Secret South
16 Horsepower (Razor &
Tie)
In 1960 the
Louvin Brothers, arguably the greatest country duo of all time, released an
album on Capitol banefully entitled Satan Is Real. The cover art has
become something of a kitsch classic. It features in the foreground Charlie
and Ira Louvin dressed in incandescent white suits, pastel pink shirts and dark
square-bottom ties striking gawky poses, arms outstretched in a come-to-Jesus
gesture. Behind them is a pile of styrofoam-looking rock debris interspersed
with fakey bursts of flame. And in the background, the masterstroke: a 10-foot
cardboard cutout of the Evil One himself, a cartoon rendering of the devil–complete
with horns, slanted eyes, a pitchfork and horrendously gapped fangs–that
is so cheesy, so garish, so crude, it wouldn’t pass muster with the animators
of South Park.
Now, in a coincidence so wild that it must have been predestined, Razor & Tie has just brought out Secret South, the new album from 16 Horsepower, who have more of a claim on the religious spirit, if not their kitschier elements, of the Louvins than anybody else in pop music. Among the new generation of roots music 16 Horsepower has the theology to back up the imagery. Their frontman, David Eugene Edwards, really does believe Satan is real.
Edwards cut his teeth on traditional country, gospel and Appalachian music, and those influences were very much in force on 1996’s Sackcloth ’n’ Ashes. On 1998’s Low Estate he married that antique sound to newfangled West Coast indie rock. Secret South, a touch mellower, less rollicking, recovers something of a balance between the two. The traditional "Wayfaring Stranger" sounds like it could have been lifted straight out of the Folkways anthology, and "Burning Bush" and "Silver Saddle" sound for all the world like Nick Cave in one of his less frantic moods, on The Boatman’s Call for example. Their version of Dylan’s "Nobody ’Cept You" is almost a pop love song. "Clogger," "Cinder Alley" and "Splinters" are the only tunes that turn the tempo up.
The total effect, on all three records, is kick-ass. The polished antiquarianism is so retro it would have seemed timely during the Civil War. But it rocks so hard that you would have only heard it in the South (of course), perhaps at a barn dance or a traveling freakshow or a tent revival. This is music for moonshining and snake handling. The lyrics are still chock-full of righteous wrath, from which Edwards doesn’t dare except himself: "I’ll be there right beside you, in judgment, on my knees." He delivers this line in a banshee wail, one of his two vocal settings, the other being tight-lipped deadpan: "I know dark clouds gonna gather ’round me/I know my way will be rough and steep." The brooding tone of Edwards’ music often throws critics off. They don’t know if he’s demonic or divine. When I spoke to him he said that the confusion is part of the point. He is decidedly a man at war with the dark forces in himself, and it’s not always easy to tell them apart from his better angels. The ambivalence is expressed in his cryptic references to an unnamed "he." You need a heavy reference Bible by your side to tell whether "he" is Jesus or Satan. On "Cinder Alley" Edwards testifies: "Yes and he did find thee/and with bruised hands he did unbind thee," where "he" is the Savior. But then a few tracks later, "he" is (maybe) the Antichrist: "Who is it now that loves ya? Strait in the front door and crooked out the back/Who is it now you pray to?" Again: "He waits patient in our prayers unprayed." Is that God waiting for us to seek him out, or is it the devil lurking in the shadows of our spiritual failure?
For every moment of ambiguity, though, there is a corresponding moment of frankness. The chorus, "All the earth awaits thee/all the stones they will cry out/and every tongue confess thee" is lifted pretty much straight out of Scripture. By Edwards’ own admission, not everyone one wants to hear his brand of hellfire and brimstone preaching. But if you know what’s good for you, you’ll take it, and you’ll like it.
16 Horsepower plays the Knitting Factory on Sept. 23.
Test Don’t
Test
Attica Blues (Higher Ground)
The
beauty of contemporary music is that it dates so rapidly. Who would have thought,
for example, that the vocoder sound used by Kraftwerk almost three decades ago
would have finally found its niche in chart music in the year 2000? From Posh
Spice to NSYNC to Marilyn Manson, everyone is getting synthetic. And yet the
device has sounded so retro-futurist for so many years now, it seems absurd.
Am I to continually confuse the summer of 2000 with the winter of 1971 (a year
I can barely remember)?
Likewise, triphop. When the term was first invented around the start of the 90s to describe the assimilation of trance and jazz techniques into English hiphop–particularly English hiphop emanating from the city of Bristol (Portishead, Tricky, Massive Attack)–it was a clinical critical joke. Like the use of the word grunge. No one is going to take such a description seriously, surely? But sure enough, 10 years down the line and the word (and sound) has long since been co-opted by pop bands like Dubstar and Moloko to describe their female-led chart music…that also happens to have a smattering of dub behind it. The innovators have long since moved elsewhere.
All this leaves London multicultural trio Attica Blues in somewhat of a bind. After all, their debut album–more than Dr. Octagon, more than U.N.C.L.E–defined the sound of James Lavelle’s much-loved Mo’ Wax imprint in the mid-90s. Now that everyone’s moved on (and back), which way should they move? Nowhere, it seems.
