Antarctica is a desert. At first blush it seems illogical-- the place is covered with ice and snow, after all-- but huge swaths of the continent receive less precipitation in a year than the Mojave. In my mind, this is an interesting factoid in and of itself, but in terms of this review it would be useless if it didn't relate directly to the direction Friends of Dean Martinez have taken lately. And it does.
The Friends built their name on capturing the open air and empty expanse of the American Southwest in their high, lonesome sound. Every drumbeat was a fence post eroded by wind-blown dust, the organs were the lengths of barbed wire and the illusion of water on the horizon, while Bill Elm's steel guitar was the open sky, blistering in the sun and frigid at night. As members came and went, the band shifted further from the sun-fried day and deeper into the mysterious desert night, crafting a sound over two recent albums-- A Place in the Sun and On the Shore-- that seethed with escaping heat and nocturnal energy. Now, with Random Harvest, they call to mind a place of utter desolation, a place that feels more like the desert on the bottom of the world than the desert outside Tucson.
Mind you, there's still a heaping helping of the Old West here, but when the band reaches for the cold on songs like "The Winter Palace" and "Why Does My Heart Go on Beating?" they wind up in a deep freeze. "Why Does My Heart Go on Beating?" sounds as though it were mastered from vinyl, with its crackling surface noise, and the creeping mass of echoing pings and skin-tighteningly cold drones. "The Winter Palace" is more structured, resting on an ice sheet of humming Moog bass and smeared organ and synth while nylon-stringed guitar wanders through the landscape trying to find its way.
Elsewhere, the guys find themselves in more familiar territory, opening the title track with a plaintive string theme that the drums only sweep aside as they usher in Elm's steel and Mike Semple's arid electric guitar. If Elm and Semple's guitars dance with each other in complex melodic interplay on "Random Harvest", then they spar openly on "Ripcord", Semple's tone dripping with acid and Elm's steel sporting ragged distortion. "Dusk" plays like the approach-- and finally, the arrival-- of a torrential desert storm, building on the horizon with thunderheads and lightning, and finally gushing buckets as the band reaches a climax.
And that's not even the best stuff. They save that for the end, with the skywalking waltz "Lost Horizon", resplendent with majestic slide work and a gorgeous acoustic guitar solo, and the astral lament "Nowhere to Go". On that final track, Elm's steel searches the heavens, grounded by glockenspiel and acoustic guitar flourishes, but the song comes crashing to earth for Semple's ferocious multi-tracked guitar solo. Semple's playing suggests that the random harvest of the album title might one of souls by angry gods rather than a reaping of grain by humans with threshers.
And with that, Friends of Dean Martinez have done it again, crafting an album of absorbing texture and rending grace. Random Harvest isn't quite as stunning as A Place in the Sun or On the Shore, but it's close, and besides, equaling the majesty of either of those records is a tall order. Either way, it's a fine testament to the fact that our driest, emptiest expanses can also be some of the most beautiful.
