As with any band that survives 29 years of trauma-- even if much of that trauma was self-administered-- it's hard not to feel a flush of happiness when you read about the Meat Puppets' 21st-century trajectory (so far). It's truly great that the reunion of brothers Curt and Cris Kirkwood-- long delayed by addiction, prison, and general interpersonal mayhem-- has become an ongoing concern. Two albums in three years, and a healthy touring schedule: That's an admirable work rate even before you take the struggles of the recent past into account.
But Cris' return to the fold, while hopefully a positive development for the brothers' relationship, has yet to fully revivify the Puppets' work. Like its predecessor, 2007's Rise to Your Knees, Sewn Together is competent psych-tinged rock, with only brief flashes of the zonked vocal and instrumental personality that lit up the band's first few records. Now, the sing-alongs work as such, rather than as inscrutable interpretations of country-pop. The guitar heroics are cleaned up and corralled in outros and breakdowns, rather than ambling from first minute to last in place of hooks (or even riffs). The vocal delivery fits the mood of each song, rather than perversely offering smoked-out murmurs or post-pubescent groans when a croon would better suit.
So Sewn Together is gently rustic, occasionally (a bit) heavier than you might expect, and ready for any adult-leaning-but-alternative-friendly playlist. It's also pretty bland, and at worst banally melodramatic in ways that suggest the unfortunate arrival of the Meat Puppets power ballad. The piano and Spanish guitar of "Sapphire" are prime-time soap unctuous; "Go to Your Head" features possibly the most timid guitar solo Curt Kirkwood's ever played, and well-wrought harmonies in service of a chorus you'll forget two tracks later. Sure, no one but the delusional should be expecting (or desiring) a return to the violent ineptitude of "In a Car", but Sewn Together's weaker tunes feel too fussed-over and misguidedly concerned with middling displays of craft.
But once intimidatingly idiosyncratic to teenage punks used to easy-to-replicate hardcore, the Meat Puppets had been transforming into something more alt-rock normative well before their breakup. Perhaps fans should best approach any new Puppets material as a chance to hear two long-estranged musicians revel in rediscovered chops, while enjoying the occasional playful nod to past excesses. Like the way the hazy, high-speed "I'm Not You" prettifies the thrashing bluegrass of Meat Puppets II, or the way the final minutes of "The Monkey and the Snake" recall the placid acid-folk wonders of Up on the Sun. Listening to these moments, you can't help but hope the brothers will loosen up a bit next time out.
