Fact is, I can attribute little more than the confluence of personal ignorance and journalistic negligence to the fact that I had, until now, predominantly associated Mark Lanegan's name with his work as the frontman of Screaming Trees. I had mistakenly and categorically written him off as a splintered postscript by-product of the necessary dissolution of Seattle's overindulgent early 90s scene, that is, until recently exploring a good chunk of his back catalog and this, Here Comes That Weird Chill, his most recent solo release. Granted, the post-departure travails of the driving forces behind such rusted vehicles as Dinosaur Jr. and Soundgarden surely contaminated my expectations, but I wouldn't say they had ritually poisoned me to bar acceptance of artistic redefinition within their sphere. So, then, what flowers may bloom from the northwest doorway? Read on, Chris Cornell.
For these eight, brief snapshots of Lanegan's vitality-- a mini-LP featuring one finished song and assorted outtakes from his forthcoming Beggars Banquet debut-- he's dropped much of the southern folk and acoustic blues of his previous solo releases, giving way to a muddier, more driven sound. A highlight, "Wish You Well" exemplifies Lanegan's ability to grittily belie a gorgeous base melody with layers of guitar and droning tones from organs, looped noise and synths. Above the mix rest his vocals, which are best served when he deploys a low-down, brash Waits-ian husk, as on "Lexington Slowdown", and are contextually masterful when he plays the role of a confessional journeyman. Past the midway point of the album, "Lexington Slowdown" marks the first time a lucid piano rings beneath his growling sing/speak, dichotomously playing up the role of his pipes above a mirthfully ponderous piano lilt. A gospel-infused chorus then enters, but with such subtlety as to merely excuse its presence. Other than this, the rest of the material grinds on through low-level electric guitar and random, elemental scattershot accompaniment. Settle down, J Mascis.
But his ability to consistently deliver dirty, linear melodies without too-soon drying the well is the biggest feather in Lanegan's cap. "Methamphetamine Blues" (the "single," as it were) begins the album with an industrial assembly-line percussive element, hitting like tormented anvils on sparking steel, but never flies loose; rather, it flits along with a dirty persistence. "Message to Mine" does reel away for a moment of churning swamp-rock, but gently haunts its way into the spin before dying off to Lanegan's plea, "Baby/ It's good/ So good/ It's gonna make me forget/ Forget myself again." His delivery is so artfully persuasive and soulfully wrought. And it's all so sleazy that this backwoods poetry reads like Dylan Thomas under all the murk and dirt and scum.
Lanegan manages to pack down layers of sonic dirt on each track here, but it's all so deftly wound that the songs never feel anything but linear and reserved, even for all the action. The lone acoustic moment is employed as a launch pad for the electric guitar machine-gun rendering of "Skeletal History", which tightly jams on after a brief reprieve, but never relentlessly so. He also offers a cover of Captain Beefheart's "Clear Spot", which he manages to slime up and slither unnoticeably between his original pieces. Lanegan is the brand of artist who can make a home in any camp, and, as he proves on this stormy release-- in any weather. Watch your back, Mark Eitzel.
