Daughn Gibson's previous band, the Pennsylvania stoner-metal trio Pearls and Brass, evoked the cigarette-smoke drag of a Harley Davidson ripping through the desert and blasting out classic rock riffs. A strong look, but there's an element of dress-up to that kind of rock'n'roll posturing. In reality, Gibson was driving trucks, among other things, and while his new solo guise might reflect more honesty or depth, it's no less rugged or brave.
All Hell finds Gibson digging through crates of country music past and turning up a wealth of noirish, creepy source material to sample. On "In the Beginning", a dusty piano trapped in its own motion repeats as Gibson croons over the top. It's a simple blueprint but one from which Gibson teases surprise as the song unfolds-- from an electronic whoosh to a single-note female chorus. Those elements lull you further into Gibson's strange dreamworld but at the same time hold you firmly on the precipice of a rude awakening.
Another highlight, "Tiffany Lou", plays the same trick: This time a skittering chorus feels like a broken hard drive trying to whirr into life. Pitched down voices start the track, bathing it in a low droning hum as Gibson spins an oddly affecting story. Both here and elsewhere, his characters are washed-up, pathetic, and old. Tiffany Lou's father "died with his mind on fire, and his jeans half on," whilst on "Ray", our protagonist "looked like a movie star, but grew up to be totally worthless."
As with the gritty country music that Gibson re-imagines, his characters are timeless too-- rural and small-town, still as far away from an iPad as their grandfathers were 50 years ago. But there's nothing mawkish or condescending about All Hell. This record knows how to knock and groove too-- "Lookin' Back on '99" is pumped with a 4/4 beat that lurches forward more like a Matthew Dear track. Here Gibson remembers the good old days, but there's a razor in the candyfloss: "Don't we love the love we knew/ When it's just an empty glass in the bedroom." Right at this moment Gibson's good time becomes a fading copy of a copy of a good time. That his revelation comes in an almost dancefloor-ready setting makes this feel more like music for barflies that prefer to lope in dark corners of clubs than sit propped up on bar stools.
All Hell is a subtly clever record that pits one type of music that strongly evokes one era-- here, country music-- against another, namely this decade's sample-heavy culture. Gibson does a lot of questioning within that framework, both seriously and tongue-in-cheek. All of that makes for a rewarding record to think about, and to intellectualize, but All Hell wouldn't be nearly so fun to listen to if it weren't for Gibson's ear for melody. His thick baritone breezes confidently over the songs, lassoing hook after hook, redeeming his burnt-out characters through song. As he knowingly sings at one point: "If I lose you I might/ Write a song about some rain on a highway."
