Welcome to Massachusetts. Life goes on here irrespective of the outside world. It's all one big long Bohemian vacation, where bushy beards and handrolled cigarettes are protocol. The laws are different here than elsewhere; take, for instance, the painted crosswalks, designated points in the street at which one may cross at any time, regardless of traffic lights, at the bequest of penal-code-abiding motorists. Billboards are rare. Outside of Boston, there are no news tickers to update locals on the truly fucked-up shit an average hour brings. And if there were, no one would pay attention anyway.
At least that's how I see things when I visit. Sunburned Hand of the Man might have a TV, or occasionally peruse The Berkshire Eagle, but my money says they don't. The Massachusetts free-folk collective is too busy making bizarre, limited-press albums and engaging a formidable cult following to do otherwise. Oddly enough, in eight years as a band, Sunburned Hand have never before released a CD, eschewing accessibility both physically and intellectually.
Rare Wood is the group's first foray into formal studio recording, which is both good and bad news for fans of the group. Gone are the handpacked hemp protective sleeves, replaced by the infinitely more mundane digipak, in exchange for the much wider availability a studio issue offers. Sadly, that availability isn't fully capitalized upon, as Rare Wood will likely only appeal to the band's ardent stable of fans. Newcomers would be far better off seeking out one of the group's mysterious CD-R or vinyl-only releases through rare-records vendors such as Ecstatic Yod.
To be frank, Rare Wood simply pales in comparison to many of the group's previous releases, especially Headdress or Wild Animal. Where those records were harsh, but also tuneful and emotive, Rare Wood is, well, mainly harsh. Bestial vocals play a more prominent role on this album than elsewhere in the group's discography, and as a result, the expansive milieu of guitar, bass, found sound, and oddball percussion that has come to epitomize the band's sound is muzzled in favor of a more confrontational approach. Though the record might seem to fall in fairly close proximity to Sunburned Hand's other work, and marks no significant departure from their organic free-folk logotype, it fails to live up to better work from the group's LP series.
"Shitless", alone, from Headdress, packs more melody than Rare Wood's entirety. Unless you've got an ear for particularly strident music, vocals that sound like nothing so much as Andre the Giant spooning molasses probably won't sit too well in your stomach. Some might argue that that's the point, but on prior outings, the band managed to sound as immersive as they were acerbic. That elemental blend of bitter and sweet is what has made the group's best work so enjoyable. Here, it's hard to ignore the caustic stream-of-conciousness vocals and just appreciate the seductive, primeval freakout happening in the background.
Rare Wood does pack a scant handful of instrumental passages in its curt 42-minute runtime that recall the strength of the group's earlier work. As the paranoid opener "Easy Wind" fades into "Gyp Hawkin'", along with it go the glottal squeals, and the subsequent ten minutes are pleasantly reminiscent of the band's better moments. "Gyp Hawkin'" expands upon the amorphous instrumental rambling of the band's earlier material by featuring sparse organ swells and haphazard bursts of synthesizer. Texturally, it's by far this album's most affable moment, due in no small part to its lack of vocals. Unfortunately, the similar, centerpiece-length "Glass Boot" fails to diverge from Rare Wood's central instrumental motifs, and is overpowered by more jarring vocal jabs. "Buried Pleasure", the album's abrupt closer, feels like a beginning to a new piece, rather than a summation of one to which it has no discernable stylistic connection.
When a band releases 14 albums in three years, as Sunburned Hand of the Man have since 2001, it's unrealistic to expect them to be on the money every time. Rare Wood wouldn't be such a disappointment if it were just another one of the myriad homespun release in the tumescent Sunburned Hand catalog, instead of the band's first album proper. As it stands, the album is a landmark document for a group whose career has been shrouded by isolation and mystery. Beyond that, however, its interest is marginal.
