REIGNING SOUND - Shattered

Moving forward, looking back.

For those who make a living writing pop-rock, this is a sort of original sin or shared affliction, one that will still hand out scraps of joy to die-hard nostalgics, but which invariably makes the more merciless critics turn up their noses – the same critics who forget that mold – even just the kind behind Gorgonzola, Roquefort and penicillin – doesn't quite fit the profile of absolute Evil. The myopia and lack of courage so often invoked, not always unfairly, to dismiss the work of the latest revivalist, remain venial sins in an era where it's only natural that reinvention weighs far more heavily in the musical economy than invention. Sticking to skepticism may well preserve the integrity of hardcore hunters of the freshest hype, but it also means denying yourself more than one welcome surprise from the leper colony of artists happily wallowing in an eternal yesterday.

In such a wasteland of outcasts, Greg Cartwright would have the credentials to run for mayor, at the very least. Not content with having relaunched (in fine form) the Oblivians after a couple of geological eras, the mind behind the Compulsive Gamblers, Parting Gifts and Deadly Snakes projects now also relaunches his beloved Reigning Sound with “Shattered”, five years on from “Love And Curses”, with a forceful swerve toward vintage revivalism that won't leave fans of retro sounds indifferent. Right from the start, “North Cackalacky Girl” hurls us straight into a mythological past, that of charismatic, raw and infectious soul-blues that came out of Memphis roughly half a century ago. Greg wrong-foots everyone by sacrificing the derailing fuzz of his earlier work and embracing a polished, yet never mannered, sound. What's striking about this shimmering and not-so-overdone exercise in recovery is the authority, bordering on philological rigor, that only King Khan (with his partner-in-crime Mark Sultan and, even more so, with the Shrines) seemed capable of in recent times.

The debut for the prestigious Merge label arrives after a lineup shake-up that has made the faction led by organist Dave Amels numerically dominant, with no fewer than three of the five members co-opted from his own band, The Jay Vons. The decision to record the album in that temple of sorts, Brooklyn's Daptone House of Soul, should say plenty about the expressive direction chosen as the priority. Even when tackling registers unusual for him (though in truth we're not all that far from his sole solo effort, “Live At The Circle A” from 2009), the Oblivians frontman confirms himself to be a superb craftsman of melody as well as an arranger of the highest order: the songwriting and performances are genuinely surprising in their versatility, evidence of a prodigious gift for mimicry, an uncommon fluency across musical terrains that are adjacent yet still distinct from one another.

Inside “Shattered” there's rockabilly and flashes of mod aesthetics, beat sounds and plenty of dusty rhythm & blues. And there's the wholesome, boy-next-door romanticism à-la Hollies, as in the gem “If You Gotta Leave”, a genuine dive into the glory years between the Fifties and Sixties, literally stamped with the indelible mark of that roguish Hammond organ, the kind not even Rod Argent could outdo… Yes, the Zombies. The following “You Did Wrong” suggests they're in there too. As are the Monkees and the Animals, with a poise so precise and skillfully handled that it dodges any accusation of cheap, calculated pandering.

On this album, the passionate homage to an era, an epic, an inimitable style of shaping the proverbial pop tune, goes far beyond the worn-out categories critics hide behind under the big, convenient umbrella of “derivative”. But the limited originality of the plots or lyrics (promises, withered loves and last chances, endlessly recycled) is no longer the point, when what really matters is total immersion. At the center is a first-rate star of garage-rock from the last two decades, who has chosen to reinvent himself with skill, a thousand miles away from the clichés and noise-rock fury on which he built an already extraordinary career.

No citation-fest would be complete without the Stones, showing up in one of the slightly more lively and electric tracks (“My My”) (though not lively enough to avoid renaming the record – paraphrasing the title of the band's biggest hit – “Too Little Guitar”). Just to be safe, a couple of tracks later (“Baby, It’s Too Late”) here are also the godfathers of this sprawling genre devoted entirely to rock's prehistory, the Fleshtones, whose chorus and counter-vocals can leave you reeling from an almost grotesque resemblance. On the subject of unexpected kinships, how could we not mention “Falling Rain”? Were it not for the different vocal timbre, you could almost convince yourself it's Mark Olson singing here, wrestling with a tart, bucolic ballad from his Jayhawks days, around the time of “Tomorrow The Green Grass”. Perhaps sneaking in under the radar, but on “Shattered” there's also room for the Southern, '90s-style take on alt-country, no less evident in the traditional-leaning candor of “Starting New” (perhaps closer to other leading lights of the genre, the Sadies).

It's rather hard to understand why the garage champions of these years decided to turn to the softer formulas within today's revivalist landscape, but it remains an undeniable fact: Mick Collins got himself hooked on late-'60s TV bubblegum and Motown; Greg caught an infection just as virulent and chose instead to revisit the great Stax Records saga. Detroit vs. Memphis: both, deep down, faithful to the expressive traits of their home turf. But it's Cartwright, more than his counterpart, who has truly hit the jackpot, avoiding mere diorama effect. Even when his touch grows more velvety (“Never Coming Home”, a prime example), the sophistication doesn't strip the project of truth or feeling. The last two tracks on the tracklist then offer the best possible payoff, between horns dripping with soul and a heart-on-sleeve crooning that recalls Otis Redding and Sam Cooke, respectively. In “I’m Trying (To Be The Man You Need”, above all, the candor now faded into a distant nostalgia bears witness to the magic the singer proved capable of, guided solely by a passion many would call outdated. Well, if this Greg were to invite Shannon Shaw of “The Woodsman” to the prom, the space-time paradox might finally be complete, perhaps. Certainly, crown and scepter would at last find their rightful owners.

Hats off, then, and peace be with those poor souls who, hampered by tin ears, prefer to cling to their stubborn skepticism in the face of such beauty. To everyone else, the pleasure of a simply orgasmic record.

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08/08/2014