Afghan Whigs
1965

THE REVIEW

The creative trajectory of the Afghan Whigs in the 90s traced some of the brightest musical paths of that decade, oscillating essentially between two poles: grunge and post-punk guitar aggressions (a perfect example of this was "Congregation," the last album for Sub Pop) and a pronounced sensitivity towards funk, blues, and soul. If the masterpiece "Gentlemen" represented the perfect and dangerous osmosis between these elements, the subsequent albums shifted the balance towards the black soul of the Afghan mixture. After the conceptual and tormented "Black Love," in 1998 it was the turn of "1965." Proudly presented by Greg Dulli at the time of release with combative proclamations ("If this year you find a more rock and roll album than this, I'll give you a blowjob in Leicester Square," he said to a guy from NME), this work was, however, below expectations, and it was no coincidence that it drew the curtain on the Afghan Whigs' affairs. More than rock and roll, it should be called "soul and roll", since the album was recorded in New Orleans - the cradle of blues and jazz as well as a notoriously ambiguous and promiscuous place, an ideal setting for the murky hard-boiled stories of the one who among these grooves calls himself "Sweet Son of a Bitch." Dulli's love for black music thus found its natural expression in the album that, in the end, had always been in his heart, but which he brought to fruition once the urgency of grunge had passed. Rick McCollum's guitar contribution, in particular, is often ghostly, lacking the searing bite that was one of the band's hallmarks.

The sound of "1965" is theoretically spectacular: brass, piano, and violin follow each other without interruption to inlay the 11 compositions present here. The whole thing is inspired by the mixture that had made Satchel's "Family" a classic of the '90s (after all, Shawn Smith was a guest on "Black Love"). Theoretically, precisely: because in practice, many episodes move on the tracks and struggle to leave a mark. The band's skill in navigating sophisticated scores (as in the funky-gospel tour de force of "John the Baptist," or in the cajun blueprint of "Cite soleil," both excellent tracks) is indisputable, and Greg sings with passion and a determined attitude. But there is often a mainstream patina that undermines it all ("66" in particular), and the absence of the monumental drama of the past is noticeable, even in the lyrics of the not yet stout Greg, sometimes entrenched in a maudit mannerism ("I got the devil in me, girl" is symptomatic...). In particular, ballads like "Crazy" or "The slide song" pale in comparison to any "My curse," while the lascivious spurts of "Somethin' hot" and "Uptown again" no longer have the clarity of the past.
But class is not water, and at the end of "1965" the Cincinnati gambler pulled out a couple of aces with which to save the game. "Neglected" to begin, a vicious ballad between Prince and Marvin Gaye with gentleman-like lyrics such as "You can fuck my body, baby/ But please don't fuck my mind"
But it is in the infernal rock-free jazz ride of "Omerta/The Vampire Lanois" that Dulli forged the last gem: a worthy soundtrack for the magical New Orleans of Mardi Gras. And then: what better epitaph for this inimitable group than a phrase like "When you're high and lost in the clouds/ Then you know it's time to get down, again"?