Woven Hand - Southern-gothic sermons

The contemporary indie-folk scene, according to many insiders, has the same consistency as a glass of water. A rather harsh judgement, but one that, in this writer's opinion, is in many cases not too far from the truth: after all, it's often a tired revival, devoid of interesting ideas and even lacking in memorable compositions.

Luckily, though, as is often the case, there's no shortage of happy exceptions. If you take a small step back in time and set out in search of the movement's noblest roots and greatest forerunners, you're likely to come across truly great artists, only loosely related to the current revival, instead possessed of real personality and originality. Artists who proved capable of writing memorable songs and recording masterpieces, often unfairly underrated by critics, who failed to grasp their status as genuine heavyweights and simply lumped them, carelessly and superficially, into the indie universe.

Need some names? Just mention bands like Wilco, Black Heart Procession or Okkervil River. Or take a trip to Denver, Colorado, and ask about 16 Horsepower, quite possibly the most significant - and most underrated - band in the entire folk landscape of the last decade.

16 Horsepower were formed in California in the early '90s. But their roots, in every possible sense, lie elsewhere: specifically, in and around Denver.

Responsible for founding the group, as well as for writing all its material, is David Eugene Edwards, the son of a Methodist preacher who, having grown up listening to the long sermons of his grandparents and parents, left the family church at 17 to forge his own understanding of Christianity and spirituality.

After drifting around the States taking part in the brief but significant experiences of RMC (Restless Middle Class) and Blood Flower, in 1992 he moved to Los Angeles, where he met bassist Pascal Humert and French-born jazz percussionist Jean-Yves Tola, soon joined by Steve Taylor, and began developing his own personal take on the American folk-blues tradition: and so 16 Horsepower were officially born.

By the mid-Nineties the four musicians had honed their sound, and the time was ripe for the band to release their debut EP, simply titled Sixteen Horsepower, which hit American shelves in 1995. Although a certain immaturity and an inability to craft truly memorable songs are still evident, the record nonetheless has the merit of laying out the band's intentions clearly. Even on this debut, Edwards shows a rare ability to channel all the experiences gathered on the road across the States, offering his own personal take on the oldest American musical traditions - country, folk and blues - without ever sinking, as so many contemporary bands do, into a mere rehash devoid of originality or personality.

Although 16 Horsepower can in some sense be counted among the forerunners of today's folk-revival, from the very start they show great creativity and the ability to shape their raw material however they please: their version of country, folk and blues is particularly dark, lyrically rich (enriched by reflections both religious in nature and on the existential condition of ordinary people), and strikingly powerful and compelling.

All of this emerges forcefully 12 months later, when the band recorded and released, for A&M, their first true masterpiece, titled Sackcloth&Ashes. The record, already mature and perfectly realized, brings to completion what had been sketched out on the previous EP, nodding to all the rural traditions of the US, and establishing itself as a worthy successor to the school of the great songwriters of small-town America.

What first strikes the listener is the strong religiosity of the lyrics, a legacy of Edwards's upbringing, which invites illustrious comparisons (for instance, with the Nick Cave of "The Firstborn Is Dead"). But equally striking is the whiff of the "wrong side" of the American imagination that runs through all 14 tracks on the record, inevitably recalling the great doomed songwriters of the other side of the Atlantic, Tom Waits first and foremost. All of this is seasoned with a touch of lyricism (Leonard Cohen), morbid atmospheres worthy of Joy Division, and a punk epicness worthy of the best Gun Club (openly honored with a cover of "Fire Spirit" in 1997). The archaic instrumentation, finally, recalls bands like Violent Femmes or Pogues, though here the atmosphere is decidedly different and far less "sunny".

16 Horsepower's recipe is, in the end, particularly compelling, and it manages, remarkably, to sound unique and original despite the "roots" imprint that defines it. Edwards proves to be a songwriter of tremendous talent, skilled at reworking roots sounds and atmospheres (complete with archaic instrumentation: banjo, bandoneon), and above all skilled at crafting deeply felt ballads, traditional in flavor and American to the bone, enriched further by superb melodic lines and a chilling, spine-tingling delivery.

