According to Illinois' "Rules of the Road" booklet-- the supplemental material you're supposed to study before taking the driving test-- not only are other drivers supposed to yield for funeral processions, but members of funeral processions are allowed to run red lights. Does this seem counterintuitive to anyone else? As accidents I occasionally see on my way to work will attest, running red lights can be dangerous stuff, often leading to, um, more funerals. I'm pretty sure the only way to darken the mood at a funeral is to have something more tragic happen during one.
The Jim Yoshii Pile-Up might have something to say about that; these five guys make music to slaughter all emotions brighter than morose. They could run all the red lights in Illinois if they wanted to, which is not to say their music sounds haphazard in any way; in fact, it's just the opposite, igniting pyres with well-placed shards of dissonance and agitated percussion, highlighting a tragedy you might otherwise submissively endure.
The Pile-Up-- and no, there's nobody named Jim Yoshii, not in the band anyway-- take their time coping with sadness, stretching Homemade Drugs' nine songs over 44 minutes and 44 seconds, pacing meditative instrumental passages with steady build-ups. Their three guitars stay clean and out of each other's way for the most part, resulting in a clear, piercing sound with plenty of breathing room for Paul Gonzenbach's affecting tenor. His voice is a warm spot in the band's somewhat chilly arrangements, both comforting and depressing, like a good friend helping you through a rough day.
Of course, good friends wouldn't normally hit you with stuff as bleak as: "Cold and wet in a ditch by the side of the road somewhere/ Lie all of my dreams for you and me." Or worse: "This isn't life/ This isn't okay/ This isn't much more than survival/ I know the kids next door bother you/ I've seen you flinch at the screams and the abuse/ I know the cars at night honk at you/ I've seen the rings around your eyes in the morning/ They're selling guns on the corner." Gonzenbach's in a hell of a rut: the rent's due, his girlfriend's grown cold and plans to leave him, his friends are abused, his city is menacing, and he's tired of life. In fact, he's so tired of life that he winds up repeating himself.
So, it's not a party, but as funerals go, it's interesting and graciously understated. Even Homemade Drugs' most upbeat track-- "A Deep Deep Lake"-- is draped in black velvet, hinting at both abuse and alcoholism. The guitars take on a harder edge, joining the rhythm section for a five-pronged, rhythmic attack that gives way to quieter verses, full of intricately interlocking melodies. The song's structure reverses the typical crescendo so overused these days, becoming sparser as it carries on, ending in a whisper.
And whispering is ultimately where the Jim Yoshii Pile-Up excels. Extended meditations on sadness and loss can be trying, but the band's skill at once draws you into their misery and makes it palatable. It's hardly every day listening, but hung-over, insecure, anxious and lonely, you'll be reaching for Homemade Drugs.
