In the 1980s and 90s, Mark Lanegan never seemed like he was going to be an old man. In the 21st century, however, it’s become nearly impossible to remember that Lanegan was ever young. In his review of Lanegan’s characteristically growly 2012 solo record Blues Funeral, Ian Cohen likened Lanegan to weathered classic-rockers like Tom Waits, Bob Dylan, and Leonard Cohen, and speculated that he “will be all but grandfathered into that Hall of Fame in 20 years.” But why wait another two decades when Lanegan already affects a spooky “chain-smoking walking corpse” persona as well as anybody? The first time Lanegan emerges on Black Pudding, his new collaboration with English multi-instrumentalist Duke Garwood (who most recently guested at the end of Savages' Silence Yourself), he’s addressing his frequent sparring partner Jesus C. in the bluesy prayer “Pentacostal”. On the next track, “War Memorial”, Lanegan points to “a pack of feral dogs” nipping at his heels, as he’s not one to choose sides between God and the Devil. “Don’t tell me the ending of the play/ Don’t make me look/ In the mirror,” he sings. We all know which undead creature generally avoids mirrors.
Blues Funeral was Lanegan’s first solo record in eight years; for Black Pudding, he’s back to working with a musical co-pilot, which has been his preferred mode of working for the past decade. Like his partnerships with Isobel Campbell and Greg Dulli, Lanegan’s coupling with Garwood is somewhat vampiric in nature. While Garwood makes his presence felt throughout Black Pudding, most notably on the evocative bookending instrumentals “Black Pudding” and “Manchester Special” (which sound like a film score for an imaginary post-apocalyptic spaghetti western), he’s ultimately subsumed by Lanegan’s outsized personality. To his credit, Garwood seems to understand that this was probably inevitable and acts accordingly: His accompaniment on Black Pudding tends to be spare and unobtrusive, which keeps the spotlight on Lanegan, that monstrous croon, and his ongoing communion with the great beyond.
While Black Pudding is more limited and monochromatic than Lanegan’s other pairings-- the beauty-and-the-beast lustiness of the Isobel Campbell records is obviously missing, as is the mile-deep veneer of filth and depravity from the Dulli-assisted Gutter Twins records-- it doesn’t necessarily suffer from it. Lanegan is a brand name that promises scarifying dirges and tough-guy sensitivity, and Black Pudding delivers on both accounts with workmanlike consistency. You can guess precisely what songs like “Death Rides a White Horse” or “Sphinx” sound like before playing them. If that makes Black Pudding a wheelhouse record, so be it; the Sly Stone-like downer funk of “Cold Molly” demonstrates that Lanegan falters whenever he ventures outside of his self-made pine box.
Predictability isn’t the most exciting or virtuous artistic attribute, but at least Black Pudding is a luminous and finely crafted example of a well-established formula. Lanegan is a year-and-a-half away from his 50th birthday, but he already has the gravitas of 70s-era Clint Eastwood; Black Pudding might not be High Plains Drifter, but it’s a suitably entertaining bad-ass diversion a la The Gauntlet.
