey Buckingham can make like a happy amateur. Except for one drum-and-bass track and a background vocal here and there, Law and Order is a one-man disc. If Buckingham needs to extend his range or technique, he utilizes obvious tape tricks, strictly on the up and up. The LP could be an extension of the star's tunes on Tusk: basement tapes with a million-dollar mix, while Buckingham and coproducer Richard Dashut try to hold back the giggles. Like the best die-hard popsters, Buckingham writes songs that seem both effortless and encyclopedic. "Love from Here, Love from There" second-lines as if the twenty-four-track machine were a New Orleans secret, and "Shadow of the West" brings the Drifting Cowboys to the edge of the Pacific. "That's How We Do It in L.A." sports a jug-band swagger, complete with a drum-kit version of washboard percussion and a guitar that sounds like a kazoo.

Most of Buckingham's hat tips go directly to the Beach Boys and the Beatles. "Bwana" uses the bass line from "I Want to Hold Your Hand" (hence the title?) and keyboards related to "Surfin' Safari." "Trouble," with its steady quarternote rhythms, zither hook and air of wistful autism, is Brian Wilson to the core. Throughout the album, Buckingham's vocal harmonies are inspired by the Beach Boys songbook–he seems to have all of their ranges in his voice–while some of the mixes, like the left and right drum fills in "Mary Lee Jones," echo the goofy stereo of early Beatles records.

Then again, the last thing Lindsey Buckingham needs to borrow is goofiness. Since Buckingham's idea of drumming and Dashut's drum sound are fervently unconventional, the homemade arrangements are eccentric from the bottom up: every cut has a pinch of skiffle. Above that, the artist builds airy vocal chorales and laceworks of guitar–pure confection–except that every so often a track runs wild and gets derailed. For most of "Mary Lee Jones," Buckingham sustains a single guitar note at the center of the harmony. Suddenly, this note blasts into fuzzed-out blues licks, like a Maserati pulling loose from a snowdrift. The singer sobs histrionically at the end of "I'll Tell You Now" (after, incidentally, not telling us anything) and does his finest Frankenstein shtick in the middle of "Johnny Stew," which is "World Turning" on its side. Probably only Buckingham and Dashut know what else is buried in the mix.

These guys aren't just farting around, though they don't seem to mind if they do. Each slapstick overdub is a reminder that pop is a confection, that the innocence is phony–enjoy the hooks but don't kid yourself. Buckingham has as much fun popping the bubble as he does filling it full of wind. On side one of Law and Order, he acts like Nick Lowe or the Barry Manilow of "Copacabana," couching his skepticism in smiley vocals and lyrics that merely hint at mayhem. In "Bwana," he sings the line "We all have our demons" in falsetto, while "Mary Lee Jones" is about her miserable "final days" (suicide?), though you'd never guess it from the star's one-man-Jordanaires backups. Buckingham drops the mask a little more on side two, which opens with a Fifties torchstyle rendition of Kurt Weill and Maxwell Anderson's "September Song." With "Shadow of the West," he becomes absolutely direct. "Shadow of the West" lets you suspend all disbelief as cumulus-cloud harmonies float above the melody, only to clarify Buckingham's message: "More and more, I feel less and less."

Still, Buckingham hardly wants us to feel sorry for him. The rest of the side is nasty comedy–are the background vocals in "That's How We Do It in L.A." really saying "fucked up"? – until the final number. "Satisfied Mind" addresses but can't answer the question Buckingham expects us to ask: who cares about a rich man's hobby? The old-timers who wrote the tune thought that a "satisfied mind" was better than any riches, and Buckingham proves he was once a folkie as he sings the song straight, with easy nasal harmonies. There it sits, the send-off on an LP of pop contrivances. But Lindsey Buckingham knows we don't have to believe it for a second. (RS 357)

JON PARELES