Sure, Attica Blues sound far more organic and experimental than their more commercial-minded pop counterparts. Sure, Egyptian-born Roba El-Essawy likes to sing silky, gentle vocals over Afrocentric grooves on songs like the dark, funky "Just An Avenue." Sure, Tony Nwachukwu’s samples on "Talk to Me" echo the old-school dub patterns of Tricky and his brethren. Sure, DJ Charlie Dark raps in a fluid and menacing style on the blaxploitation throwback "The Quest"…just like everyone else. And certainly you can hear traces of r&b, soul, scratching and Mo’ Wax all over Attica Blues’ sophomore effort. This is a fine record. So why am I already feeling nostalgic for it?
The Satyrs
The Satyrs (Black
Dog)
One of the
more interesting debuts I’ve heard in a while. A slight twang at the onset
of the amazing opening song, "This Song Is Blue," betrays the band’s
Memphis roots, but this album sounds more like it was recorded in a dungeon
than down on the farm. On this track, the rolling waves of vibrato-heavy guitar
conjure an almost mantra-like level of heaviness and solitude, with matching
Velvets-style drumming (think "Venus in Furs"). Singer Jason Paxton
has a smoky voice to match Chris Isaak’s, but only if Isaak were contemplating
suicide. If Leonard Cohen had been in the Velvet Underground, instead of Lou
Reed, I imagine it would’ve sounded something like this. Paxton’s
a good guitar player, too, especially if you look at the guitar at this point
as an instrument of limited potential. (Let’s face it, the basic structure
of most guitar music hasn’t changed much in 50 years, and in the age of
the digital, it would seem that most of its variables have been worked out.
It’s not so much anyone’s going to come up with a new style of guitar
playing, but they might remind us what an expressive tool the instrument really
is, when played right.)
Paxton’s style ain’t nothin’ fancy. But the guitar is actually saying something for once in modern rock, instead of being just a loud blurt. I’d compare Paxton to someone like Barbara Manning–the style is simplistic, but the feeling is real, and they seem haunted by some of the same demons. These are the same demons that haunted Hank Williams, Gram Parsons, Alex Chilton, Nick Drake, Ian Curtis, Brian Wilson and myriad other artists who were on a serious bummer. Paxton plays keyboards, too, which, combined with his dusky voice, brings Doors comparisons. He sounds like Jim on "Fate and the Golden Wand," which also has "Spanish Caravan" dynamics. But the drama really unfolds on "With No Light," a whirling psychodrama based on an hypnotic Manzarekian organ riff and Paxton’s most passionate vocals on the album. Paxton broods, but he never sounds pissed off.
Ultimately, this album is
as inviting as succumbing to temptation itself. By the time they get to "We
Are One," a surging dirge, a contemplative kind of illumination has settled
on the proceedings. It’s the kind of illumination that must come from seeing
the reflection of the stars in the ocean right before you jump in. Just in case
you missed the point, they close the album with a somewhat somber piano instrumental
including some real violent keyboard-bashing by Paxton, as a tribute to a departed
loved one.
Joe S. Harrington
Caroline Now!
The Songs of Brian Wilson & the Beach Boys
Various Artists (Marina)
Reviewing
the new Black Sabbath album Nativity in Black II in Melody Maker
a few months back, I wrote, "Tribute albums, eh? What’s the point?
If the original songs are good enough to still merit covering 30 years on, then
they don’t need to be updated; and if they aren’t, then they shouldn’t
be." It’s a fundamental that seems to have escaped the compiler of
virtually every tribute record going. It’s not easy covering the songs
of those you love: how best to alter the Holy Grail? Also, invariably the bands
that end up on these collections fall into a couple of categories: they’re
either mates of Sonic Youth or are all composed of members and ex-members of
Sonic Youth.
So that’s a plus for Caroline Now! already. This is a great tribute album. There is no obvious reason: the symphonic pop of Brian Wilson’s late-60s output with the Beach Boys (which most of the bands here favor) doesn’t seem particularly suited to being covered by the bands it most influenced. The converse holds true, in fact. Yet, for every cloying "intimate" reworking of obscure Wilson tracks (Belle & Sebastian’s Stevie Jackson; Camping’s bossa nova version of "Busy Doin’ Nothin’") there are several Katrina (the Pastels) Mitchells and Jad Fairs who retain enough of their own individuality to make listening to this album an engaging experience. Plus there’s the obvious care and affection this album’s compilers have put into both tracking down suitable bands and producing the accompanying 28-page booklet, replete with rare photos of Brian and an exclusive interview.
So it’s thumbs-up to Saint Etienne (not Sarah Cracknell’s anodyne vocals, but Wiggs and Stanley’s restrained arrangement of "Stevie," Brian’s tribute to Stevie Nicks). It’s thumbs up to Teenage Fanclub’s Norman Blake, fellow Scot Malcolm Ross and his lounge take on "Heroes and Villains," and to the Vaselines’ Eugene Kelly’s Spector-esque rendition of the 1969 Dennis Wilson & Rumbo single "Lady." It’s not enough to merely cherish the memory of someone you hold dear. You need to add something of your own, move on, grow upward and flourish.
Everett True
