Black Rebel Motorcycle Club
Howl

THE REVIEW

America. America lost among the deserts of California. America glimpsed while strolling through Lexington. America with Bukowski's "sun of cigarettes."
"America" that, if it were a novel, could begin like this:

"Once upon a time, there was a random Cotter who, by chance, found himself watching the season-end match of the Giants in the same stadium where, unsurprisingly, Edgar J. Hoover was present. All while the former was busy shelling peanuts, the latter had to deal with a not-so-'jazzily stylized' Frank Sinatra."

I was saying, it could begin like this if it were a novel. And I were Don DeLillo.

But these are the Black Rebel Motorcycle Club. This is a record. But America, that, is always her. "Howl", or the famous howl of Allen Ginsberg. A howl exploded during a party that ended before it even began. "Howl", or an anthem to the singers of the "Beat Generation," if it still can be defined as such. The album you wouldn't expect from a band with such a well-oiled and damnably successful sound machine, and yet here's what they pull out! A return to the origins, to the Black Rebel that they were and, as they say, have always been. Decidedly very country, like the best Rock'N'Roll made in the USA. It's already clear with the opening "Shuffle Your Feet", its "Time won't save our souls," and the acoustics reminiscent of Bob Dylan.

Bittersweet, at times discordant, with harmonicas worthy of the best Neil Young (perhaps the one from "Harvest Moon") in "Fault Line", which is folk à la Johnny Cash. Black like Eddie Vedder of "Alive." Tracks like "Howl" evoke, in certain aspects, the polemic and singer-songwriter Lou Reed of New York, particularly "Last Great American Whale." One of the best pieces is surely the ballad "Devil's Waiting" with its gospel rock'n'roll and a damnably bluesy voice. Just like "Ain't No Easy Way Out".
The piano of "Promise" is certainly the best endorsement of the entire album: simply heartfelt. Then there's "Gospel Song", and it's time again for a whispered blues, sung perhaps only as Mr. Mark Lanegan would with his American gentleman swagger.

But the truth is that the emulators of Mr. Stanley Kowalski resemble no one, fortunately.