For the most part-- damn near the whole part-- Damien Jurado went for the straightforward earnest lo-fi acoustic ballad "thing". Far from the rocking follow-up to his chair-breaking 2002 release, Where Shall You Take Me is as distant as Jurado can travel without ending up in the same place (the token rocker, \x93Texas to Ohio\x94, is like Alejandro Escovedo's most annoying moment, but not quite as well executed). The sparse and largely unobtrusive music, and Jurado's wanting vocal range place the emphasis on storytelling, one his strongest assets. The results, however, are a mixed bag.
He begins by trying to shock us to attention. The snappy first line trick would have to be pretty damn snappy to top Crooked Fingers' \x93Blurry eyes/ Half-bent/ And I can't take you sober,\x94 but \x93First came a scream/ Blood on the floor/ The alcohol and magazines\x94 gives the trick a fairly decent whack. You have to love the old standby, a porn/murder ballad. Despite how it outlines Jurado's stunning ability to stack moving images into a pliable story (\x93Smile for the camera/ Take off that dress/ $20 for a kiss\x94), Jurado overreaches on \x93Amateur Night\x94. The quasi-cinematic monotone crescendo that begins midway through never pans out: the story isn't \x93real\x94 enough to be genuinely disturbing, and a half-assed attempt at trying to humanize the protagonist (\x93I am not an evil man/ I just have a habit I can't kick\x94) derails anything he was building up to. Jurado's stacking technique works best with image collages; his similar portrayal of actions make the story a series of connecting lines without reference dots, rather than dots without connecting lines. The latter invigorates the imagination. The former is simply frustrating.
Two distinct threads unify the album: the aforementioned \x93creepy\x94 motif, and an at once endearing and annoying faux-naïve peasant idyllic, both of which yield varying degrees of success. \x93Omaha\x94, for example, presents a desert wasteland, sparely peppered with half-dying saguaro mope-core acoustics yearning for a late monsoon. \x93Tether,\x94 on the other hand, undercuts its pleasant naivety with the proper use of \x93whom\x94. "Abiline\x94 is a lovely little lullaby and the most adult contemporary song on what's in many ways an adult contemporary album (a characterization due mainly to piano work that invokes Bruce Hornsby).
\x93Window\x94 is stark naked Americana, and proves to be the most effective invocation of his idyllic mode, in the same way as senior alt-contempo master Ryan Adams' \x93In My Time of Need\x94-- in fact it's pretty much the same damn song. \x93I Can't Get Over You\x94 works as a sequel to \x93Window\x94, but that's about it; featuring the album's most predictable guitar work and lyrics like \x93I've tried sleeping/ Just to get over you/ I have tried dreaming/ But all of my thoughts were of you/ Oooooh whooooo,\x94 he fails in the same vein he succeeded on the previous track.
\x93Intoxicated Hands\x94 is the album's highlight, despite some annoying vocal processing, and provides the ass to cash the check of \x93Amateur Night\x94. A whirlwind of phantasmagoric vocal layering, flashes of lust and jealousy, and snippets of frantic, obsessive mania slap the listener from every direction: it is all the atmosphere and confusion of Amore de Tropico compressed into one song. I have no idea what the hell is going on, but I desperately want to; like some disembodied spirit floating through different bodies, adopting their perspective momentarily and then moving on, Jurado's shifts through first, second and third persons reveal a stark betrayal, if little else.
Where Shall You Take Me? may be one of the most aptly titled albums in recent memory, but Jurado does lead us on a worthwhile journey. With the exception of "Matinee", most of filler is forgivable, and the music, while not innovative, is lovely. His storytelling has a ways to go before I'll follow along with baited breath, but his ambitious songwriting-- while not brilliant-- places him well above your average troubadour.
