Lament the demise of the rock juggernaut. In the 70s, there was Led Zeppelin's offering of a whole lotta love, a stairway to heaven, and a facile Kashmir eclecticism. In the 80s, there was cock rock, hair bands and countless groupies. One must hand it to University of Chicago's Allan Bloom, who in 1987 put forth an accurate, yet jaded, generalization on the role of popular music: "A pubescent child whose body throbs with orgasmic rhythms; whose feelings are made articulate in hymns to the joys of onanism or the killing of parents whose ambition is to win fame and wealth in imitating the drag-queen who makes the music. In short, life is made into a nonstop, commercially prepackaged masturbational fantasy."

While his statement is gargantuan in presumption, it could be said that the mainstream music of the time often bequeathed an overbalanced self-assuredness in the listener. But as my fourth grade teacher aptly stated: change is inevitable. When Kurt Cobain was thrown the reigns in 1991, the new hero wasn't sexual, clean, or a monster of rock. This demigod had feelings ranging from angst to alienation (okay, not that great a divide, admittedly) and rarely came across as completely sure of himself. And with the death of Cobain came the eulogy of genuine rock bombast.

Above ground lie a vast assortment of commercial-quality pop and trite modern rock radio, all sans ingenuity or sincere emotion. Underground, there are the emo kids, the shoegazers, the art dilettantes, anti-everything punks, and dozens of elitist music cliques. Where is one to belong? Perhaps the question is not where to belong but whether to belong at all.

Thus we have the nature of no depression, and its many bands who are routinely pigeonholed as country. And on initial exposure, such a classification is justified. But at the end of the day, no depression is not your uncle's John Michael Montgomery. Consider the description of San Francisco's the Court and Spark as found in the biography on their website: "The Court and Spark is a slow-fade, a slow-klang, a climb to the top of Portola Road to watch San Francisco on the longest day of the year." I may have never been to San Francisco, but this statement can not be denied.

In fact, the Court and Spark's sophomore collection, Bless You, introduces itself in a slow-klang. A simple bass snare pattern in two slowly ambles its way to the listener, accompanied by unorthodox percussion and a sound resembling the plucking and strumming of piano strings before the full band enters. The track, "To See the Fires," presents a comprehensive view of the Court and Spark's terrain: slide guitar (only sometimes lap-steel), the addition of Wendy Allen to sing harmony full-time, organ, piano, and southern tinged vocals. But don't be fooled. You are not listening to country.

Bless You's musical affect is akin to the feeling evoked by the ruddy sunset depicted on the back cover of the record: approaching peace and grasping utter beauty. The eight gorgeous minutes of the penultimate "Fade Out to Little Arrow" are augmented by very light horns that ring more like distant church bells on a Sunday evening. The upbeat tambourine shuffle of "Rooster Mountain" complements the most infectious yet bittersweet track. Such a feat is achieved by a very slamming snare sound, resembling a large crowd of impeccably synchronized handclaps, and droning horn leading the bridge back to the verse. What makes Bless You so intriguing is the effectiveness of such subtle ornaments.

Wendy Allen proves yet again, with her backing vocals on "National Lights," that sometimes the most subtle of performances can be the best. Here, she echoes the vocals of frontman M.C. Taylor and occasionally adds a light falsetto. The song is seemingly standard fare on the surface, but the Court and Spark have almost mastered their art. The burbling organs of "A.M. Radio" lie underneath the entire track, while it climbs between male and female vocals to cymbal crashes and a driving guitar line. "I have seen the driving rain," reflect Allen and Scott Hirsch. But they don't need to tell us; we can hear it ourselves.

The Court and Spark don't consider themselves country, so neither should we. Perhaps no depression is the best description: the melodies and performances are mostly plaintive while never being altogether downcast. Their last album, 2000's tUMULt-released Ventura Whites, documented a band gathering their bearings; Bless You presents a band that's almost settled into their identity. They have their tools and have realized the power of subtlety, something the gods of rock from yestercentury tended to completely disregard.

-Christopher F. Schiel, October 22nd, 2001