Yankee Puts Southern Rock to Shame

New Englander John McCauley would sell his soul to the devil if he didn’t owe his sound to heaven. I’m not making that up. He literally pimps himself out on his MySpace page inviting the likes of Chevy or McDonalds to use his music. While their PR teams may never understand irony; his music is agony in motion, it sure would be a trip to watch. Of course, his application itself is probably more repartee - much like his approach to writing. Under the mantra of Deer Tick, the child from Providence has restored life in music that has slowly been gasping for any fresh air stale with British post-punk or weak synth. Deer Tick has seemingly revitalized the sound of Americana with War Elephant: a deeply rich and rewarding piece of rock in a country melting pot of attitude and wisdom.

War Elephants holds more than its weight in gold as a welcome break from the whining indie scene as of late. The canvas of which McCauley paints from is monstrous but somehow feels effortless to the ears. ‘Not So Dense’ creeps along ones heart like Tom Waits holding hands with Chris Isaak. The psychedelic throwback moans of ‘Sink or Swim’ drown in a rasp of tasty booze. All of which aids in suggesting the albums true implication of death’s inevitable knock at your door and her cruel jokes placed along the way. A lay where lyrical wit strays eerily close to good judgment and each story has its own outcome of impending doom and conceivable dissolve. From the opening lines declaring opportunistic hands that fold as failures in ‘Ashamed’ to closer ‘What Kind of Fool Am I’ soaked in its own tears of wrecked relationships, Elephant is a brooding story of life that refuses to pull punches or defend life’s injustices. Yet, if you listen closely, he finds pleasures in its quirks - just in a fuzzy way. Anyone who sings “I should have been an angle / But I’m too dumb to speak,” is not troubled to show their war wounds but also seems to care for the fight.

The beauty of War Elephant is its ability to sell death and disaster as quirks and casualties of love. His raspy vocals play well to the cheeky words offering both sorrow and sensibility. I think Tommy Boy said it best in that, “He could sell a ketchup popsicle stick to a woman in white gloves.” He could even make selling out modish again.

Sean Kendall