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Rating:
Given my aversion to many of the acronyms that have been in vogue since the nineties – alt and indie above all – and to their pushers, a character like The Mountain Goats could have caused me various kinds of discomfort; especially because, in an excess of zeal, even the infamous lo-fi is not spared our friend.
However, it went differently and it was love at first listen.
The Mountain Goats is the brand behind which lies John Darnielle, a fifty-year-old wanderer, who started from his native Indiana to land in California, where he makes a living as a psychiatric nurse, while also dabbling as a musician in his spare time.
John begins to record his music in perfect solitude and continues for over a decade, only to later co-opt, always under the same brand, a few companions who history has often labeled as "occasional".
This is the case until «All Hail West Texas», officially his sixth studio album, from 2002, not counting the numerous cassettes, EPs, and singles released since 1991; then, his artistic story reaches a turning point, with the transition under the aegis of a proper record label, first 4AD and then Merge.
In truth, John does not record in perfect solitude but relies on the indispensable "collaboration" of a Panasonic RX-FT500, a cassette radio, a boombox in the lingo around those parts; so indispensable that John invariably thanks it in the credits accompanying his works.
With this device, John records all his songs for over ten years, until it stops working, just like that.
But there are the songs of «All Hail West Texas» to be recorded and the boombox starts up again somehow – or perhaps yes, with effort and sacrifice – and does its buzzing work until it emits its last, mechanical gasp only at the end of «Absolute Lithops Effect», the track that closes «All Hail West Texas».
John, his acoustic guitar, a rickety cassette radio, the bits of time allowed by work at the institute, and his wife at a summer camp: the bare minimum to weave the thin threads of fourteen songs.
Fourteen little noble yet failing stories, about seven people, two houses, a motorcycle, and a correctional center for "restless" adolescents, as the subtitle says; forty minutes just to conclude that every unhappy person is unhappy in their own way, as someone realized well before John; and that it's not enough to jump on the motorcycle of my dreams, clinging to the girl of my dreams, to escape the confusion, when all the confusion is inside me.
Neither the form nor even the substance, but the thought runs to the stories sung by Michelle Shocked in front of a bonfire, and that too was Texas.
Neither alt, nor indie, nor even lo-fi.
Tracklist Lyrics and Videos
01 The Best Ever Death Metal Band in Denton (02:36)
the best ever death metal band out of denton
were a couple of guys
who'd been friends since grade school
one was named sirus
the other was jeff
and they practiced twice a week in jeff's bedroom
the best ever death metal band out of denton
never settled on a name
but the top three contenders
after weeks of debate
were satan's fingers and the killers and the hospital bums
jeff and sirus believed in their hearts
they were headed for stage lights and lear jets
and fortune and fame
so in script that made prominent use of a pentagram
they stenciled their drumheads and guitars with their names
this is how sirus got sent to the school
where they told him he'd never be famous
and this was why jeff
in the letters he'd write to his friend
helped develop a plan to get even
when you punish a person for dreaming his dream
don't expect him to thank or forgive you
the best ever death metal band out of denton
will in time both outpace and outlive you
hail satan
hail satan
tonight
hail satan
hail, hail
03 Color in Your Cheeks (02:39)
she came in on the redeye to dallas-fort worth.
all the way from sunny taipei.
skin the color of a walnut shell,
and a baseball cap holding down her black hair.
and she came here after midnight.
the hot weather made her feel right at home.
come on in, we haven't slept for weeks.
drink some of this. it'll put color in your cheeks.
he drove from in from mexicali, no worse for wear.
money to burn, time to kill.
but five minutes looking in his eyes and we all knew he
was broken pretty bad, so we gave him what we had.
we cleared a space for him to sleep in,
and we let the silence that's our trademark
make its presence felt.
come on in, we haven't slept for weeks.
drink some of this. it'll put color in your cheeks.
they came in by the dozens, walking or crawling.
some were bright-eyed.
some were dead on their feet.
and they came from zimbabwe,
or from soviet, georgia.
east saint louis, or from paris, or they lived across the street.
but they came, and when they'd finally made it here,
it was the least that we could do to make our welcome clear.
come on in, we haven't slept for weeks.
drink some of this. it'll put color in your cheeks
04 Jenny (02:51)
you roared into the driveway of our southwestern ranch-style house
on a new kawasaki, all yellow and black
fresh out of the showroom.
our house faced west,
so the big orange sun positioned at your back,
lit up your magnificent silhouette.
how much better?
how much better can my life get?
900 cubic centimeters of raw whining power.
no outstanding warrants for my arrest.
whoa-whoa. whoa whoa.
the pirate's life for me.
i hopped on back of the bike, wrapped my arms around you.
and i sank my face into your hair.
and then i inhaled as deeply as i possibly could.
you were as sweet and delicious as the warm desert air.
and you pointed your headlamp toward the horizon,
we were the one thing in the galaxy god didn't have his eyes on.
900 cc's of raw whining power,
no outstanding warrants for my arrest.
hi diddle dee dee.
god damn!
the pirate's life for me!
06 Balance (02:02)
two tall glasses of sweet iced tea
underneath the sweetgum tree,
and the love we once nurtured, you and me,
disintegrating violently.
stick your tongue out.
catch the pieces as they drift down the air.
i am too slow to catch them all,
not too far gone to care.
two slow summer hours spent picking at the bones,
figuring the interest on delinquent loans.
speaking in sad and mournful tones,
trying to squeeze tears out of mute stones.
wet your finger.
place it toward the wind.
feel disaster in the air.
we are far too slow to outrun it now.
not too far gone to care.
09 The Mess Inside (03:35)
we took a weekend, drove to provo.
the snow was white and fluffy.
but a weekend in utah won't fix what's wrong with us.
the gray sky was vast and real cryptic above me.
i wanted you to love me like you used to do.
we took two weeks in the bahamas.
went out dancing every night.
tried to fight the creeping sense of dread with temporal things.
most of the time i guess i felt alright.
but i wanted you to love me like you used to do.
but you cannot run
and you cannot hide,
from the wreck we've made of our house,
and from the mess inside.
we went down to new orleans
one weekend in the spring.
looked hard for what we'd lost.
it was painful to admit it, but we couldn't find a thing.
i wanted you to love me like you used to do.
we went to new york city in september.
took the train out of manhattan to the grand army stop.
found that bench we'd sat together on a thousand years ago
when i felt such love for you i thought my heart was gonna pop.
i wanted you to love me like you used to do.
but i cannot run.
and i can't hide.
from the wreck we've made of our house.
from the mess inside.
11 Distant Stations (03:04)
i found an old rug
in the dry dirt outside
the door of my hotel room
it was a triangle with soft rounded edges
and a split down the middle of one corner
it was darker than english moss
green like the soft frills of a peacock\'s plum
i waited for you
but i never told you where i was
it was you who taught me how
to write these kind of equations
i waited on the steps for you
and i hid in the bushes
whenever a car pulled into the parking lot
you taught me how to listen to these
distant stations
distant stations
i saw the sky break
i threw a rock at a crow
who was playing in the mulch
of the rose bushes by the motel office
missed him by a good yard
or two
i sang old songs from nowhere
los angles
albuquerque
said a small prayer for the poor
and the naked and the hungry
and i prayed real hard for you
i waited for you
but i never told you where i was
it was you who taught me how
to write these kind of equations
i waited on the steps for you
and i hid in the bushes
whenever a car pulled into the parking lot
you taught me how to listen to these
distant stations
distant stations
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