Herein lies the band's greatness: 16 Horsepower pull off the feat of sounding modern while simultaneously conjuring ancestral worlds and traditions lost in the mists of time. Their songs possess an arcane, extraordinary allure, an almost shamanic, seductive power: they evoke the vast spaces of the frontier as well as the traditions of the Delta, recalling both the sermons of the most fevered preachers and the humblest prayers of the defeated and the excluded, in America and across the world.

"I Seen What I Saw", the opening track, seems emblematic in this respect: the drums' martial tread accompanies a melody built on just a few adjacent notes, intoned almost like the stern admonition of a mad preacher. Meanwhile, the other instruments weave dreamlike textures of great impact, recalling not only all the cultural background mentioned above, but also the most "acid" strain of folk. "Black Soul Choir" is built on a solid 4/4 rhythm and impetuous banjo runs, delivering a second impeccable melody, complete with a countermelody in the chorus. "Haw", meanwhile, features Gordon Gano of Violent Femmes on violin, and is another noir-tinged ballad that slowly immerses the listener in a maelstrom of sound. At certain points, it feels as though Jeffrey Lee Pierce has returned among us, so closely does Edwards's vocal delivery recall that of the legendary Gun Club frontman.

The remaining compositions move along the same lines, and at first listen may seem rather homogeneous. In reality, the record conceals other gems well worth noting: just listen to the elegant, sinister polka of "American Wheeze", or the demonic 3/4 time of "Harm's Way", a veritable waltz of the damned, both embellished by elegant violin and accordion lines. The album closes with "Strong Man", a ballad built on just a few chords with a relaxed pace, yet extraordinarily intense and epic all the same: Edwards wraps up his first masterpiece by confirming himself as a songwriter of great talent, capable of conjuring arcane and remarkably captivating images.

In 1997, Edwards and co. released their second record, the excellent Low Estate. Nordlander contributed violin and electric guitar to the sessions, while production was entrusted to John Parish, who likewise tried his hand at a wide range of instruments and helped enrich the record's arrangements.

The album, while still operating at a more-than-good level and showing a band in great form and remarkably eclectic (this time also drawing on folk-rock and the spiritual and gospel tradition), partly loses the magic and balance that had marked the debut, and at times risks losing its own identity and direction.

That's not to say memorable songs are lacking, however: just listen to the opener "Brimstone Rock", whose typically bluesy banjo riff is soon joined by electric guitar, confirming the quality the band had achieved just a year earlier while also successfully venturing down new paths.

The unbridled country&western of "My Narrow Mind", with its airy melody, seems to open a crack of light amid the record's darkness, marking a break from the decidedly murky atmospheres of the previous work; but it's an illusory calm: the crack closes immediately with the title track, an extraordinary, funereal ballad enriched by a more elaborate arrangement (complete with accordion, xylophone, violin). "Dead Run" is another macabre, spiritual-tinged blues number, enhanced by the usual intense performance from an Edwards in tremendous form. The lengthy (over 5 minutes) "For Heaven's Sake", with its "heavy" riffs, moves decisively toward folk-rock territory, while the closing "The Partisan" is an emphatic piano spiritual, complete with the author's usual excellent delivery, once again able to lend great pathos to everything he sings; the lyrics, moreover, split between English and French, seem to summon up all the most macabre imagery offered by the American South, confirming Edwards's debt to the old bluesmen who first told these stories. Worth noting, finally, is the album's highly successful cover of "Fire Spirit", the songwriter's tribute to his great idol and chief inspiration, Jeffrey Lee Pierce.

We would have to wait three more years for 16 Horsepower's absolute masterpiece. The word "masterpiece" is not used lightly here: such is Secret South (the title of their fourth album), a majestic record of bottomless depth, worthy of standing alongside any rock classic.

The record was not (and still is not) understood; it is often considered a misstep in their discography, due to a production that forgoes the rough edges of the starker sound of Sackcloth'n'Ashes in favor of a cleaner sonic palette. This is certainly no random or commercially driven choice: Secret South is the record of another band, of another Edwards, a work that abandons the almost handcrafted charm of the early days in favor of an atmospheric, more intimate and intensely passionate song form.

