Saint Etienne is something like the musical equivalent of a Hugh Grant romantic comedy—sophisticated, extremely English, somewhat yuppified and materialistic, and with a predilection for prettiness that at times seems like a stronger driving force than substance. But at its best, it's the pinnacle of breezy pop. The band's seventh disc, Tales From Turnpike House, is one of its finest, deploying Sarah Cracknell's warmly personable singing and Bob Stanley and Pete Wiggs' deft songwriting and production on a series of linked songs about a day in the life of the ordinary inhabitants of a posh London apartment building. (Released last year in Britain, Turnpike has been remodeled for its stateside release, with its track listing shuffled and three new songs recorded specifically for the U.S. disc.) Concept albums are always chancy, but Turnpike's arrangements are rich and often gorgeous, and the lyrics are filled with subtle mood shifts and telling observations on the daily grind for middle-class, mid-30ish Londoners with midlife crises.