It Don't Mean a Thang If It Ain't Got That Twang
In the words of the inimitable Bloodshot Records website, the Pine Valley
Cosmonauts are a "loosely organized musical collective that sprouts
periodically, like a rare orchid out of the desert sand, to deliver unto the
world records of vision, of tribute, of unfettered revelry. The core of the
group includes Steve Goulding (Waco Brothers, Mekons), Tom Ray (Devil in a
Woodpile, touring with Kelly Hogan, Neko Case), multi-instrumental genius
John Rice and Jon Langford at the shaky helm. Joining this tight ensemble is
an ever-growing cast of fiddlers, horn players, steel guitarists, and
whoever else fit the riotous and rollicking moment."
That seems an apt description for a band that's released a pretty good
tribute album to Johnny Cash, an absolutely stunning tip of the hat
to Bob Wills, and whose presence on Kelly Hogan's Beneath the Country
Underdog was a perfect complement to Hogan's unearthly voice. They're
kinda like the ultra-twangy version of Lambchop, with an archivist's
reverence for the past, but also an obvious delight in the mere act of
playing music. Within the last month, they've participated in two wildly
differing projects: The Neal Pollack Anthology of American Literature
and The Executioner's Last Songs.
Have You Ever Heard of Plato, Aristotle, Socrates? Morons!
A little background, in case you're an unlettered troglodyte of the sort
that E.D. Hirsch and Harold Bloom release into the wild and hunt for cruel
sport: Neal Pollack is, as he'll tell you himself, "America's Greatest
Living Writer". Over his seventy years of writing, he's been the romantic
obsession of hundreds -- nay, thousands -- of men and women, forged bitter
hatreds with the mayors of major metropolitan cities, and been tossed about
in riots of fans all wearing Neal Pollack masks. He's Ernest Hemingway,
Norman Mailer, and Gore Vidal all rolled into one seductive, ego-driven
alpha male.
Or so the legend goes. Pollack is actually a 30-something Chicago writer
who, over the last couple of years, has skewered our writing tradition with
such convincing authority that his very existence was questioned, that he
might be only a construct of the literary imps at McSweeney's
Quarterly. Dave Eggers, McSweeney's editor and author of A
Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, was thought to be the main
culprit, but that rumor's been squashed pretty effectively. At least as far
as any rumor concerning Pollack can be squashed.
A short time back, Pollack released his book The Neal Pollack Anthology
of American Literature, an exercise just as humble as it sounds.
Collecting a variety of Pollack's writing, it skewered popular magazine
conceits like trolling the lower-class for stories ("I am Friends with a
Working-Class Black Woman"), testosterone-fueled boasts ("I Have Had Sex
with 500 Women"), and pretentious foreign reporting ("The Albania of My
Existence"). The jokes could wear a bit thin at times, but as a reader,
coming across a line like "The colt loomed monstrously in front of a
swirling wall of rain clouds. He was El Caballo de Sangre, The Horse of
Blood, the death horse" (from "Portrait of an Andalusian Horse Trainer") is
just too delicous. Here, with aid from the Cosmonauts, he adapts the
Anthology to CD.
"It is Easy to Take a Lover in Cuba" rides a brisk Latin groove (that's
quirkily reminiscent of the theme for Terry Gilliam's Brazil) as
Pollack reminisces about plentiful Cuban sex. After waxing poetic about his
gorgeous half-Portuguese/half-French ballet dancing girlfriend with a Ph.D.
in International Relations, he nevertheless finds himself exploring the
island's dark, humid heart. "I've been in Cuba for eight days now, and have
had sex with over 65 women", he says at one point, recalling how he bought
sex from some for as much as ten American dollars while he had another woman
for a full day merely by giving her a copy of the New Yorker's Summer
Fiction issue. It might seem an outlandish premise for satire, but if you've
ever thumbed through a modern men's magazine like Details or
Maxim, you've seen the articles on how Icelandic women starved for
genetic diversity will seduce you while you're still retrieving your luggage
at the airport, or how to work your way through the Kama Sutra as you
backpack across India.