It's hard, if not impossible, to find another work of equal depth, immediate candor and sincerity in recent years, a record so intense it takes your breath away; never had Edwards reached (nor would he in later records) such heights of emotional involvement, songwriting skill and introspection. This introspection is precisely the way to approach Secret South, which is something more than an album: it's a long journey exploring the human soul in all its grandeur, one that seems to mirror the boundless open spaces of the "secret South" this music manages to evoke.

Kicking things off is the raucous southern-rock gallop of "Clogger", a song that's simply perfect in every single aspect (choruses, pauses, arrangements, effects...) and one of the record's few lively moments, harking back to the almost punk fury of the band's early days. In its final chords, all the energy is unleashed that the next track will withhold.

I'm just a poor wayfaring stranger

In that bright land to which I go

So go the lyrics of the following track, “Wayfaring Stranger”, the album's manifesto: a kind of travel diary (both physical and spiritual), recited in a filtered voice over a banjo riff, with electronic sounds in the background, almost imitating the echo of the wind.

From here on, the record is a continuous descent to rock bottom, a true black hole. Next comes “Cinder Alley”, with a chorus of pure catharsis and violin passages (performed in part by Edwards' daughter and her violin teacher!) underscoring its melancholy.

Each track is a story unto itself: the lyrics and atmospheres recreate an oppressive sense of loneliness, paired with a morbid attraction to the countryside and the fascination it exerts. Next up is “Silver Saddle”, with arrangements that feel distant, lost in the wind, amid piano notes marking the lament of an Edwards who increasingly resembles a preacher.

After the abyss (“Burning Bush” and “Poor Mouth”), there seems to be a glimmer of light with “Praying Arm Lane”, featuring another fine banjo riff and an urgent rhythm that add a bit of color to a record whose mood recalls an old, faded painting. It's the briefest of moments: immediately the epic (and sublime) crescendo of “Splinters” begins, a kind of “Pandora's box” that unleashes all of Edwards' ghosts in the form of a disturbing melancholy. There's also room for a cover of Bob Dylan, “Nobody 'Cept You”, reworked in the album's singular style, and for another piece of exceptional noir songwriting, “Strawfoot”.

After this masterpiece, Edwards would never again produce material of the same caliber (it would have been very difficult, after all), though he did leave behind a handful of excellent works, both under the name 16 Horsepower and under the name Woven Hand (the side project he would launch in 2001).

The final releases under the 16 Horsepower name are Hoarse and Folklore: two thoroughly respectable records that demonstrate the band's class and stature.

Hoarse (released in 2001) documents a live performance from 1998, and attests to the band's full live power, managing to actually improve on the already thrilling songs that appeared on their first two albums. It also features a few covers (all performed live) that lay bare some of their major influences: “Fire Spirit” by the Gun Club, “Bad Moon Rising” by Creedence Clearwater Revival, and “Day Of The Lords” by Joy Division. Every track (both the originals and the covers) collected on this live album seems to shine with its own light and find its perfect realization, boasting an irresistible energy and an unmatched sense of drama, thanks to Edwards' magnificent voice.

Folklore is the closing chapter of 16 Horsepower's discography, a poignant farewell record that attempts to delve deeper into the darker, more gothic side of Secret South.

While not reaching the expressive heights of its predecessor, Folklore manages to recreate a funereal, almost mystical atmosphere, hinted at from the opening track “Hutterite Mile”, one of their best songs ever, a piece of striking desolation. The rest of the album contains original songs and, above all, covers (the version of Hank Williams' “Alone And Forsaken” is phenomenal), all reworked within the album's sepulchral mood, turning into small masterpieces of “dark” songwriting. It's not an essential record, but the meticulous arrangements, Edwards' passionate performance and the superb lyrics make it a sincere and moving work, a fitting close to one of the finest arcs in recent rock music. Unfortunately the album was not a success (partly because most of the songs are reinterpretations of other people's material), not even among the band's longtime fans, who were growing increasingly distant from the path 16 Horsepower had taken in their final records.

