(Nettwerk)
HIGHLY RECOMMENDED
The third time out from this localized alt-bluegrass favorite remains one of the most curious, odd, and strangely alluring items of recent years -- in direct contrast to the self-consciously rough-hewn sound Old Crow staked out for themselves earlier in the decade, Tennessee Pusher is thanks to unlikely production partner Don Was as slick as you can imagine this genre of music ever getting, approaching a workmanlike Nashville veneer of multitrack layering and aural syrup. It sounds like the work of a band far older than this one, not necessarily in a complimentary manner; it's like we're given the sleazy hard-drinking harder-declining version of OCMS before we even got used to the spry backwoods hipsters singing about cocaine and pretending it was the 1890s. To be blunt, this is plainly an example of the coffeehouse Prairie Home Companion country premiered long before it had a name by the Byrds' Sweetheart of the Rodeo and by now the subject of much scorn in devoted roots-music circles. For whatever reason, though, the album is superb -- it could be that, like Leonard Cohen's albums from Death of a Ladies Man on, it's so conscious of its own tastelessness that it completely surrenders to it and fashions it a secret sonic weapon, or maybe the search of "authenticity" in this field is all nonsense and what really matters is emotional authenticity, something that does not correlate to the number of pedal steel overdubs on a country record.
A person might be seeking trouble if they try to label something "adult" music and consider it a compliment, but in nearly every respect, this is a concoction of adult music that actually works. Underneath its well-practiced calm is a real fiery melancholy, and a determination to strike full-bore into a series of detailed, dirge-like grooves that bring a sort of pillowy comfort while retaining just the right level of artful ease. The best songs by a longshot are the lengthy, intricate, slow ones, which neither fall in with the traditional OCMS or bluegrass-at-large sound nor commit the purists' choice offenses. "The Greatest Hustler of All" is a gorgeous moonlight ramble that holds the attention for more than seven minutes, a hypnotic and splendidly moody creation; the equally determined dirge "Methamphetamine" works just as well and approaches its sobering subject matter with welcome distance and respect. Best of all is the subtly apocalyptic title track, the epic and deeply involving sound of trouble approaching from afar. With methods that don't even once remind you of their identity as the "Wagon Wheel" band, they've found a new way to haunt and seduce, to almost staggering effect; these longer cuts don't let up, and linger in the mind long after they're done.
The melodies are consistently strong too, even if they sometimes offer an absurd counterpoint to the shoehorned-in barroom bliss of it all (see "Highway Halo"); the body of Pusher concentrates on a notion of fusing the basic aesthetic elements of bluegrass with mildly self-absorbed but well-crafted '70s singer-songwriter material, specifically that which was emitted for so many years from Los Angeles, words that will send bluegrass purists screaming into the night. Cry if you want, but it's in here; "Next Go Round," "Evening Sun" and "Lift Him Up" are all evocative of the gentle sing-song affectations of John Denver or James Taylor or, far more forgivably, Harry Nilsson. Somehow this strange slip suits the band decently, little as it has to do with their musical groundwork, presumably because they tackle the material with sincerity -- actually more than they've done so in the past. You don't get those snide off-camera sardonics that make Taylor so insufferable, and the craft seems stronger, more substantive (not so fluffy) than Denver's. Still, no one who remembers OCMS will avoid wondering where all these affected lilts in the vocals came from, not so many months after the same boys bawled and wailed their way through "Tell It to Me."
If Tennessee Pusher is a great record that's likely great by accident, just an instance of a series of Tramp-like accidents that somehow work out for the better in the end, there are inevitably some seams showing. The upbeat songs are problematic ("Humdinger" and "Mary's Kitchen" especially), illustrating how little compromise there really is underneath the odd production choices on the rest of the album, and underscoring for the zillionth time just how bad country music sounds in general when this much cheese is applied. Was exhibits the same unfortunate obsession with prettying everything up here as he did years ago when working with Brian Wilson.
Some of the problems spring not from Was but from the band itself. Musically, "Motel in Memphis" is menacing and strong, but it's hard to know what exactly the band was getting at with its straightforward illustration of the MLK crime scene, hard not to cringe at the extremely irritating way Ketch Secor pronounces "COR-etta" (I say this as a Southerner). And "Crazy Eyes" cripples its minimal, soft, sad first moments with an eventual rockist arrangement that overreaches the track into oblivion. But when you hear the closing "Caroline," it's suddenly clear how much Was simply let the band be as writers and arrangers; it's the only thing here really resembling a pop song. The rest of the time, the Medicine Show are permitted to craft a series of idiosyncratic and unexpectedly resonant ballads that may linger more powerfully than all the remainder of their output to date. They leave town with something quiet but great under their belts.
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