With a title like this and the mustache Alexander Eccles wears on the front cover, you can’t expect to take this too seriously. It’s a meeting of the avant-garde and the Americana-minded that’s not entirely satisfying. Classically trained pianist Eccles is at his best when he’s not moving too far into uncharted territory. “1999” is a fine piece of pop but the opening “Sarsaparilla” is a joke that wears thinner than a hermit’s underwear within a few measures. Eccles and his co-conspirators don’t seem to know the material from which they borrow well enough to do it with conviction. Neither can they can convince us that this more than a lark.