Among the band's side projects, the best known is Woven Hand, which directly involves David Eugene Edwards. It's a solo project of the singer, initially born as a parallel outfit, then becoming his main vehicle: through it, Edwards would continue his spiritual journey through music. While it hasn't produced masterpieces or revolutionary albums on par with the best 16 Horsepower records, Woven Hand has crafted some works of surprising humanity and spirituality, confirming the full talent of its leader and the quality of his writing, both as a lyricist and as a composer of melodies and arrangements.

The new band's first two efforts, however, don't live up to expectations: the self-titled Woven Hand retraces the steps of 16 Horsepower, but fails to evoke its atmospheres, nor does it offer melodies and songs worthy of the author's standards. Edwards tries to create an almost mystical atmosphere with the ceremonial “My Russia” or the slow-burning “Blue Pall Fever”, two honest tracks that nonetheless fail to surprise; the best moments are the least daring and most direct ones, such as the robust country-rock of “Glass Eye”, but they feel rather inconsequential when you consider they were written by the creator of “Black Soul Choir” and “Clogger”. The overall impression is one of a lack of fresh ideas, of compositional fatigue: tracks like the cover of “Ain't No Sunshine”, “Last Fist” and “Story And Pictures” are little more than pale imitations of the sound of Secret South and Folklore. A record with no major flaws, but entirely unambitious and rather bland.

Blush Music, commissioned by a Belgian theater company, contains re-recordings of past songs, reinterpreted through a more experimental and avant-garde lens, with sound collages and sampling. There are good moments, but the overall result is extremely scattered.

Just when it seemed Edwards had nothing left to say, he released his third album under the Woven Hand name, which is arguably his best since Secret South. Having dropped the experimental ambitions of Blush Music, this time Edwards devotes himself to what he does best: writing songs of the highest caliber.

Indeed, it's very hard to find any weak points in the structure of Consider The Birds, a record that proves remarkably fresh and tight, managing to marry itself to Edwards' renewed energy, capable of expressing his sense of religiosity and the firmness of his faith with unprecedented vehemence; a resolute faith reflected in lyrics of lofty, dark tones (“Listen Judgement will not be avoided by your unbelief/ By your lack of fear/ Nor by your prayers to any little idol here”, Edwards sings in “To Make A Ring”). The ghost of 16 Horsepower looms over the whole album, but fortunately Woven Hand don't try to follow in their footsteps, instead searching for a new path that culminates in an extremely distinctive and expressive brand of songwriting (just listen to the aforementioned “To Make A Ring”, a tribal dance steeped in a mystical aura). The standout tracks on the record are the flawless opening track “Sparrow Falls”, the intimate “Chest Of Drawers” and the stunning “Tin Finger”, on which Edwards sounds so intense he could almost be possessed.

Consider The Birds is one of the finest achievements of Edwards' career, a work split between experimentation and a songwriting style rooted in American folk music, yet finding unity and coherence in the dark atmosphere that every track perfectly recreates.

After such a beautiful and intriguing record, Edwards makes the mistake of repeating himself on Mosaic. There are good tracks here too, but originality is in short supply: it's hard to shake off a sense of déjà-vu while listening. “Truly Golden” has the atmosphere of Edwards' best moments, but barely half their value; “Bible And Bird” drifts by harmlessly, as does “Dirty Blue”. Despite the lack of any real shift in direction, though, personality is not lacking: “Winter Shaker” pushes the gothic side of their sound to the extreme, with an almost tribal drum pattern, and the esoteric “Elktooth” – with keyboards up front and massive, almost industrial rhythms – seems to sketch out a new path; unfortunately, songwriting and experimentation don't always align, as is the case with “Slota Prow – Full Armor”, where the band loses its bearings and no longer seems to know where it's headed.

Overall it's a fine record, above average, but one that captures a band torn between exploring new forms and falling back on already well-established ones.

Minor records like Mosaic nonetheless confirm Edwards' stature as a musician of great integrity, far removed from any compromise with fads and trends.

