James Jackson Toth, known for the last decade as Wooden Wand, Wand, or simply Toth, first recorded Death Seat in Murfreesboro, Tenn., a small college town outside of Nashville where he was working as a carpenter. After a disastrous tour, an arrest, a bender, and a handful of raw deals at the hands of record labels, both Toth's career and marriage had fallen apart. Death Seat, as recorded in Murfreesboro, feels like Toth's attempt to regroup and realign. Haunted but healing, it's the sort of LP Nashville's little brother might make. From the professional drum shuffle of "Tiny Confessions" to the gentle, restrained harmonies and piano chords of "Sleepwalking After Midnight", it shines with a certain casual polish.
Honestly, it's probably the version Toth should have released, at least if he delights in the prospect of commercial success. Generally pretty and plenty pleasant, it's the easier sale than the version Toth eventually recorded under the auspices of Swans mastermind and Young God Records owner Michael Gira. Young God's version is rattled and haunted, with guitars and voices that sound damaged and weary. In Murfreesboro, "Hotel Bar" slinked playfully, its rhythm section and guitar sighs suggesting self-parody. The Young God version cans all of that, though, favoring a cheap drum machine and distant vibraphone. Toth sounds mean and prowling here. With its scenes of gunfights and invalids and its staggering, sighing guitars and strangled choir of demons, "Ms. Mowse" feels like a dirge for happiness. Altogether more nuanced, the second version of Death Seat is better suited for Toth's dark, smart, and oft-funny sketches of himself and unfortunate characters, commercial prospects be damned.
Even with Gira's more haunted direction, the songs here run the risk of seeming straightforward. Each uses an acoustic guitar as its foundation. But listen closely, and Death Seat unfurls like a large map of Toth's psyche, as full of menacing thoughts as it is good jokes and warm feelings. The writing is an intersection of outlaw country's toughness, Dylan-inspired pith, and Waits-like attentiveness and wit. It's careful and clever without forcing attention to punchlines or motives. "Bobby", for instance, portrays an old drunk who's frightened by the world. Toth tenderly encourages him to move on. "Oh Bobby, oh Bobby/ The meek won't inherit a thing," he sings. "So dismiss this world and fly to God/ And let these northern lights come erase what you are." The brilliant, winking "I Wanna Make a Difference" seems like a prelude to a murder ballad, those age-old hymns from the hills where a lover kills his or her counterpart out of feelings forced into overdrive. "Through your heart or through your head/ As an enemy or friend/ I wanna make a difference in your life," Toth opens, his voice creaking over a patient, acoustic plod. Toth's not sure if his obsession might be helpful or hurtful, but he just wants to be felt, "Whether in protective custody/ Or on stage, my dear."
The still-unreleased Murfreesboro version of Death Seat ends with "Until Wrong Looks Right", a sentimental number that finds Toth practically crooning over acoustic guitars. The song begins in first-person plural: "We live alone/ Why do we lock the bathroom door?" he sings, sweetly pushing for the next step of intimacy and comfort. An organ gently peals in the distance. The Young God take makes a few subtle, smart and revelatory changes, pushing the song forward so that it introduces the last third of Death Seat. A busted guitar wrestles with static and a sharp harmonica, and Toth opens in first person, asking the same questions about bathroom doors, set tables and uncombed hair-- only for himself this time. The change makes Toth seem paranoid and uncomfortable, a creature caged by society and habit. The song ends, though, as the other take starts, proudly in first-person plural. During the intercalary two minutes, Toth has adjusted to allow for someone else. "I could acquiesce and go easy on the drinking," he sings mid-song. "And run a comb through my hair every morning forevermore." It's a glimmer of light on an album that's, otherwise, wonderfully faded.
