When Mike Donovan ended Sic Alps, there wasn't a big explosive story worthy of its own "Behind the Music". The band had come to a more gradual, quiet ending. "I was the only person living in San Francisco. ... We were getting together when we could," he said. That information is interesting when you consider the relative minimalism of 2012's Sic Alps. Their final full-length featured some solitary moments from Donovan, like on "Thylacine Man" or "Lazee Son". (The album also featured more full, garage-resembling tracks like "Moviehead".) Earlier this year, the band released their last statement, the She's on Top EP—three muscular rock songs accompanied by three music videos. "I was super happy with that last version of the band," Donovan said. "And I think the end is important, so it seemed like a good time to end it." On the last date of their subsequent tour, Donovan told the audience that it was Sic Alps' final show.
On the outside, it felt like an oddly definitive move for Sic Alps, which had been a constantly shifting, amorphous entity. But separated from his band, Donovan had found an available collaborator in his old friend Eric Park. Donovan, Park, and John Dwyer had a band for a while called Yikes. Understandably, when Donovan approached Park to start a new band, he was expecting to make some "far-out" weirdo music. Instead, the two started bonding over Bob Dylan and Merle Haggard. So they set up in the studio, two dudes with two acoustic guitars, and made Wot. Their songs smack of Sic Alps more isolated material, which is good—Sic Alps showed that Donovan can thrive in more stripped down moments.
But then Wot's opening track offers more of a "campfire jam" vibe. At times, Donovan and Park tempt hokiness, which is potentially a huge problem. In the worst instances, having multiple acoustic instruments ring out at the same time can feel saccharine. (Think the New Christy Minstrels.) "New Fieldhand Bop" sounds almost overwhelmingly sunny at moments, especially when he hits the bridge: "Don't want money, 'cause I got some melodies." The sentiment feels reminiscent of Patton Oswalt's impression of Austin and Portland expats: "You mean I can't pay for sandwiches with a song?"
Thankfully, as the album continues on its acoustic drive, the two guitarists aren't bogged down by optimism or too-cheerful melodies. The ballads here are arguably some of the best moments. And they're wise enough to keep Wot sonically diverse. It's actually a relief when they go electric on "Do Do Ya?" (though the song is still paced and minimal, of course). And they're really good at playing guitar: At the beginning of the all-instrumental "Baroque Ass", the two men finger-pick two opposing, complex, and somehow complementary melodies. Then, they soften the flashy stuff with a gentle harmonica solo.
Donovan's voice isn't especially booming, deep, flashy, or cartoonish. It's subdued, earthy, and oddly calming. He can spit out lyrics with an effortlessly cool repose, occasionally spilling his words with a Bolan-esque warble. It's a voice that sounds really good next to a loud acoustic guitar—since it's more reserved, the vocals and instrumentals consistently have equal footing.
As the first outing recorded under his own name, Wot puts Donovan in two difficult positions. Not only does it have to live up to the catalog and reputation of his old band, but it's a singer/songwriter album being released by Drag City—the label that puts out Callahan and Oldham records. Occasionally, Donovan will sing something like "roll away the stone," and his well-tread imagery tends to land with a thud. Perhaps the idea here was to write songs that are earnest and universal like old country ballads. "Still in Town", for example, is a complete heartbreaker akin to a George Jones song. Sometimes, though, his sentiments are packaged too tidily; it's difficult to pinpoint the central character and beating heart behind Wot. It's consistently sonically impressive and captivating, especially when he ushers in a horn section or backs an instrumental track with a haunting whistle. But Wot doesn't feel like an especially personal outpour—it's a well-crafted record that's lyrically dwarfed by the old emoting masters.