In 2008 Woven Hand released Ten Stones, which certainly won't mark as important a step in Edwards' sonic exploration as the first self-titled album or, above all, as Blush Music, but it does mark a fairly clear shift from Mosaic. With Daniel Smith of Danielson and Emil Nikolaisen of Serena Maneesh brought in to produce, the record flows with a certain linearity, and is far more rock-oriented – or rocky, if you prefer – than its predecessors, recalling 16 Horsepower on more than one occasion, especially the Secret South era. The guitars, for instance, sound saturated with distortion rather than enveloping as they did in the past, while – aside from “Iron Feather” and the gorgeous cover of Antonio Carlos Jobim's classic “Quiet Night Of Quiet Stars” – those atmospheric chimes that had made Woven Hand's music so distinctive so far are almost entirely absent.

And yet again, every time you listen to a Dave Eugene Edwards record, it feels like the end of the world is just one step away. So the opening “The Beautiful Axe”, “Not One Stone” and “White Knuckle Grip” are classic furious 16 Horsepower-style midtempos, so lashing and declamatory that they seem ready to pry Christ down from the cross. Still, it's always his possessed songwriting that makes the difference – let's be honest, head and shoulders above the average of today's singer-songwriters – especially on the slower, more brooding tracks (“Cohawkin Road”, “Horsetail”), while the Erskine Caldwell-style Southern nightmares of “Kingdom Of Ice” and “His Loyal Love” close the circle. A particular word of praise goes to the record's overall consistency. While previous albums had the occasional dip in quality, Ten Stones maintains a uniform quality throughout. And may the Lord be with us.

The Threshingfloor (2010) marks a clear return to its roots, and it's no coincidence that it was once again recorded in Edwards' native Denver, Colorado, a city to which the record is explicitly dedicated and which it closes with a dazed boogie in which Edwards' drunken voice drowns amid notes punctuated by a decidedly glam handclap.

For the production of this little gem too, Robert Ferbrache returns behind the mixing desk, previously a lap steel guitarist in 16 Horsepower and owner of the Absinthe studios, fittingly located in Denver.

The title track is extraordinary, epic, recalling certain post-punk new wave from the San Francisco scene, which still retained something of the hippie spirit from the late '70s, driven by a persistent, dark guitar worthy of the most transcendent Jesus Acedo trapped in Mesopotamian deserts, contrasting with atmospheres suspended between neofolk and psychedelia as in “A Holy Measure”, tinged with lysergic suggestions. “Sinking Hands” opens the album under the sign of a dark, Luciferian country-folk. Native American ethnic atmospheres, pounding tribal percussion, sinister pulsations heralding dark, impending epiphanies, somewhat like what happens in David Tibet's Current 93, especially on tracks where an acoustic guitar arpeggio leads into quite perilous territory, as in “Singing Grass”, among the album's best tracks. Primitive drums struck with relentless progression open the new epic of “Behind Your Breath”, and even tauter skins vibrate pelvically alongside the insistent bass on the tense “Truth”, a cover of New Order, swept by warm Middle Eastern winds and played with interpretive urgency. More psychedelia and lysergic waves appear in the learned “Terre Haute”, or in the arcane “Orchard Gate”.

While ranking among the most accomplished and certainly most inspired works in his catalogue, this sixth Edwards album pushes hard on that sick, perversely allegorical sense of the sacred which – despite his being a practicing Christian – lends him decidedly twilight-tinged messianic overtones. “Raise Her Hand” is certainly of this kind, liturgical right from the title. More upbeat and direct, “His Rest” could pass for a lost single, at least in its apparent intent.

In 2012 Woven Hand returned with The Laughing Stalk, and it had been since the dizzying “The Beautiful Axe” from Ten Stones that David Eugene Edwards had given us an opener quite like this. Dressing up the four horsemen of the Apocalypse as cowboys (or rather Cherokee, judging by the closing hunting cries) in the service of Sergio Leone, DEE throws himself, with his renewed band – now featuring new arrivals Chuck French (guitar) and Gregory Garcia jr. (bass) – into one of his most intense and powerful sonic statements, perhaps the closest yet to the drive of 16 Horsepower (the title track above all).

