ALBUM: "The Animal Years" - Josh Ritter (V2, 2006)
A critical darling in both his homeland and the Republic of Ireland (where he was asked to support The Frames after they spotted him at an open-mic night), Josh Ritter has been winning hearts with his distinctive brand of countrified folk ever since the release of 2002’s breezy sophomore outing Hello Starling. This, his third and most accomplished LP to date, unfolds at a shuffling, leisurely pace and plays like a dusky trawl through the history of Midwestern America.
Opener Girl in the War gets the album off to a glorious start, building on a plodding four-note motif which twinkles behind a yawning crescendo of cymbals like the hopes of a fledgling nation laid out under a sea of stars. The song is pure poetry, creating its texture from the conjunction of different sounds rather than the lyrics’ immediate meaning. Ritter’s voice has a hushed, smoky quality which conveys a combination of sage-like world-weariness and muted emotion. “Now talkin’ to God is Laurel beggin’ Hardy for a gun”, he croons with all the hurt of a stunted frontierman pining for his beloved; “I got a girl in the war, man, I wonder what it is we done…”
Next up is Wolves, which gallops onto the scene in a dust-storm of tangled guitar-lines and chiming piano as it mounts an urgent race for the prize across hazardous terrain. It’s quickly followed by another standout track, the graceful Monster Ballads, whose chugging locomotive rhythm and laureate’s eye for 18th century Southern ephemera (churches, bonnets, steamboats) suggests that Ritter may yet become the natural successor to Mark Twain. Lillian, Egypt and the half-whispered candlelit vigil Idaho continue the journey across America’s arid desert landscape, the former all silent-cinema melodramatics and evocative growls of “The last time I saw her, she was tied to the train-tracks”. Indeed, by the time the dreamy, soporific In the Dark brings the first side to a hazy close, you’re left in no doubt that you’ve just experienced something truly special – track-for-track, it’s probably the strongest opening sequence to any album since Nirvana’s Nevermind.
Admittedly against such an inspired and sure-footed first half the rest of the album (though wonderful) rather pales by comparison, but there’s still time for one breathtaking last gasp in the form of the epic Thin Blue Flame, an image-heavy modern parable which piles metaphor upon simile while the instrumentation builds to a crashing climax. Here, as on the rest of the LP, the lyrics are composed with admirable literary flair (“Cicadas electric in the heat of the air”), spinning paradoxical visions of vengeance and liberation, redemption and sin: “If what’s loosed on earth will be loosed up on high / It’s a hell of a heaven we must go to when we die”.
In these moments of cogent insight it becomes apparent that Ritter has crafted a unique world, one populated by pioneering noblemen and damsels-in-distress whose “eyes are like champagne: they sparkle, bubble over and in the morning all you got is rain”. A rich tapestry of historical mythology infused with a heart-on-sleeve romanticism that is genuinely hard to fault, The Animal Years is the kind of thing Ryan Adams might be capable of producing if he weren’t so intent sabotaging his own career by behaving like a petulant child. Comprised of eleven tracks of rare depth and compassion, the end-product is a truly extraordinary achievement which evokes strong comparisons with Bruce Springsteen’s seminal Nebraska (- yes, it’s that good). Go buy the fucker now, and avoid the trauma of being without this magnificent piece of modern American art in your life for another day.
Opener Girl in the War gets the album off to a glorious start, building on a plodding four-note motif which twinkles behind a yawning crescendo of cymbals like the hopes of a fledgling nation laid out under a sea of stars. The song is pure poetry, creating its texture from the conjunction of different sounds rather than the lyrics’ immediate meaning. Ritter’s voice has a hushed, smoky quality which conveys a combination of sage-like world-weariness and muted emotion. “Now talkin’ to God is Laurel beggin’ Hardy for a gun”, he croons with all the hurt of a stunted frontierman pining for his beloved; “I got a girl in the war, man, I wonder what it is we done…”
Next up is Wolves, which gallops onto the scene in a dust-storm of tangled guitar-lines and chiming piano as it mounts an urgent race for the prize across hazardous terrain. It’s quickly followed by another standout track, the graceful Monster Ballads, whose chugging locomotive rhythm and laureate’s eye for 18th century Southern ephemera (churches, bonnets, steamboats) suggests that Ritter may yet become the natural successor to Mark Twain. Lillian, Egypt and the half-whispered candlelit vigil Idaho continue the journey across America’s arid desert landscape, the former all silent-cinema melodramatics and evocative growls of “The last time I saw her, she was tied to the train-tracks”. Indeed, by the time the dreamy, soporific In the Dark brings the first side to a hazy close, you’re left in no doubt that you’ve just experienced something truly special – track-for-track, it’s probably the strongest opening sequence to any album since Nirvana’s Nevermind.
Admittedly against such an inspired and sure-footed first half the rest of the album (though wonderful) rather pales by comparison, but there’s still time for one breathtaking last gasp in the form of the epic Thin Blue Flame, an image-heavy modern parable which piles metaphor upon simile while the instrumentation builds to a crashing climax. Here, as on the rest of the LP, the lyrics are composed with admirable literary flair (“Cicadas electric in the heat of the air”), spinning paradoxical visions of vengeance and liberation, redemption and sin: “If what’s loosed on earth will be loosed up on high / It’s a hell of a heaven we must go to when we die”.
In these moments of cogent insight it becomes apparent that Ritter has crafted a unique world, one populated by pioneering noblemen and damsels-in-distress whose “eyes are like champagne: they sparkle, bubble over and in the morning all you got is rain”. A rich tapestry of historical mythology infused with a heart-on-sleeve romanticism that is genuinely hard to fault, The Animal Years is the kind of thing Ryan Adams might be capable of producing if he weren’t so intent sabotaging his own career by behaving like a petulant child. Comprised of eleven tracks of rare depth and compassion, the end-product is a truly extraordinary achievement which evokes strong comparisons with Bruce Springsteen’s seminal Nebraska (- yes, it’s that good). Go buy the fucker now, and avoid the trauma of being without this magnificent piece of modern American art in your life for another day.
posted by Chris Carter at 6:50 AM
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