Throughout his career with Low, Alan Sparhawk's commitment to brooding slowcore has been unparalleled. His newest LP, the debut from his blues trio the Black-Eyed Snakes, displays his brooding versatility. Here, he exchanges the romantic, wistful, and clearly Caucasian tones of the slowcore indie-brood for the coarse, soulful brood of the blues.
Although not nearly a blues pioneer, Sparhawk, along with drummer Brad Nelson and guitarist Bobby Olson, displays a studied faithfulness to the genre. For the most part, the sound is vintage electric Chicago blues, employing a raw two-guitar attack that buzzes with the dirty sound of overworked amps and blown speakers. To give the reptiles some balls, Sparhawk's ordinarily sweet, reflective vocals are made crude by innumerable filters and feedback.
The Snakes' songs range from traditional to unconventional. On the traditional side, the album opens with two foot-stomping guitar duels, "Chicken Bone George," which could pass for the work of another George (Thorogood), and "Smokestack Lightnin'," a cover of the classic Howlin' Wolf tune. Willie Dixon's legacy is preserved later in the album with a limp cover of his Chicago blues staple "Mannish Boy," replete with screaming teenagers and poorly executed lyrical riffing. And "New Orleans" is the band's finest blues original, built around a laggard guitar riff and wailing harmonica.
Less conventional are the neo-blues manipulation of Moby's Bessie Smith sample, "Honey," a blues/post-punk hybrid cover of the Fall's "My New House," and a Snakes original, "Big Black Train." The front-porch rhythm section and twangy guitar on "Honey" is likely to funk-up even the most ardent Moby haters. "My New House" is anomalously ambitious, playing with contemporary effects and production before dropping back into a traditional, overdriven blues jam. "Big Black Train" uses song-structure familiar to Low (but with more sonic power): a four-chord progression, intensity built around simple, shifting dynamic elements like tempo and volume, and repetitive, single-stanza lyrics.
But conceptually, the Snakes could use a hand. Sparhawk pulls a Chris Gaines with the project, adopting a moderately retarded, self-created alter-ego named Chicken Bone George. My understanding has always been that bluesmen earn their nicknames, either by genetic defect or tragedy of misadventure. Whatever Sparhawk's reasons-- be it to help him remain in character, or simply as novelty-- it doesn't do much for the authenticity of the product. Everyone who will buy this album knows who George really is, and knows that he's been party to lyrics as sappy as, "I held your last breath in my hand/ I held your last word in my heart." Not exactly the pained expressions of a motherless, devil-pledged outlaw.
Sparhawk could especially do without some of the more contrived extensions of the persona. For example, his bluesman posturing is both ill-conceived and poorly executed, as on "8-Inch Knife," where "George" delivers an unnerving exhortation for spouses to kill their philandering husbands (with oversized cookware). Sparhawk's goofy bluesman voice sounds like a bad Elvis impression, and the content is plainly silly. Unfortunately, Sparhawk's failure to "sell" Chicken Bone George is persistently distracting. He would have been better to keep his own name and forget the act.
When an artist engages in music appreciation, as the Black-Eyed Snakes have with the blues, there's always the question of what makes the update worth buying. In this case, the answer isn't obvious; the majority of the effort is straight traditional blues, without any indie flair or flavor to it (apart from Sparhawk's indie-cred). It can be pretty entertaining if you're in the right mindset, but it's nothing Muddy Waters, Elmore James, Willie Dixon or Robert Johnson haven't already done, and done better.
