How many times in the not so distant past have you been asked, “Where do you think music is going?” How many times? In my case the answer is one, which, fortunately, is all I need to continue.
If for you the answer is zero, stop reading and think about what you might say. Take your time. I’ll grab a coffee or something. If you’ve given it some thought and still feel unsure what to say, one way or the other, whether you have a clue, well then for better or worse you and I happen to be in the same boat.
If this question is one you’ve already pondered, you may be what someone once -- to my bewilderment and surprise -- labelled me: one of those “album-listeners”. It’s sad (to me, and maybe you too) but true: the Single appears to have recovered hegemony over the Album for most listeners. Perhaps this isn’t even news to anybody by this point. Perhaps the answer to “Where do you think music is going?” is so perplexing because the answer to “Where do you think the album is going?” is beyond perplexing. Perhaps the question has no answer. But that’s neither here nor there. You see, a substantial cause of my lack of inclination is an album like "Horehound".
Brimming with fuzz and consummate backbeats, The Dead Weather’s debut plays best at high volume, in open air where it can swirl. “Bone House” flat-out rolls on the album’s best groove, crunching and shifting beneath the verses. “New Pony” sways and swaggers. Vocals pass seamlessly between White and Mosshart on “Rocking Horse”, which brilliantly conjures the untamed West through loping bass and guitar twang. Overwhelmingly though, the cuts on Horehound don’t translate the initial surprise and vigor of their opening hook into contrasting sections capable of sustaining interest. Half of its songs are finished, creatively speaking, by the second chorus.
Like it or not, because Jack White is connected, Horehound carries plenty of baggage for a debut album – not to dwell upon Jack, whose essence I happen to savour (just like everybody else). No, the trouble with the baggage is that it predestines the parameters for hearing The Dead Weather’s initial effort, which to me constitutes an album very much lacking perimeters.
Aside from “Will There Be Enough Water” – which trudges through what may be the most graphic blues-innuendo on record (Will there be enough water / When my ship comes in?) (don’t look at me, I’d blame Robert Johnson) with all the appropriate vocal sluggishness, but musically never really takes off, even after about 4 minutes 30 seconds when it seems and, uncannily sounds like it could be building to a Midnight Rambler-esque sprint down the home stretch. The Dead Weather offer several glimpses into uncharted and experimental directions that deviate from the blues palette so oft-expected of White. In these select moments Horehound glimmers with potential, though ultimately it fails to harness them long enough to distinguish it as the album it could have been.
“60 Feet Tall” may be the best song on Horehound. It is certainly the most important. Taking stylistic cues from Jimi’s “If 6 Was 9”, its victory is in its space. The silence, the emptiness between the lines – be they vocal, guitar or bass lines – and the touch of reverb behind them lend each of these lines tremendous significance, so that when they surface the impact is just as harrowing as when they recede back into that vacuum. The song is a stewing menace. It itches and churns within its hollow of sound, the aggravation boiling over in seething climax as blisteringly psychedelic guitar pierces outward through a relentless cacophony of crashing cymbals. With their first song The Dead Weather come the closest to sonically embodying their dangerously sullen, all-clad-in-black aesthetic.
The other instances of eccentricity are scattered throughout the album. They exist in moments as brief as the synthetic dance beat at the start of “Bone House”, the initial shimmy of feedback and eventual guitar freak-out on “Rocking Horse”. Or during “So Far From Your Weapon”, where the underpinning production summons murky depths as black and viscous as the oil we can only imagine saturating Jack’s tangled mane. “3 Birds” contains the highest variety of provocative textures and haunting effects but, like most of the songs, its direction isn’t concrete enough to have a lasting impact. These elements flirt with combining varied sources and genres but don’t receive the necessary focus to fully mature. They don’t evolve into something powerful, distinct and presently unknown – a cohesive musical aura The Dead Weather can call its own.
Retrospectively, the sensation emanating from Horehound is one of restriction, as though the packaged essence of the band predetermined its possibilities, resulting in a somewhat underachieving album. Contention of ego… Mosshart vs. White; that’s the overwhelmingly presented dynamic (see video for “Treat Me Like Your Mother” where both proceed to shoot each other full of holes and then walk away as if nothing happened) but what will really make or break The Dead Weather’s next album is the dynamic between “Little” Jack Lawrence and Dean Fertita. It is their interactions that spur the disparate segments of Horehound that are dark and beyond classification and these moments of coalescence point to a vast potential. Those of us looking for some answer as to where music may be going can only hope that the future will find The Dead Weather plunging further into the darkness to discover what kind of sounds exist there.
This review was done by:
http://hangout.altsounds.com/members/imightbewrong.html