Amongst the tall-tale tellers, whopper merchants, purveyors of gross exaggerations, and flat-out lie-detector-failing prevaricators my old man used to consort with in his retirement years down at the old fishing hole, there was one—there’s always one—fella who, no matter what the fallacious goods on sale were, would say grimly, “I ain’t buyin’.” Then he’d spit into the water, look at his companions with disgust, and refuse to say a word until somebody cracked a beer and handed it to him.
That geriatric Socrates is long dead, but I feel his spirit dwelling within me as I listen to Deer Tick songwriter and singer John McCauley, who comes to us by way of Providence, Rhode Island. Rhode Island is not hailed as the home of the blues, or alt-country, and Mr. McCauley, who is still wet behind the ears, does not convince. Sure, he has a voice as raw as sandpaper on a yam, but like the fella on the dock used to say, “I ain’t buyin.’” And now it’s my chance to hock a disgusted loogie onto the floor by my desktop.
Don’t get me wrong. His voice is all piss and vinegar, but it doesn’t sound earned, and I don’t believe a word of the doom-and-damnation tunes (in the form of 2009’s Born on Flag Day) he’s brung to sell you (a 78 rpm, for a dime!) on your sweaty shotgun shack porch. He can yowl all he wants—I still intend to send him packing the way he come, like a slick Bible salesman in a Flannery O’Connor story. He kind of reminds me of the early Dylan; he hasn’t grown into himself yet, and all his seeming conviction doesn’t change a thing.
Yes, yes, yes, there are good songs on Born on Flag Day. Opener “Easy” commences with some feedback and ominous drumming, and it takes a while before McCauley joins in on vocals. When he does he sounds like a man on fire, and the chorus is nice enough, but when he sings about “that son of a bitch” who “crossed me once isn’t going to cross me twice,” I have the strange feeling he’s playing cowboys and Indians. “Little White Lies” is a finely crafted thing; “So please,” he laments, “Let me be alone tonight” before the band kicks into overdrive and everything is copacetic. And “Smith Hill” is a thing of beauty, majestic and lovely, as it builds to a wonderful climax. I’m buyin’ on this one, for sure.
“Song About a Man” is a quiet acoustic-driven number sung by a grandfather to his grandson, and it doesn’t do much for me; I’ll take The Faces’ “Handbags and Gladrags” any day, thank you very much. It has the feel of a song of Bruce Springsteen’s Nebraska only not as good, while on “Houston, TX” the band kicks into roadhouse gear, with McCauley singing about there being nothing left and it’s a sign he’s almost gone, time to move on. A nice shuffle but nothing to write home about, “Houston, TX,” as opposed to “Straight into the Storm,” which opens with that “thin, mercury sound” Dylan talked about and shoots off sparks like you just strayed into the best goddamn roadhouse in the entire fucking universe. Now THIS is what I’m talking about; McCauley could be one of the original rockers, up there in the footlights duck-walking across the stage and singing about how we’re absolutely positively heading into a storm. Time to bring out the tape measure and the camera, old fishing duffers!
“Friday XIII” is a fast-paced number with some heavy echo on the vocals and features a nice duet between McCauley and Liz Isenberg, and this one is supposed to be spooky, I guess, but works better as a simple love song, especially when the duo swap lines at around the halfway point. I’m not thrilled by it, nor am I overwhelmed by “The Ghost,” another acoustic guitar and harmonica-driven number with lots of reverb about a pregnancy and how best to run away from it. The singer is full of self-justifications, and accuses his girl of being as “lonely as ghost on Halloween,” and if I’m not sure I get the point I’m pretty sure I don’t get the point, you get the point?
“Hell on Earth” is another mid-tempo number in which McCauley declares, “Life is beautiful/But beauty is a dying art,” and further extemporizes on his quest for meaning. “Space is gonna fall,” he says, “and the sun is meant to stare you in the eye,” which isn’t one thousandth as good as Dylan’s “the sun’s not yellow/It’s chicken,” but when it comes to candy store philosophers, we’re obviously talking different leagues. Ah, but I do love the reeling and swinging groove of “Stung,” on which McCauley pours his heart into a song and I actually believe the words coming out of his mouth. Throw in the fact that the song is so goddamn lovely, and what are you going to do?
“Stung” is an unreconstructed winner, and is only improved by the fact that once it’s over there are three minutes of silence followed by a raucous, Band-like take on the classic folk tune “Goodnight Irene.” It was recorded in a barroom or makeshift ersatz barroom somewhere, and it has that great loosy-goosy feel of a Basement Tape song by Dylan and The Band, tapping as it does into a deep stream of mysterious American music, especially when McCauley sings, “Sometimes I get the great notion/To jump in the river and drown.” The only thing I’ve heard of recent vintage I can compare it to are the Felice Brothers, who likewise have struck that rich vein of gold that is our musical heritage.
I may have been a bit harsh on Deer Tick, because I think the band has potential. It’s right there in “Stung” and “Straight into a Storm” and “Smith Hill.” Like I said previously, all McCauley needs is some more musical seasoning until he’s not so wet behind the ears. The best bands don’t sound calculated, but Deer Tick does, and their evident musical chops can’t change that. I recommend they listen to The Basement Tapes or the Felice Brothers. As Buck Owens and the Buckaroos used to sing, it’s easy as pie. Just act naturally.
GRADED ON A CURVE:
B-
