Gov't Mule
The Deep End, Volume 1

When I talk to my father (my never-forgotten first musical mentor) about "bands" or "groups," he wrinkles his nose.

- “A combo, you mean?”

- “Call it whatever you like.”

Today, however, I agree with him: Gov’t Mule is not a group, they are a combo; they are dense, powerful, and varied.

It's a shame that few people here in Europe know them. They certainly deserve more fame. Sure, that slightly pretentious taste of being among the few connoisseurs would be lost, but there are many other musicians who nestle in their niche. Born as a side project to the Allman Brothers Band at the initiative of Warren Haynes and Allen Woody, guitarist and bassist respectively, they now have many (25) years of career, and few shots fired in vain.

On a sad day in 2000, Woody died, reportedly of an overdose, and in his honor, the remaining members of the combo decided to record an album with the bassists for whom Allen had expressed appreciation. Thus, The Deep End, Volume 1 was born.

The album opens with the riff of “Fool’s Moon.” What immediately strikes, however, is Haynes’ voice, warm, vibrated, and thick enough to sing the blues, but not too much to sing rock. The overall tone is slow, but not measured; most of the songs envelop and grow as the minutes pass. The riffs are warm, smooth; conversely, the solos stand out clearly in the weave of organs and guitars.

The entire record sounds like deep America, long beards and overbearing truck driver bellies with a single tanned arm. There's always a slight sense of bewilderment, especially in the lyrics. Probably, if No Country for Old Men had a soundtrack (it wouldn’t be the film it is, you'd say), it would be exactly this.

There are moments of profound lyricism that aren’t lacking; for example, “Banks of the Deep End”: a ballad of a troubled man, who, despite the loss of certainty, of his best friend, maintains hope by clinging to the solitude of his soul. Shortly thereafter, a memorable organ intro emerges and opens another ballad, this time dreamy and paternal. Embellished by the black voice of Little Milton, “Soulshine” recalls the calm and smoky Delta Blues.

With “Effigy,” the Mule, as customary, engage in a cover: the result is masterful, the text essential and cyclical, letting the instruments take the lead. Mike Watt's deep bass takes shape and pushes the song forward, playing on the same rhythm for seven minutes before easing, exploding, and melting into a powerful jam in the last 130 seconds.

In the album’s eclecticism, there are no lacking funk moments, such as “Down and Out in New York City,” “Sco-Mule,” or “Tear Me Down.” In general, the Mule has always delighted in influencing Southern Rock, dirtying and embellishing it with styles, sounds, and musicians other than themselves.

The album, after the lively - despite its title - Tear Me Down, closes with all the strength it can muster. The riff is heavy and intensifies the emotional dose. The only track also recorded by Woody is placed as a closing note of a memory-laden album charged with sentiment and stricken by loss, but not thereby of commiseration. “Sin’s a Good Man’s Brother”: the Mule knows it and does not get lost in tears, they part with honor and a magnificent record.