Moris Tepper proves a chameleon on Head Off, taking on and turning out the traditions of folk, blues, and brash, bleating exploration. Multiple avenues and dusty dirt roads intersect with Tepper's muse, which is fitting for a guy who played guitar with Captain Beefheart on Bat Chain Puller and has gone on to collaborations with types like Frank Black and Robyn Hitchcock. Head Off takes its time exploring those roads and avenues, guided at all times by Tepper's soulful groan, which itself transforms from Waitsian mutter (another past collaborator) to crumpled speaker cone whinny with steady-as-he-goes regularity. The result is a record that threatens to ramble but rarely does, and tempers its moves toward mature singer/songwriter territory with a handful of busted, freaky, and lurching howls.
Lots of things come to mind during this flickering filmstrip. "The Sky Was Grey" is a few brief frames of plaintive, treated guitar and space-age sound effects, reflecting the shadowy new-century gothic of Jim White. Then there's "Ricochet Man", which, co-written with Mr. Don Van Vliet himself, offers two minutes of scatterbrained six-string, clattering, tumbling rhythms, and homemade vocal reverb. Here, all of a sudden, Head Off approaches the battered downtown sounds of Beefheart descendents Skeleton Key; Tepper holds it all together with an evocative vocal, and characters rendered just enough for us to imagine the scene. We might not know exactly what the Ricochet Man's going to do for us, but if his gifts are as potent as the song, then an ether bender isn't a far-flung possibility.
It's this sharp songcraft that keeps the album's various parts rolling more or less succinctly down the pavement. While tense opener "Bag of Nails" seems sheared off the Pacific Northwest's noisier side, the resulting title track is a robust psychedelic country rocker led by harmonica and robust acoustic guitars. "Why don't you stop thinking about it and take your head off?" Tepper says, and it's good advice as the album rolls on. "Mrs. Bodean" tells a tale of bad blood and horse's bones; there's some morbid, sordid shit happening in its out-of-the-way places, but the tale unfolds on a melody full of both sadness and hope. There are no real facts, only clues left behind, but they're enough for some provisions and gas, to get us through Head Off's at once shuddering and graceful final act.
The aptly-named "Sourpuss" and its accompanying "Fast One" mark the manic, noisier side of Tepper that the earlier "Ricochet Man" shakily pointed to. "There's a banging in my head like there's something loose," he sings, as the electric guitars make sounds like chiggers and the percussion stomps and crashes. "Fast" employs loops and layered vocal personas from Tepper to suggest the disjointed thought process inside that broken brain. Still, as with the rest of Head Off, these exploratory pieces are played off gentle, evening-fire acoustic tracks. "Any Left" is one of these: Its coals fade to black shortly after it starts, but then a scratchy calliope whirs to life, taking Head Off out on a wistful, black and white note. It's like finding footage of fair goers dancing on the Midway at World's Columbian Exposition of 1893. Head Off might not bring everyone the same sort of imagery, but it will keep you guessing, and that trait is pure gold in Frownland.
