The Black Swans' violinist Noel Sayre died in a swimming accident in July of 2008, three months after his band had gathered in an Ohio garage to begin recording their new LP, Don't Blame the Stars. The group set aside the unfinished Stars sessions in the wake of Sayre's passing, putting together last year's limited-edition Words Are Stupid before returning to the project. Which makes sense, as hearing Sayre's mournful bow work while still grieving for the man himself might've been too much, too soon. Sayre's rippling violin, echoing and amplifying frontman Jerry DeCicca's pitch-black lyrics, was key to the sound of the Black Swans, and Don't Blame the Stars proves a fine showcase for their late bandmate. But it's also a testament to the Swans' adaptability, both as a band of survivors and an ever-changing musical unit.
With its spacious pick-up arrangements and occasional shaggy-dog spoken word interludes (a tribute of sorts to Willie Nelson's Yesterday's Wine), Don't Blame the Stars is perhaps the closest the Swans have come to a straight-up country record. The gothic smear that sat underneath 2007's Change! is largely gone, and while the stripped-back remnants aren't exactly Bakersfield smooth, much of it lands somewhere between, say, Nashville Skyline and early-70s outlaw. The playing is stellar, if sparse, with apt but unobtrusive accoutrement; they leave that to Sayre, whose violin winds and weaves through much of the empty space left by DeCicca's halting delivery. It's a gorgeous sounding record, its live-in-a-room feel and tastefully-employed vintage flourishes-- the reverb-heavy guitar under its title track, the chug of the barely-there background vocals in "I Forgot to Change the Windshield Wipers in My Mind"-- lending it the same gentle charms of a beat-up gem from the C&W bin.
As ever, it's the weary bemusement of DeCicca's lyrics that really sets Don't Blame the Stars apart. He begins the "woe is me" crisis of "Boo Hoo" with a bit about getting buggered by a clown; later he loses a lover in plain sight, eats cold soup, and rationalizes his way through another drink. DeCicca seems to be toying with country conventions here-- especially the earnest-seeming spoken word stuff-- but there's a deep tradition-steeped reverence to it as well. What seems a bit staid and straightforward at first reveals a subtle richness over time.
DeCicca's delivery, alternately grim and genial, sometimes averages out into nonchalance, and some of the black humor in these lyrics is a bit funnier on paper than on the record itself. But he's always been sort of a tricky read as a singer, allowing Sayre's ever-present violin to hammer home the emotional content, and Don't Blame the Stars finds the two neatly complementing one another. When, on "My Brother", a sweetly descending string part wraps around DeCicca's sigh of "can't forget what we've been through," it's devastating, but quietly so. So, too, is Don't Blame the Stars.
