Stephen Malkmus, formally known as SM, formally known as that tall, skinny guy who knows more neat metal guitar riffs than anyone in Stockton, Calif., was the leader by default of Amerindie's greatest band, Pavement, which called it quits last fall after a year of waffling.

Stephen Malkmus, former leader of Pavement, going it alone

A lot of people think Amerindie died the moment Liz Phair appeared on the cover of Rolling Stone, but Pavement kept the banner flying for the rest of the '90s without making a fuss about it. The band's most convincing claim to true independence was its lack of a clearly defined band identity, which is easy to maintain when your members are scattered all over the U.S.

Matador Records liked to credit Pavement's output of consistently high-quality product to its "musical brain trust," a phrase that is so un-indie as to be practically Republican. No, Pavement was great because none of its members, Malkmus included, ever acted as if they had a stake in what they were doing. They were intelligent and passionate about things other than music (poetry, horse racing), and in the final analysis, the rightness of the band's break-apart melodies and slapstick lyrics did not spring from inspiration but from happy accidents. For whatever reason -- collective temperament, most likely -- Pavement was able to make the happy accident occur over and over again.

Reportedly, Malkmus didn't even want to name his eponymous solo debut after himself but was forced to by Matador. A likely story, I say; not because I think he wanted his kisser on the cover, but because he likes those kinds of stories. The album is full of them. There's one song about Yul Brynner's makeover and another about Malkmus' career as a pirate off the coast of Montenegro. If he were still with Pavement, those themes would be grist for digressions. Here, they constitute entire compositions.

Such expansiveness normally indicates ambition, which, while not exactly a dirty word in Indieville is one that's probably not uttered without an ironic disclaimer of some kind. But even the music on the new album is notable for its purposefulness: strong melodies that persist for entire songs (Pavement melodies morphed several times before reaching the coda) and guitar solos worth stealing. Is you is or is you ain't a singer-songwriter?

It's a question that Malkmus seemed determined to avoid during his May 16 show at Shibuya Club Quattro. Pavement concerts usually took place in a knockabout treehouse-club atmosphere. One didn't fixate on Malkmus just because he was the singer and lead guitarist and lyricist (the two drum sets helped). But at Quattro, he was forced to act as host, and it's obvious he doesn't enjoy the role. (Don't take my word for it, read the tour diary on his Web site.) "Hello," he said nervously when he came out in two layers of T-shirts and hair hanging in his face. The crowd roared in appreciation. "See, I know how to say hello."

He knows how to do a lot of things because he's obviously listened to a lot of things, but whereas with Pavement his influences were spat out like so many watermelon seeds, now they seem to sit heavily in the center of his songs like pits in prunes: the glam rock insouciance of "Phantasies," the classical hard rock structure of "Church on White," the Jaggerish blackface soul of "Vague Space."

He played these songs with his usual flair but not a whole lot of conviction. It was obvious from the forced yuk-yuk banter that filled the dead air between numbers that the band members were friends before they were musical cohorts. He played "The Hook" -- the pirate song mentioned earlier and the meatiest cut on the album -- solo as each member of the group grabbed a percussion instrument and acted out. The brilliance of Malkmus's Lou Reed imitation was canceled out by Mike Clark's lifeless piano solo. So much for leadership qualities.

It wasn't surprising that he didn't do any Pavement songs, but, considering how his influences were showing, I was curious about the covers he'd do, and predicted "The Boys Are Back in Town," since Malkmus recently declared that Thin Lizzy's first album is one of the great rock records of all time.

Wrong again. They did Fairport Convention's "Tale in Hard Time." Malkmus, with his doofy, just-barely-on-the-note singing style, couldn't pull off Iain Matthews' tricky vocal, but he did throw in some knotty Richard Thompson licks.

Playing other people's stuff can have a therapeutic effect that audiences don't appreciate, and the set improved markedly thereafter. "Jo Jo's Jacket," the Yul Brynner song complete with spoken intro ("the shaving of my head has been a liberation from a lot of stupid vanity"), was as playful and clever as it is on record. And, after thanking the crowd for attending and "for coming to see the great Pavement all these years" (see, even he knows how good they were), he played "Polish Mule," an out-and-out punk song complete with Johnny Rotten impersonation ("small and boring" goes the chorus, I think).

For the final encore, it was "Satellite of Love," but because Malkmus wasn't sure of the guitar part, he asked drummer John Moen to take over. "He's got a great voice," Malkmus said before replacing him behind the kit, and he has, though it didn't suit the song. By rights, Moen should have done the Fairport cover and Stephen the Velvets song. But he looked happier banging away on the drums than he had all night, and, in the end, that's what's important.