In short, DEE delivers here what is probably his most “in shape” record since Consider The Birds, disowning all that baggage of acoustic evocation and listless reverb that weighed down the previous The Threshingfloor, on which our man seemed to be donning priestly robes, transforming from a bareback-riding shaman into an ailing priest.

The work done by the band and producer Alexander Hacke – of Einstürzende Neubauten – is truly impressive. The Laughing Stalk is rightly described as an “in shape” album for its intensely dense wall of sound, built with precision and power from the beastly thrashing of its guitars, the frenzied pounding of the drums, a tribal call in “Coup Stick” and “Maize”; and not least, from Edwards' commanding vocals, delivering performances perhaps even more lucidly hallucinated than usual (again in the invocation of “Maize”, a stunning track with a piano theme that timidly winds through the percussive, guitar-driven resonance).

Engine roars introduce the country-punk of “As Wool”, while the theme of the radiant “In The Temple” – rising from the ashes of the one destroyed in “Not One Stone” – turns out to have a curiously Eastern flavor. Then we end up contemplating the sacrificial ritual of “Closer”, steeped in atavistic urges and that drive toward representation, here amplified by a strong percussive element that silences the other instruments, save for a faint reverb and an unsettling viola theme.

In short, this is one of those records that impose themselves through sheer brute force, through the power of its own expression and evocation, a record that pins you to your seat and makes a clean sweep of any hesitation or distrust, grabbing the listener by the collar. Almost a physical experience, in the end.

By now there should be no doubt: David Eugene Edwards has regained the balance of old.

He's on the road, he's never stopped, his stride is the same as ever. The frontier he has chosen as his field of operations remains boundless, much like the abstractions of his wandering, well-contrasted nature, forever in search of a hermitage from which to contemplate the sky. He keeps serving up bone-and-sinew Americana, primordial folk, pitch-black and expressionistic country, lending credence to anyone who finds it sensible to pair the adjective "gothic" with the Yankee universe. If his music has ever found a sublime visual transcription, it's still to be sought in "There Will Be Blood": in its tensions, in its coarse-grained Manichaeism, in the dust left on the ground by human misery. Ten Stones aimed to recover and translate those cues into creative urgency, The Threshingfloor tended to rework them in a spiritual key, showing beyond doubt their substantial relevance within the realm of faith, light years away from the sad stereotypes of Christian rock, impatient with bad catechism and the insipid moralistic aims of clerical hands wielding guitar and amplifier.

It's in this phase that his vocation for encounters with seemingly distant musical universes revealed unthinkable affinities to the fullest, as when a fastidious bouzouki emerged from the darkness to mark out a litany of mercy. Even on the new Refractory Obdurate (2014), those subtle Middle Eastern and Eastern European suggestions flare up again at times, in episodes that can be testy, weighed down by anguished shadows and almost gripped by devotional fever ("Salome"), or more fragile and equally mysterious ("Obdurate Obscura"): torment and yearning for the light coexist masterfully in a display of desert songwriting with unexpected Mediterranean inflections. And what to make of DEE's little habit of flirting with Native American asceticism, as if he were some kind of modern shaman? That too hasn't been lost, as proven by the scowling, boiling exorcism that closes the album. No contradiction here, just the search for a new path toward a timeless mysticism, capable of distilling contemporary substance and feeling from antediluvian psalms, or of dissolving the roughness of his prophet's hide into clear breaths.

Indeed, clarity. The Laughing Stalk brought back at its best the declamatory inflection and the sharp colors of the visionary, the tough-as-leather bearing of the fervent believer. Here it happens less often, perhaps when a magnificent acoustic weave offers itself as a framework for new sermonizing surges that always find Edwards at the peak of his form, sour, biting and restless as a wild colt ("The Refractory"): atmospheres that are hardly new but which, with such fullness of sound and galvanized by so much ardor, still leave a decent impression. Compared to the recent past, though, there's more electric muscle here and a much greater focus on getting to the point, favoring a stripped-down and often brutal imprint (the punk assault that closes "Masonic Youth" is emblematic), trimming away the superfluous in the songwriting, limiting decorative flourishes and, simply, striking hard. It's inevitable that something is sacrificed in terms of clarity and solidity, but so untamed and feral is the record that it gains a few points, if anything, on the side of instinct. Actually, a little earlier the dance had already opened with a fine, vibrant track, in extraordinary balance between telluric impetuousness (the superbly blazing finale) and great lyrical vigor.

