In previous years Reverberations conducted a marathon, day by day, countdown of the top 25 albums from the waning year. This year, between today and the end of the month, we will take a bit less ambitious approach, chronicling only the top 10 releases of 2012. In January, in addition to reviews of brand spanking new music, we will also make occasion to reflect on some of the year's other fine recordings.
For our top 10 countdown, many of these selections will have been covered previously in Reverberations, in which event we will simply link you to the earlier review. A few of these, however, will require new reviews.
This a previous review of Reverberations No. 7 title ...
Lee Bains III & The Glory Fires - There is a Bomb in Gilead (Alive Records)
Lee Bains III is the prodigal son, raised on the Good Book Jesus, corrupted by punk-rock and working out his own adult reconciliations between the two. It’s the blessing and curse of being Southern. From Jerry Lee Lewis to Tyler Keith (Preacher’s Kids), and all the way back to Robert Johnson, artists, black and white alike, have been torn between Saturday night and Sunday morning; ever since moonshine and lusty women first presented a challenge to the Christian life. Crap - that was probably in the fifth Century; in southern … France, or somewhere. Hell, I’d have to get out my History books. Like I say, it’s nothing’ new. Bains and his Alabama boys, the Glory Fires, aren’t reinventing the wheel, just grinding the sucker. And it yields a great ride.
Even if there’s nothing new under the sun, each generation
and every new artist has the opportunity to put its and his or her own spin on
the eternal conflicts. On There is a Bomb
in Gilead, the Glory Fires debut, Bains brings the sensibilities of a
literary education to his talks with Jesus and his hallelujahs to Joey Ramone.
I don’t say this just because he makes literary references, like the one to
Walker Percy (“go ahead take my Walker Percy, go ahead and take the t-shirt by
brother got when he saw the Ramones”), but because his melancholy and moral
musings are offspring of Faulkner and O’Connor’s world. “Everything You Took,”
the ditty with the Percy/Ramones lyric, establishes the artist’s lifestyle
essentials: rock ‘n’ roll t-shirts and books. And essential they may as well be
since he’s losing his gal. He’s clearly hanging on to a thread, clinging to
“every little hope that you give me.” But the lady sounds to me like she’s
moved on.
The singer’s wrestling with virtue resounds in “Ain’t No
Stranger,” rhyming contrition and perdition, by God – and reminding the
almighty that he may be prodigal, but he’ s “no stranger.” Bains and lead
guitarist Matt Wurtele slash through the Willie Mitchell groove with guitars
that are more Keith Richards and Ron Asheton than anything Memphis or Muscle Shoals. “Centreville”
sustains the rocking pace. It’s Skynyrd after the Pistols (and Some Girls), Bains spitting out lyrics
about guys who are “over educated and under-employed.” Perfect, it captures the
new Birmingham, or hell – Boston,
as the United States
becomes the new Spain. Imagine Tony Joe White amped up and all pissed off.
That’s what Bains sounds like on “Centreville.”
Bains works his connection to the lords of the garage in “Righteous, Ragged Songs” (‘say a prayer for punk rock, and say a prayer for me’) like a man who believes that there just might be some soul saving potential in the devil’s music, music, like gospel, that can surely be righteous and ragged. The Dixie-punk of “Red, Red Dirt of Home” neatly paraphrases country classic (you know, “Green, Green Grass of Home, the Curly Putnam Jr. warhorse recorded by Porter Wagoner, Bobby Bare, Tom Jones and your cousin Daryl); akin to a digital age version of “The Letter,” Bains reflects on having his “momma and daddy on speed dial.” Wurtele’s “Honky Tonk Women” guitar carries him home. Here, Bains effortlessly strikes the Southern grit and groove that John Hiatt labors to achieve.
Simmering laments like “Reba” and “Choctaw Summer” rock
country like country rocked before it became the fucking Eagles with fiddles. I
hear the ghost of real, honest to God country singers like John Anderson in
these tunes. But I also hear a band that sounds like they just might have
listened to a Richard Thompson record or two. “Roebuck Parkway,” waxes nostalgic for a
childhood idyll, and features some flat lovely acoustic picking. Wurtele breaks
out some Wayne Perkins style licks for “Opelika,” Bains slyly referencing
Johnny and June’s “Jackson” as he locates the boys position (‘3,000 miles east
of L.A., 1,000 miles south of N.Y.C.’).
“Magic
City Stomp” is probably
more fun live. It’s a chant wrapped in an instrumental workout that’s as much
MC5 as it is M.G.’s. In the context of the album it sounds like filler, or a
fun b-side.
The title cut references a youthful malapropism of Bains’
(he heard the gospel soother “Balm in Gilead” as “Bomb in Gilead”
as a churchgoing kid). The Glory Fires strip things down to simplicity and
soul. Bains stretches out phrases, wringing out nuance like the great soul
stirring singers. There are some fine singers operating in the Southern (garage)
rock idiom (the twin sons of the Oblivians, Jack Yarber and Greg Cartwright
come to mind – Patterson Hood, too), but few make you think - damn, I could
listen to this son of a gun sing James Carr and O.V. Wright songs.
Oh, I didn't work in references to bassist Justin Colburn and drummer Blake Williamson in graceful rock critic style. They kick ass.
Reverberating: 8.8 (originally 8.6)
