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From the Blues Swamps, Honkeyfinger.
The recipe seems to be one of those succulent ones, anti-artsy cut and primordial unruliness. As if to say, from the river delta to the Crack. Tradition is implicitly transformed into reaction, and it is in this silent spatial-temporal change that the stories narrated by the English one-man band unfold.
There is the self-made man who builds colorful yet barren harmonicas, and there is the man who, after his own realization, corrodes them. Honkeyfinger is right in between Scott H. Biram and Butthole Surfers, in that limbo of perdition and crooked abstraction.
A handful of tracks, indeed a few less would have benefited the final evaluation of the work, to describe the scorching alienation from the Moloch of the new millennium. All this without any rhetoric, just slide guitar, kick drum, and harmonica.
In the end, we've all returned more than once to quench our thirst on those shores.
The rhetoric of "they don't make 'em like they used to..."
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