There are a few moments on Death Seat that, like an old country gospel song, compel you to join in and sing along with the chorus before you’ve ever, actually heard the song before. Those types of moments strike a certain chord that is very near and dear to me.
It’s hard to keep up a continuous album-level story with catchy tunes and bright harmonies. Though it can be done, it doesn’t technically have to be done. I think Madonna’s first album is a totally badass record, and it’s pretty much just an anthology of club singles.
There does seem to be a depth here, in Death Seat. I’m not Mr. Austere about folk music, but I am unapologetically, a small-town Oklahoma boy, so you’ll have to shoot me before you see me give a kid from Brooklyn one inch. Country music comes from the country, period. I’ve got too much stubborn pride to sell my little piece of land to a city slicker.
But that’s just me! Let’s get back to the album before you get the wrong idea!
Now, you can be fair by saying Mr. Wand has got an instinctual voice, and he seems to be a pretty genuine dude, too! I’m not here to assert that I know who someone is just by hearing them sing, but I can tell if you’re sincere, or if you’re just selling the sincerity gimmick. Can’t bullshit a bullshitter.
The guy has got one melodic device in particular that warms my heart. It shows up in a few of the songs; it’s just two or three specific gospel notes that are sung prettily, plaintively, earnestly, and endearingly. Long after I’m done listening to this album, I’ll take that little riff home and be satisfied with the grand-total transaction between me and Wooden Wand.
Ok, I’ve got two points to make, but they don’t have anything to do with each other. Bear with me…
ONE. Rule: if you’ve gotten something, no matter how small, out of an album, and it sticks, then you like the album. That gospel riff, for instance. I won’t sing it1, but hey, fun suggestion: you could listen to this Wooden Wand disc yourself and see if you can spot the riff I’m talking about. Then we can compare notes. Sounds fun, right?
*AHEM*. All I’m saying is that it won’t hurt you to relax a bit when an album isn’t as complex as Pink Flag or as convicted as London Calling. Yes, you know those albums are good albums, and so does everybody else, too, so let’s just all hold hands and make out.
Kidding!
If I made you laugh, stop reading, ‘cause I want to end this review on a high note. If I didn’t make you laugh… touché!
I’m not gonna finish that first point I was talking about, and I’m not even going to start the second one at all, because, well, damned if right now isn’t a great time to make the main point:
Death Seat is a good buzz, but it’s too laid back for you if all you care to listen to is Mission of Burma and Laibach and even your fucking haircut looks like it‘s got a master’s degree in Art Theory.
If you like to cozy-up on the couch with your girl on a cold Sunday night, eat Jiffy-Pop and jelly beans, and flip through a cool old art theory book, then you’ll know where this record is coming from. It suits the uplifting, poignant, but not-too-serious spots of the average North American soul.
…But different spots, depending on where you live.
If you grew up singing at church somewhere in the sticks, you’ll remember the old Appalachian spiritual patterns in this album. If you’re an undercover yuppie with a heart of gold, you’ll find solace. If you’ve never seen the wide green world that’s everywhere outside Williamsburg, you’ll still understand the rustic, unspoken friendliness.
And, if you’re a math-rock major at I’m Cooler Than U, don’t worry– no one has to know you still cry when you listen to Siamese Dream.
It’s okay, man. We understand.
METALLICA RULES.
Wink.
-B. Whisenhunt (24 January 2011)
1Fun Fact: you can’t sing a song out loud in a music review, unless you’re Prince, in which case you can do whatever the hell you want.