Likewise, "The Albania of My Existence" rests on a firm tradition of
reporters traveling to the worst corners of the world. Pollack's Albania is
a place where children play soccer with bloated cat carcasses, and people
eat dirt (except during Pollack's visit there is a dirt shortage). Over a
bed of plaintive, rustic strings, Pollack paints a portrait of armless
patriarchs, refugees, and houses with no roofs but with plentiful satellite
dishes. Pollack sits amidst the poverty, watching CNN and lamenting that the
Albanians have never heard of Cambridge.
Throughout Pollack's tales of life fully lived, the Cosmonauts rarely take
the spotlight, instead playing away in the background and occasionally
stepping forward when Pollack pauses for dramatic effect. Think of National
Public Radio's This American Life, where music casts a helpful
shading on the proceedings. Pollack's words are capable of carrying the day
on their own, which the Cosmonauts seem to readily accept. There are some
vocal flourishes from the band, such as the bluesy holler that laces through
"I Am Friends with a Working-Class Black Woman" or the brief snatches of
French cooing in "Letter from Paris", but this is Pollack's show. A couple
of lo-fi moments like "A Spoken Word Poem for America" perfectly summon
images of Kerouac or Ginsberg in some bohemian club.
All in all, it's pretty funny stuff. If you're a Pine Valley Cosmonauts fan,
you may be a bit disappointed by how earnestly the band takes on its subtle
supporting role. Pollack's writing, though, is sharp and his satirist's eye
is remarkably keen. If you've found yourself at your local magazine rack
shaking your head over the decline of men's magazines like GQ and
Esquire, then Pollack's bizarro world should be right up your alley.
Deathly Ditties Old and New
Far more serious is The Executioner's Last Songs. A benefit for the
Illinois Death Penalty Moratorium Project (Illinois is the home of numerous
death penalty convictions that have been overturned on the basis of DNA
evidence), the disc finds the Cosmonauts being joined by folks like Steve
Earle, Neko Case, Lonesome Bob, Jenny Toomey, Sally Timms, and Johnny Dowd.
The death penalty's a hot button topic, and The Executioner's Last
Songs attacks it with full-hearted conviction, making the fairly
strident soundtrack to Dead Man Walking sound slightly noncommittal.
Personal politics may keep many from enjoying The Executioner's Last
Songs, which is unfortunate, because it works as both a political
statement and as an enjoyable listening experience.
Brett Sparks kicks things off with "Knoxville Girl". It might at first seem
strange to argue against the death penalty by singing from the perspective
of a convicted murderer, but it's a technique that the album uses repeatedly
to its advantage. The songs, from Steve Earle's rambunctious rendition of
"Tom Dooley" to Lonesome Bob's "Excuse Me (I've Got Someone to Kill)",
humanize the killers, arguing that their crimes were not the result of
conscienceless evil, but of human emotions gone too far. They could be, the
songs say, me or you if only we were painted into the wrong corner.
Overall, the album works. A few songs, like "Gary Gilmore's Eyes" and
especially Tony Fitzpatrick's "Idiot Whistle" (a spoken word rant), come
across as too weird or strident. However, that's the unflinching course
The Executioner's Last Songs takes. There are some real gems here,
such as Rosie Flores' honky tonk cover of Hank Williams' "I'll Never Get Out
of this World Alive", Janet Bean's jaunty "The Snakes Crawl at Night", and
Puerto Muerto's macabre "The Hangman's Song". Neko Case belts out "Poor
Ellen Smith" and Johnny Dowd is his usual creepy self on "Judgement Day".
Through it all, the Cosmonauts plug away as one of country music's most
versatile backing bands. As opposed to their presence on Pollack's disc, the
Cosmonauts are as responsible as the vocalists on The Executioner's Last
Songs for the songs' authentic feel.
It's music with a purpose, and whether you agree with their stance or not,
the musicians assembled here attack the problem with conviction and fun.
With The Executioner's Last Songs, Langford and company achieve the
enviable goal of making art that holds both entertainment and social
commentary. It might not, as the cover proclaims, "consign songs of murder,
mob-law, and cruel, cruel punishment to the realm of myth, memory, and
history!" but it's social criticism in one of its best forms.
— 3 May 2002
