Cass McCombs - Big Wheel and Others 2013

Following a remarkably prolific 2011, which saw the release of not one but two strong-in-their-own-right full-length records (Wit's End and Humor Risk) from indie troubadour Cass McCombs, things got relatively quiet for the ever-evolving songwriter. His complexly poetic lyricism and subtly textured musicianship were in prime form on both albums, reaching into different places of darkness and humor. Two years later, Big Wheel and Others arrived; a sprawling 22-track collection that clocks in at almost 90 minutes and shows McCombs trying on different hats in his own established way of slowly unraveling his patient, aching compositions. It's an odd one. Beginning with a home-recorded spoken interview with a four-year-old, the album launches with a trio of repetitive Americana-seeped road rockers.
The dusty churn of "Big Wheel," pedal steel-glazed softness of "Angel Blood," and dark lumbering tones of "Morning Star" set the listener up for an understated album of cowboy songs and clean, country-tinged melodies delivered from a distance. Before sinking into any one mode, however, McCombs quickly shifts gears with the saxophone-aided amble of "The Burning of the Temple, 2012," breezy dad-rock with the Graceland-esque instrumentation of "There Can Be Only One," and eventually the disorientingly lengthy sermon/poem/song cycle of "Everything Has to Be Just-So." This song riffs on for almost nine minutes, with a Dylan-via-Lou Reed monotone delivery on race, society, and individual perception. The song's mismatched segments persist for so long that they go from potentially grating to strangely lulling, not unlike Gillian Welch's ghostly epic "I Dream a Highway" or Dylan's "Sad-Eyed Lady of the Lowlands," songs that stick around so much longer than expected that they become meditations unto themselves. It's an unexpected highlight of the album, and is followed immediately by the head-scratching instrumental pseudo-smooth jazz of "It Means a Lot to Know You Care." That's not the only bizarre sidestep of the extensive set. The lyrics of the almost unlistenable sleaze rock romp of "Satan Is My Toy" experiment with the meeting of religious and sexual themes only a few notches above AC/DC's locker-room innuendo, and almost every time the arrangements veer away from sleepy acoustic instruments, the shifts can be jarring. The issue with Big Wheel is that the standout tracks are as brilliant as the filler is confusing, and both are represented more or less equally. A loving cover of Thin Lizzy's "Honesty Is No Excuse" is delivered with the same shambling feel as Dylan's Self Portrait material, and Karen Black contributes lead vocals to one of two versions here of the especially strong "Brighter!," but every fantastic song is cushioned by an anonymous-feeling mediocre one. While those already enamored with McCombs' lyrical approach and subdued songwriting might find more of immediate value here than the uninitiated, there's a lot to sift through, even for fans, and it might be difficult to keep focus through the entire sometimes befuddling set. AMG.

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Cass McCombs - Wit's End 2011

In several sometimes perplexing ways, Cass McCombs' fifth full-length outing, Wit's End, veers moderately but decisively away from the appealingly direct, rootsy indie folk of its predecessor, Catacombs. In its place is a stark, occasionally stifling collection of dark, literary, chamber folk, melodramatic piano balladry, and one sterling piece of country-pop classicism. Album-opener "County Line" is a quiet stunner: a mellow-grooving country-soul burner so achingly smooth you'd swear it was a turn-of-the-'70s chestnut from the L.A. soft rock scene -- a stray cut from the vaults of Asylum Records, perhaps, or maybe a particularly glossy tune by the Band -- complete with that iconic Fender Rhodes twinkle. (Its restrained melancholy and vintage-styled craftsmanship also call to mind Beck's Sea Change.) But it's hardly an accurate indication of what's to come, at least musically: although several songs feature a similar instrumental palette, and the moody, subdued tone persists throughout, nothing else here is nearly as warm or winningly melodic. Lyrically, "County Line"'s tale of loss and rueful homecoming (seemingly about a hometown transformed by new development, rather than a doomed romantic relationship, though it could be both) is just a taste of the darkness and desperation that, as the album's title hints at, pervade these eight songs. Elsewhere, we get the desolate, jilted lover of the maudlin "Saturday Song," the chilling "Buried Alive" (whose title is evidently not metaphorical), and the wracked "Hermit's Cave," which plays like a gloomier variation on the Beach Boys' "That's Not Me" with an added dose of mysticism. When McCombs' often heavily stylized, antiquarian verse is paired with a suitably intriguing arrangement (as on "Memory Stain," a forlorn piano waltz that gets some much-needed color and lift via accordion, bass clarinet, and a few well-placed castanets) or a decently forward-moving melody ("Buried Alive," which is both tender and almost delightfully macabre), the results can be effective, if not exactly inviting. On the other hand, no amount of celeste can save "The Lonely Doll," an overly precious fable set to a maddeningly harmonically static waltz -- with the title phrase repeated after every awkward couplet -- from being utterly insufferable. The album's most ambitious -- and, possibly excepting the incongruous "County Line," most successful -- moment comes with nine-minute closer "A Knock Upon the Door," a rambling narrative ballad and yet another waltz, this time with a rustic, old world lilt spiced up with a coolly sinister backing combo of banjo, bass clarinet, organ, chalumeau (a Baroque relative of the recorder), and found-sound percussion. It's the most potent and captivating expression of the gothic sensibility that runs through Wit's End, and one of a few potentially promising directions suggested by this odd, somewhat bewildering, and perhaps hopefully transitional effort. AMG.

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