While the drumskins mark out the march, scorched vistas set the stage for another powerful performance by the preacher, stentorian and full-blooded even when – often – he insists on filtering his voice, smoky, impoverished and perhaps a touch too reined in by the blank credit granted to the same old clichés of the past. More often the tracks are set ablaze by sumptuous electric ripples and bulked up with rhythmic calibers like a rough, overbearing sea. "Good Shepherd", "Hiss" and "Field Of Hedon" are shards of granite ringed by the scorching aura of noise-rock swirls, the hot wind of a vitalism that turns exasperated once more. The signature is Wovenhand's (now written as one word) in all its vehemence, a torrid, ferocious and relentless reality in an almost sublime way. Headband, albino fly, horned lyre: dark, feverish, burning, unflappable, mad, arcane, uncompromising Edwards, the guru who rewrites – aided by charging rhythms, assisted by spare but razor-sharp arrangements – the script for the future processions of the black heart (with all due respect to his kindred spirit Pall Jenkins).

Rivers of words have already been spilled trying to describe David Eugene Edwards's music, and, as we know, the usual labels tend not to get you very far with him. For reasons both expressive and practical, we can't deny the temptation of an outright copy-paste from the review of the previous Refractory Obdurate (2014), to which we refer those less familiar with his visionary art, and anyone who, for whatever reason, missed the last installment of his serial. Indeed, the list of novelties, after a half-revolution into heavy territory that had brought Wovenhand's all-nerves Americana closer to the post-hardcore of Daniel Higgs and his Lungfish (and even to metal-core and post-punk), is reduced, in the case of Star Treatment (2014), to a change of label in the United States (from Converge's Jacob Bannon's Deathwish to Sargent House), to sessions recorded at Steve Albini's Electrical Audio in Chicago, and to the sole new entry of the seasoned Matthew Smith, already a companion of the frontman on his most recent work under the Crime & The City Solution banner. For the rest, full confirmation for producer Sanford Parker and for the valuable crew, led by the two Planes Mistaken For Stars members, Sir Chuck French and Neil Keener (guitars and synth, respectively).

The title of this tenth collection by the group, to be understood as a reference to astrolatric practices, places emphasis on the American singer's modern-shaman credentials, underlining them. It stands as sincere wonder directed at creation, at the black cosmos soaked in stars as much as at the humblest, most tormented earth. And if the formula and temperament remain the same, the Colorado artist, at times roaring, still manages to get the most out of his own classicism, offering the listener scenes painted in dark tones, unleashing electric storms or, more placidly, enchanting with his unmatched millenarian evocations. DEE's new "Folklore" moves from the blazing glints of the Rickenbacker on "Crook And Flail", stripped of the almost pop joy of its jangle ancestry to find itself condemned to the role of a sinister, hallucinated Cassandra, in the company of a piano, Smith's, worthy of the bleakest Cave: another number of jolting atmosphere that deserves a place in an already boundless repertoire.

