To my way of thinking, and for some unfathomable reason hardly anyone cares about my way of thinking, Lambchop is the most undeservedly unrecognized band in America. The Nashville alt-country chamber pop ensemble, led by frontman Kurt Wagner, has produced many of my favorite songs, from “Your Fucking Sunny Day” to “National Talk Like a Pirate Day” to the wonderful soul tune “Up With People.” They’ve been at it since 1994, mixing country, rock, soul (their cover of Teddy Pendergrass’ “Love TKO” is fabulous), and even lounge music to create a hybrid music that is as unique as it is sonically arresting.
I would be the first to acknowledge that a few of Lambchop’s more morose numbers are hard sells, but just as many are both delectably captivating. And they know how to kick out the jams too, albeit from a rather twisted angle, as the raucous “Hellmouth” from 1994’s I Hope You’re Sitting Down and the madcap rocker “Style Monkeys” from 2001’s Tools in the Dryer attest. But what I chiefly love about them are Wagner’s unique vocal stylings—from that quiver in his voice to his alternately frantic and matter of fact phrasing, to say nothing of his occasional foray into a soul falsetto. And I love the band’s ability to generate excitement in what would appear to be a low-key, if not downright sleepy tune, as they do on the great Garth Brooks slam “Garf,” off 1996’s How I Quit Smoking. Can you come up with funnier lyrics than, “And I could be sitting/By the telephone tomorrow/To receive a call/By the overweight Garth Brooks/Who would then try to offer me/Like a hundred thousand dollars/Just for me to go the fuck away”?
Lambchop is a big outfit, varying in size from 19 players on one LP to who knows how many on others, but they seem to have downsized a bit (I count 11 musicians) for their grand slam of a performance at Merge Records’ 20th anniversary bash. By all accounts they stole the show, and it’s not surprising; they offered up a wonderful mix of slow ones and fast ones, and tossed in a great combined tribute to both X-Press 2 and the Talking Heads to boot. The crowd’s excitement is palpable, despite Wagner’s perpetually laid-back persona; hell, he can’t even be bothered to stand up during the show, preferring to sit in a chair at the front of the stage. Not exactly Iggy Pop, our Mr. Wagner.
“I Will Drive Slowly” is a slow burn of a tune, elegiac despite the seemingly quotidian lyrics, with their cryptic chorus (“And I count your fingers, you still have ten/Your sweater’s fuzzy against my chin/And I will drive slowly so I can show you/The radio that’s in the Magnolia”). The horns are great, the guitar a joy, and you’ll think “The New Cobweb Summer” is more of the same, what with its slow start and jazzy feel, but you’d be wrong. Wagner sings like a boxer, feinting and delivering phrases (“Last thought that you think today/Has already happened/The link between profound and pain/Covers you like Sherwin Williams”) that stab like punches, and the song’s tempo remains slow until Wagner begins to scat and the band goes into a frenzy, a guitar sizzling like a downed power line, and suddenly you’re smack in the middle of one great rocker.
“Grumpus” has a perky, jazzy feel and a fetching melody and features an excellent horn section and Wagner singing, “Part of the process is sifting through the piles of shit.” The sheer number of musicians gives this and all the other songs a well-rounded sound, which Wagner rides atop, tossing off breathless phrases and occasionally adding a touch of urgency. Meanwhile, “Sharing a Gibson With Martin Luther King, Jr.” speeds along, Wagner squeezing out the enigmatic lyrics (“In the ghettos of Chicago/Amid the poverty and despair/Inside the game hens/Were the giblets in a plastic bag”) in a frantic rush while the band somehow (I think it’s the horns) manages to sound simultaneously punchy and mournful. Lambchop has the amazing ability to produce seamless songs in which no instrument rules the roost, and they demonstrate it to great effect here.
On the plucky “What Else Could It Be” Wagner adopts a rather brittle falsetto, the piano jumps in here and there to pound out a cool phrase, and Wagner emits short barks and shouted interjections as the band plays on. As for “National Talk Like a Pirate Day,” which follows a joke by pianist Tony Crow, it’s wonderful; Wagner opens the song with the great line, “This is my song don’t sing along” before getting down to brass tacks: “Without your eye patch and your parrot/I’ve been informed it was national “Talk Like a Pirate Day”/Perhaps this singing is a refuge/From other equally uncomfortable thoughts.” No, I don’t know what he means either, but Wagner has the uncanny ability to make his cryptic lyrics sound profound.
The funky “Hey, Where’s Your Girl” features lots of horns and a great rhythm guitar, and jumps around like some kid on too much sugar doing the Spazz. As for “Your Fucking Sunny Day,” it’s one of the LP’s two best tracks, opening with a funky guitar riff and a frantic melody that will get you off your ass and make you shout, “Do fries come with that shake?” Wagner is downright overwrought, firing off lyrics such as, “It’s so simple and so stupid/Yet so simple are you ready/Are you ready, are you ready/I am not.” To say nothing of, “What does it say/Your fucking sunny day?” Meanwhile the horns go about their business, adding a big brassy note to the raucous proceedings, which would seem to have something to do with “hosin’ the sidewalk.”
The ever-popular soul pastiche “Up With People” also opens with a funky guitar, and establishes a groove that captivates. “C’mon progeny!” shouts Wagner as the horns go wild, after first singing, “Yes there comes a booming sound/It used to come from underground/Now it emanates/From a kind of welfare state/Of the soul/Yeah baby of the soul.” Meanwhile the band ups the volume in the long closing instrumental, going wild and getting wilder, amidst drum crash and piano tinkle and those fabulous horns. “And we are doing/And we are screwing” are some great lines, and they never fail to make me happy, although not as happy as show closer “Give It Up (Once in a Lifetime),” which starts slowly with a solo piano and Wagner sounding elegiac (“Yeah, the fall makes me feel sad sometimes”), his voice echoing, then slowly picks up speed until Wagner is stuttering and rolling his words (“I guess I should give it/Give it a little more time/Gonna gi- gi- gi- gi- give it”) while a guitar shifts from a simple and funky riff to deliver a monstrously great solo, after which the band seamlessly segues into the Talking Head’s “Once in a Lifetime,” during which that guitar continues to roar and Wagner loses himself in the music, which is nothing short of astounding. Then the tune slows, and Wagner closes the song by saying, “Same as it ever was.”
Lambchop will always be an acquired taste, and its fans will always resemble a cargo cult, wondering what new work of genius the band will airdrop on us next. I try in vain to convince my friends to join me, to pick up the flag of Lambchop and glory in the divine sophistication and exquisite pleasures their music represents. But so be it. I shall say once again, listen to this album, and then I will shut up. Your fucking sunny day is my mantra, and you will only run across a band like Lambchop once in a lifetime.
GRADED ON A CURVE:
A
