Sixteen Horsepower
Secret South
[Razor and Tie]
Rating: 6.9
I can't tell you how many times I've listened as someone boasted their eclectic
tastes and love for "all kinds of music, except country." You've probably heard
it, too. Hell, I bet you've gone around saying it yourself. At least until that
alt-country hype gave you hope that you weren't necessarily too cool for it,
and didn't even have to buy boots or take line-dancing classes to indulge.
Sixteen Horsepower might be ideal country music for those who think themselves
too hip for twang, but are too nauseated by Son Volt's slide-guitar fluff.
Rather, this band inhabits the same dark corner once occupied by the Geraldine
Fibbers, where goth and southern gothic intersect without much to interest
purists of either form.
David Eugene Edwards is the son of a preacher man and claims that his lyrics
come to him from a higher power. So why isn't his band working that angle for
the hard sell, opening for DC Talk or, at the very least, releasing records
on Tooth & Nail? Well, for starters, Sixteen Horsepower's music is scarier
than any rock n' roll Antichrist you can name. In fact, if there's anything
Edwards' holy rants bring to mind, it's an enraged Jules Winnfield reciting
Ezekiel 25:17 with his gun's barrel bruising your temple.
Secret South blasts forward with a pump of fuzz bass that immediately
puts emphasis on one of Sixteen Horsepower's more distinctive but less obvious
defining traits: a massive low end. Bassist Pascal Humbert and the groaning
cello occasionally supplied by guest string players suggest the kind of
floor-rattling hum more closely associated with Jeeps than the horse-and-buggy
that would make the band's ideal touring vehicle. Jean-Yves Tola completes
the formative rhythm section, anchoring the surrounding banjo, fiddle, and
bandoneon flourishes with galloping beats that not only serve as the foundation
for these songs, but also justify the band's moniker-- they provide a relentless
engine to Edwards' songs while dragging them away with wild horses.
But at the moment, Sixteen Horsepower are knee-deep in the awkwardness that
follows being dropped from a major label. After reaching a plateau of quality
with 1998's Low Estate, their doomed contract with A&M; Records reached
its inevitable conclusion. So now they're not only operating on a smaller label
with less promotional reach, but they're also facing an inability to raise the
stakes and satisfy the remaining fanbase.
Secret South is a characteristically strong showing, but ultimately, it
pales in comparison to its predecessors. The self-produced album retains
the band's unique sound, but fails to measure up to the perfect match they
found in guitarist John Parish for Low Estate's crisply rustic
atmosphere. Even without any of the droning squeezebox ballads that accounted
for Low Estate's few weak spots, it somehow lacks the momentum and fury
that made that album such an engaging listen.
Whereas Low Estate could be cleanly divided between the upbeat back porch
sing-alongs, rambunctious quasi-cowpunk bursts, and the aforementioned dirges,
Secret South almost wholly falls into a middle ground with less consistent
results. The one mode that is most often in stock here is the slow burn, patiently
building but never accelerating past a frustrating mid-tempo. Sometimes it works,
as with the teasingly incomplete crescendos of "Poor Mouth." But elsewhere, the
formula borders on unbearable, best evidenced by the overwrought wailing of
"Cinder Alley."
With Edwards' songwriting in a bit of a slump here, it's not surprising that
the album's most enjoyable moments are covers. The traditional "Wayfaring
Stranger" suits him as well as any of his originals, with a tinny vocal tone
giving the song an honest, folksy rendering. Even better is "Nobody 'Cept You,"
a gorgeous vow of dedication from Bob Dylan's Bootleg Series. And
even if the lyrics aren't his, the song still shows Edwards in rare form,
laying aside his usual rhetoric for earthly love and naked sincerity.
Ultimately, Secret South shows Sixteen Horsepower nailing their trademarks
perhaps too well. With no ironic crutch or overtly modern traits (aside from a
vaguely post-grunge sensibility), there's little to save them from niche, or
worse, caricature. For the most part, they fend off these concerns with material
that demands to be judged on its own merits. But let's face it, "Praying Arm Lane"
resembles the theme from "Rawhide" just a little too closely to be taken seriously.
Nonetheless, Sixteen Horsepower remains a breath of fresh air for those of us who
aren't afraid of a little twang but would rather stay away from Nashville and
No Depression.
-Al Shipley