From the telluric call to arms of "Come Brave" – actually an invocation to the sun – "Star Treatment" seems to want to shape itself as a work with apocalyptic, harsh and impetuous undertones, even more so than its predecessor. The scenery is still the arid, flayed terrain of a Hugo Race, inhabited by gusts of restlessness, flares, clangor, venomous animations ("Go Ye Light"), and deepened by the excellent rhythmic work (built on thundering percussion) of the faithful Ordy Garrison. Truth be told, though, those who have pointed out that our man is evolving into a sort of pious version of the pagan Michael Gira aren't wrong. "Swaying Reed" indeed moves in the territory of the malevolent (and narcotic) exorcisms of the Swans brand. Perhaps the meeting in the dust between biblically-rooted unease and the fervent animism of Native Americans has never been so harmonious, and it hardly matters if the price of this synthesis takes the swollen, shadowy shape of a prolonged sonic nightmare, or if, to be even more credible, Edwards has to mimic the ramblings of a mind gradually undermined and crumbled by fever. What's certain is that the experience offered by a new Wovenhand record, regardless of easy expectations, proves more mesmerizing every time. This time around there's very little room left for ethnic digressions, for curious exoticism. "Crystal Palace", however, lets slip unexpected echoes from the night of the early Cure (a sly incursion into "A Forest" territory), then surprisingly turned toward something more positive, without ever abandoning the theatrical register à la "There Will Be Blood". In this light, it's the magnificent "The Hired Hand", the quintessential embodiment of the gothic-country gospel, that deserves the crown: sour, declamatory, relentless, recalling the most exhilarating rides of 16 Horsepower, because in 20-odd years the critical labels have changed but the recipe hasn't, much. The wind blows hard across the desert and carves swirls of sand, without scratching the ancestral gaze Edwards casts over that bronze-cast face.

Elsewhere the pacing stretches out. The heavily filtered baritone sometimes pours itself into a kind of chanted shiver ("The Quiver"), yet another prayer craving redemption that has no qualms about trading composed devotional ecstasy for a new ascetic storm; or it forgoes its usual magnetism and loses itself in vague meditations without blood or bite, like "All Your Waves", because the step from density to rarefaction is always a short one. Right to the end, Edwards remains serene and elusive within his own dense spiritual soliloquies, while all around turmoil is total and, apparently, with no hint of good omens. In fact, the farewell of "Low Twelve", though as harsh and smoky as the script demands, has no intention of lending itself to convenient despair, and prefers instead the path of yet another leap of faith in order to transcend reality, just as on "Golden Blossom" the sun breaks through the darkness once more, foreshadowing new blooms and a harmony as bewitching as it is unexpected. On the other hand, it's been said countless times, not only in regard to this talented expressionist of song: darkness has no right of citizenship in art except in close relation to light, and the starry night has no equal as an (eternal) reminder.

The following album, Silver Sash (2022), arrives after a long period of silence; this time David Eugene Edwards did not stick to the Wovenhand project's usual two-year cycle, staying off the circuit for a full six years, four of which were spent experimenting with new expressive solutions, the fruit of a close creative dialogue with Chuck French of Planes Mistaken For Stars.

The strong religious component and the apocalyptic nature of the lyrics haven't lost any strength or shine, but it's clear that the pandemic years had a notable influence on the genesis of "Silver Sash". A richer electronic component and a more typically psych-rock energy have partly diluted the solemn mysticism, in favor of a more confessional, pragmatic tone. This slight conceptual simplification opens the door to wild forays halfway between post-rock and industrial ("Dead Dead Beat"), ready to spill over into a nihilism in the key of Swans/Scott Walker ("The Lash").

The structure of the songs is seemingly less solid, a creative choice that entirely benefits the intense and intelligently defined sonic arrangements. The epic, granite-hard "Temple Timber" immediately sets the coordinates for a journey into darkness, one that doesn't shy away from potential narrative obstacles, skillfully tackled with lashing riffs ("Sicangu") and variations on the gothic-folk theme with a seductive, diabolical charm ("8 Of 9").

A triptych of songs more solidly anchored to the rock-noise distortions of the past – "Acacia", "Omaha" and the daring "Duat Hawk" – stirs up old fires and lends a touch of roughness to a record that's decidedly darker and rich in dark omens, a compact project that's rarely repetitive or hesitant, yet another display of artistic consistency and integrity that, these days, sounds almost like a triumph.

The 16 Horsepower discography, with Edwards undoubtedly as its leading figure, along with some of the records released as Woven Hand, are tangible proof of a boundless talent who, without exaggeration, could be counted among the greatest living songwriters, or, at the very least, among the heavyweights of 90s rock.

Contributions by Antonio Ciarletta ("Ten Stones"), Massimo Marchini ("The Threshingfloor"), Lorenzo Righetto ("The Laughing Stalk"), Stefano Ferreri ("Refractory Obdurate" and "Star Treatment"), Gianfranco Marmoro ("Silver Sash")

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