Album of the Week
Jay Farrar is still looking out the window on long drives through the
middle of the country, conjuring images of uncelebrated lives and
stopping to read the roadside plaques that document centuries-old
stories. In some cases the land is unchanging and elsewhere the
familiar landscape appears abandoned or shrouded. Farrar is no fan of
the unfamiliar, an element that informs both elements in the songs, the
lyrics and the melodies.
Son Volt has returned to forsaking the fanciful for the rooted, opting
for comfort over the occasional surprise. Storytelling remains central
to the vision. The
songs of American Central Dust are thematically linked observations
and reflections on a disappearing America, and by weaving emotions
with concrete imagery Farrar paints a unified picture by using memory
and observation.
He sings about Louisiana in the country weeper "Pushed Too Far,"
lamenting the absence of the late guitarist Snooks Eaglin and hoping
there is still blues and barrelhouse being played across town. It turns
personal when he reflects on his role in the songwriter-musician
continuum, stating that words are given freely which in turn take the
songs "back to familiar ground." It's only a line a chorus, but it's a
point of view that permeates the album.
Sonically, the album is a retreat -- and by that measure, a bona fide
treat -- to Son Volt's 1995 debut "Trace." It's straight-forward and
sparse, the energy carefully rationed and never fully used. Like a
great country artist, Farrar eliminates tension before the recording
process begins; every song is a man laying out his thoughts on the
table with little concern for repercussion.
Farrar draws a distinction between the Midwest he grew up in and the
one children see today. Significantly, he talks about the cities and
towns that thrived because of their proximity to railroads and rivers,
how those people worked assembly lines and on trains, working night
shifts and hauling goods on the interstates. "Who'll tell the
children?" he asks in "When the Wheels Don't Move," a parable about the
disappearance of one American way of life.
In "No Turning Back," he parallels the decisions made in a more
industrial world with those of a musician. He invokes Leadbelly when
talking about adventurers looking for an opportunity--they have no use
for a bourgeois town and they have no home to return to. It's all about
becoming successful somewhere new. The West, whether it's 16 miles from
Denver or Lardeo, is the setting here; for all of its wide open spaces
and promise of new beginnings, it's a decision to venture there that
cannot be undone. The spry tune has the cheeriest arrangement on the
album.
The imagery here includes the Fourth of the July, honky tonks and biker
bars; among the tales is the story of a boat sinking in the Mississippi
River. He has come up with a stirring twist on Neil Young's "Borrowed
Tune," titled "Cocaine and Ashes," that's a tip of the hat to Keith
Richards and immortality.
Farrar's sleepy growl gets the message across in languid fashion. In
some cases he's a town crier and in others he has gathered around the
campfire; usually he sounds like he got out of bed to deliver the news.
The band--drummer Dave Bryson, bassist Andrew Duplantis, guitarist
Chris Masterson and keyboardist/pedal steel player Mark Spencer--offer
simpatico accompaniment.
The recent Son Volt albums Okemah and the Melody of Riot and The
Search were more far-reaching than American Central Dust. In terms
of nourishing the soul, American Central Dust has them beat by
several furlongs.
