Scott McCaughey's guns are deadly. Bleak endings are an obsession for this pop consortium's fearful leader and the loose crew's seventh full-length isn't just nicknamed The Gun Album because of the firearm that graces its cover. Scattered throughout the disc's 13 rounds, McCaughey goes inside the tortured skulls of cryptic, morally challenged characters who contemplate the power of bullets, chambers, murder, and suicide. Time and time again, the quick trigger presents a solution to inner struggle while dire consequences lurk underneath. It's heady stuff which the songwriter chooses to deflate-- for better and worse-- with his obsession with all things '60s and hummable. Accompanied by Minus 5 regulars including Peter Buck and Wilco alongside newbies like Colin Meloy, Gun finds songwriter's songwriter McCaughey slightly stuck in his own unique, nuanced niche.
Given the thickening existential angst running through much of McCaughey's material, it's hard to believe the former Young Fresh Fellow is the same man who wrote "Amy Grant" back in '87, irreverently musing about the country good-girl ("She just gets rich 'cause she works for God") over funny funk. Well into his third decade writing biting witticisms alongside all stripes of guitar pop, the singer provokes both heartfelt intrigue and alienating frustration with his current style. Further distancing himself from the punk-pop of his early days, the frizzy-haired ringmaster serves his slickest 60s-sounding recreations yet on Gun with only a few notes bulging out of their Beatle-y boxes. Aside from a couple of especially twangy moments, the sound is a replica of the replicas McCaughey currently loves to churn out, with several songs recalling the Minus 5's 2002 Tweedy-time collabo Down With Wilco.
At the center of the songwriter's attack is the peppy on the outside/creepy on the inside trick; listen once and hear a pleasant burst of Beach Boys harmonies and Byrds-y strumming, listen a few times with a lyric sheet and an entirely different, darker beast appears. Used well, this songwriting sleight of hand can yield surprising results but the dichotomy can also stretch songs too far apart as they succumb to toothless, smirking quirk.
The boogie-woogie Brian Wilson bop of "Out There on the Maroon" and the sunny day bait of "My Life as a Creep" can't bridge the gap between their shiny exteriors and black-hole cores. Both tell of dirtbag loners through convoluted abstracts that are too difficult to decipher rewardingly. With little to grab onto lyrically and inexcusably blithe cap-gun pop pushing them along, the songs find McCaughey pulling out all of his toys at once with lots of commotion but no bang.
When indie-lit poster boy Colin Meloy takes over vocal duties on "Cemetery Row W14", a whimsical pile-on may be expected but, instead, the trenchant track is Gun's surest shot. McCaughey flips his approach with the minor piano chords and weeping slide backing Meloy, who plays clear-eyed naïf reflecting on death's soft cushion. "Cemetery Row is not such a bad place-- don't you want to go?" he asks, with a sincerity largely absent throughout the rest of the record. The subject matter is still mighty grim, but the song's idyllic take on the other side offers lively affirmations of anticipation: "Used to be afraid/ Now we love to fade into the procession." McCaughey's cagey talents as a songwriter are nearly undeniable. And his erratic aim can still be true when he swaps the happytime-mope medleys for a more carefully calibrated consistency.
