Sarah Lee Guthrie and her husband Johnny Irion have been singing together for 13 years and recording for eight. In that time, they’ve released three studio albums that have been generally lumped in with the Americana set, thanks primarily to their folksy harmonies and acoustic-based sound. Yet they’ve often bristled against the strictures of the roots scene, and the duo have indulged their taste for unabashedly pop hooks and moody soundscapes. In other words, they ought to be a perfect match for producer Jeff Tweedy: As frontman for Wilco, he certainly knows a thing or two about screwing around with folk-rock conventions, and as a helmer for Low and Mavis Staples, he has devised a recognizable sound that is playful yet artful, ambitious yet restrained. Furthermore, he has a long history with the Guthrie family, starting back in 1998 when he worked with Nora Guthrie to put music to some of her father Woody’s unrecorded lyrics. That incredibly fruitful project produced three LPs’ worth of strong material and launched a cottage industry of sorts. Sarah Lee is Nora’s niece and Woody’s granddaughter, which makes her the third generation of Guthries, living or dead, to work with Tweedy in some capacity.
With Wilco’s Patrick Sansone he co-produced Guthrie and Irion’s new record, Wassaic Way, but any expectations that artists and producers are well matched are immediately dispelled on the very first song, which is called “Chairman Meow”. Seriously. It’s a slice of tooth-decay meme-pop about a girl with a crib in Koreatown, a movie in production, and a cat with a clever name. Never mind that it’s impossible to determine if the song is parody or paean: it just sounds bad. Tweedy and Sansone turn the treble all the way up and the bass all the way down, which renders everything tinny and shrill. The drums plod along, the fuzz guitar fizzes like a child’s toy, the voices take on a pre-adolescent pitch. It all sounds juvenile.
Wassaic Way could be a sequel to Guthrie's 2009 children's album, Go Waggaloo. While there's nothing wrong with targeting the pre-K set (check out Tweedy's version of Woody's "Hoodoo Voodoo" for proof), there is something alienating about treating adult listeners like children. Whether attempting upbeat power pop or nestling into a saccharine ballad, these songs are persistently coy and cloying, with lyrics about butterflies and trick-or-treat that habitually mistake platitudes for insights. "How are we here? What are we made of?" Guthrie asks on "Circle of Souls. "Now the dream is clear, so what are we afraid of?" It sounds lofty and portentous, but ultimately sacrifices meaning for rhyme.
Despite-- or, perhaps, due to-- Guthrie and Irion’s long history as bandmates and spouses, their voices go together all too well. One is cake, the other icing: both are uniformly sugary, but they do the same thing, set the same tone, and convey the same emotions in exactly the same way. There’s no contrast between them, therefore no tension or conflicts in these songs. Surprisingly, they sound better when they sing solo, as on “Circle of Souls” or “Not Probably Gone”. Even more surprisingly, they sound best at their most conservative, when they settle into songs modestly rooted in a quaint country sound, like “Still Dreaming” or the harmonica-drenched title track. It's pleasant enough-- not exactly memorable but also not actively off-putting to a grown-up listener.
