LAMBERT is back. Or maybe he never le2. Maybe he was never there in the first place. There’s no use enquiring, however. You’d have to track him down. Could you be sure that’s him in the Sardinian mask, not a cunning imposter? Moreover, does this matter when the facts speak for themselves? LAMBERT is back. He’s releasing a new album. He’s called it I AM NOT LAMBERT.

So, let’s start there. I AM NOT LAMBERT is classic Lambert, indicative of the inventive versatility that, for a dozen years, has earned praise for this Berlin-based pianist, composer and producer. I AM NOT LAMBERT is also very different, his first to feature significant vocals. “My music has always been song-oriented,” he says. “It felt natural to see if this works as well as I believed it would. Songs are a big part of what I listen to, so music like this is just me being… I don’t know… honest?”

In fact, I AM NOT LAMBERT begins with Lambert singing in sometimes Vocodered tongues amid ‘Spirit’’s gentle fluDers. Australian Kat Frankie lends hushed tones to the gossamer ‘So Unkind’, and old friend Dekker layers harmonies over ‘The Sum’’s soulful poise until moved to Prince-like testimony. There’s also Goodwin (Rob of The Slow Show), whose weathered croon on the devastating ‘Hurts Like You’ unconsciously rekindles the spirit of Lambchop’s Is A Woman. But none of these three is Lambert.

Nor are regular cohorts Daniel Schaub (guitars, bass, drums), Marie-Claire Schlameus (cello) and Ralph Heidel (saxophone, clarinet, flute). Adding so2-hued shading to tracks like the poignant ‘All At Once’, Heidel is also featured on the suave ‘The Garage’, while Schlameus plays a prominent role on ‘Parthenope’, its piano’s top line inspired by Paolo Sorrentino’s film, its lower notes ticking like clockwork. Lambert even settles behind a drumkit on ‘We’ll Be Safe Here’, ‘The Sum’, ‘The Garage’ and ‘The Chase’, which starts like John Carpenter tangling with Debussy before a de2 step sideways. Is this the Lambert we know?

“I AM NOT LAMBERT”, announces the artwork. “I am many,” the music replies. So, alongside hints of noughties enthusiasms (Bright Eyes, Fiona Apple, Jon Brion’s Eternal Sunshine… score) are indications of a passion for jazz, lingering from long before Lambert was Lambert and a staple of his long-running podcast with musician Felix Weigt. ‘We’ll Be Safe Here’ showcases a nimble Rhodes, and ‘Gingerly’ combines chamber-like intimacy with fingers Oscar Peterson would envy. Another old friend, Kenny Warren – no, he’s not Lambert – also adds trumpet to the languorous ‘You Don’t Like Me’, while ‘It Will Happen Either Way’ is as fragile as porcelain.

Like a maestro switching between major and minor, Lambert has played with ideas of identity for nine albums now, though initially his mask derived from a wish to leave his past behind. “I didn’t want people to know anything about me,” he confesses of 2014’s self-titled debut. “I wanted to clean the slate.” But this headwear developed into emblem and lure, and if Lambert became ‘The Man In The Mask’, it suited him rather well.

“I had to talk about it a lot, but I didn’t mind,” he explains. “It was better than talking about my failures.” Such light-hearted comments became another trademark, although neither technique was defensive. “I don’t need protection,” he says with straight face. “My music is great. It doesn’t need to be serious to be good, and nor do I. I don’t see this as high culture, just songs. Very good songs, of course!” To some, such flippancy stands for authenticity, and if he told us his last solo album, Actually Good, was his score for an aborted TV show – in which he’d have starred as a grizzled, masked detective – who were we to contest this? Lambert wasn’t hiding anything.

Yet still few could say who was behind that mask. Take it off and he was unrecognisable, raising further questions. If Lambert was gone, could his music survive? Was it his if he wasn’t undercover? To find out, he started removing his ‘uniform’ – if solely mid-show – but this proved no more than a distraction. No one had bought tickets for the mask. Only a2erwards did he notice how this affected
fans.

“When people could see my face while we chatted,” he recalls, “we had a different way of connecting.” But if he’d le2 Lambert behind, to punters that’s who he remained. It was becoming confusing, especially when he realised that, even as himself, he was nonetheless playing a part. To break the myth of authenticity, he’d taken it seriously, with repercussions inevitable. “When people tell me to be myself on social media, I really don’t understand,” he adds. “That’s not authenticity.” He was trapped in a hall of mirrors.

Fortunately, he reached a conclusion. “What counts is to do what I’ve always done, to play with ideas whilst at the same Hme wriHng, searching for pop where there isn’t so much. None of that other stuff is as important.” So here are the headlines: Lambert is back. On his new album’s cover he’s seen taking off his mask, but inside he’s still himself. It’s not Lambert being Lambert, nor Lambert not being Lambert. Like much of his work, it’s the same, but different. In fact, it’s probably safe to say that I AM NOT LAMBERT is the most honest lie Lambert’s ever told.