Posts Tagged ‘Americana’


June 4, 2013

Where to begin with Mark Lanegan’s voice? It’s a melted-down chainsaw. Soft beams of light shooting across a bubbling tar pit. A rusted tractor set ablaze amidst heavy downpour. Rich. Ragged. Ridiculous. It’s also one of the most uniquely expressive voices in American music – arguably similar to that of Tom Waits in its ability to extricate a sumptuously soulful croon from the sound of over-zealous vocal cord scrapings. But unlike the perma-hatted veteran, Lanegan never gives into the gnarl. He’s simply a vessel for sorrows that are resigned to their fate: in other words, the blues.

For all the raw feeling summoned by those rattling pipes, Mark has always worked best in collaboration with others. Sure, he’s made stand-out solo records since making his name as the Screaming Trees’ frontman (Whiskey For The Holy Ghost and Bubblegum representing particular career highlights), but sparks have truly flown when rubbing shoulders with the likes of Isobel Campbell and fellow Gutter Twin Greg Dulli. On Black Pudding he’s enlisted the help of multi-instrumentalist Duke Garwood, and the results are often stunning.

The opening title track introduces us to Garwood’s nimble guitar work, which is both delicate and yet subtly powerful, paving the way for the tone of the rest of the album. Basic blues motifs serve as a peg on which to hang his ideas, which make songs feel like meditative explorations of mood rather than linear stories. Nothing is resolved. Instead we find textural experiments like the quick bursts of guitar drone that scorch ‘Mescalito’s arid shuffle, coalescing and gradually evaporating like sunspots in the desert heat.

Then there’s the tumbling, intuitive piano that stumbles dizzily around the drunken lament of ‘Last Rung’, brashly beautiful in its plaintive chaos. In the midst of all this, Lanegan offers thoughtful whispers of lost loves and portents of doom – “Death rides a white horse,” he sombrely intones, “But I ain’t seen him yet.” If that reads like a defiant claim of invulnerability, the song’s fooling no-one. The line is practically shrugged into your speakers, grimly accepting the inevitability of mortality: a spine-tingling moment.

‘Black Pudding’ works best at its most sparse, which is why flute-drenched psych ballad ‘Shade Of The Sun’ is infinitely more arresting than ‘Cold Molly’s loose-limbed, stoned groove. Minor quibbles aside, however, it feels more like the product of two minds in sync than a collection of contrasting ideas thrown at the wall, which tallies up with Lanegan’s admission that Garwood is one of his “all time favourite artists”.

With an over-saturation of pseudo-folkies grabbing acoustics and aiming pointlessly for some intangible sense of ‘authenticity’, it’s easy to feel that there’s an over-saturation of terrible faux-Americana in this day and age. By plunging impassively into their own hearts of darkness, Mark Lanegan and Duke Garwood have demonstrated that there’s still plenty of life lurking in the muddy waters of the blues. (7.5/10)

(Originally published by The Line Of Best Fit, 17/05/2013)


DESAPARECIDOS – Manchester Academy 2, 10/02/2013

June 4, 2013

“They say it’s murder for your folk career / To make a rock record with The Disappeared” – that may not have been the cleverest line on Desaparecidos’ 2002 debut, but it was certainly the funniest. Now they’re back with new music on the way, and with Conor Oberst hinting that his long-running Bright Eyes project may have been killed off, it could yet turn out to be the most prophetic.

Still, that’s the diminutive Nebraskan all over; constantly playing with words, characters and false promises. He’ll talk enough shit to convince you that he’s a total asshole before crooning the most sensitively intelligent lines you’ve heard this side of John Darnielle, slaloming the listener in and out of false senses of security and distraction. The scamp. The reunited five onstage are a more visceral prospect than the Americana-tinged folkiemo with which Conor made his name – bassist Landon Hedges doubles up on the majority of lead vocals, amplifying the ragged howl as a deafening, punked-out ruckus sounds out. The thunderous pounding that Matt Baum’s punchdrunk drums receive would be a compelling spectacle on their own; firecrackers and explosions beneath the soaring melodies.

If there’s a real problem tonight, it’s the shitty sound that does its best to obscure the songs. So hook-drenched album opener ‘Man And Wife, The Former’ is barely recognisable until the singing starts, while the dude-punk thrills of ‘Greater Omaha’s head-nodding riff are almost totally lost to the fog. But what we can hear is riveting, with new material suggesting a second album could be a stormer. Even the old songs feel relevant and now, as opposed to decade-old nostalgia pieces. Time will tell whether the folk career is truly deceased, but for the time being The Disappeared look like a pretty good bet. Welcome back.

(Originally published by The Fly, 15/02/2013)