There is no denying the musicianship of Tony Furtado and the American Gypsies.

But categorizing the Gypsies is another matter. Furtado is often compared to Ry Cooder and like Cooder, Furtado is a musical wanderer. His band wears an array of influences on its sleeve, including gutbucket blues, jazz, Eastern ragas, old-time American music, and the stew these various styles creates can create some sparks.

On the American Gypsies’ latest disc, Live Gypsy, the band strikes out with some strong compositions and electrifying sounds, pushing out past the boundaries of genre—but never really capturing the listener, never really reaching into her soul.

The opening cut is a perfect example of what works best for this band. The seven-plus-minute jam, set over some mad, jazz-influenced drumming from Tom Brechtlein, hits its peak when the music is allowed to roam beyond what are rather pedestrian vocals from Furtado. Paul McCandless carries much of the song’s weight, his soloing on sax lends an Eastern air to the song, with Furtado tossing in a tight slide solo to boot.

It is a jam-filled record, a flashy one that does frequently burning from the speakers—the second cut, the bluesy bluegrass cut, “The Ghost of Blind Willie Johnson”, smolders with energy, riding on a long, gutty slide-guitar riff, while “Fat Fry on the Hog Farm” offers a restrained, dirty, down-home groove, reminiscent of Little Feat.

“St. John’s Fire”, with its repeating banjo line and McCandless’s backing horns, has a country feel—until John R. Burr rolls in with a piano solo that could as easily have come out of mid-‘60s Memphis, kicking the band in a bluesier direction, with Furtado coming back on acoustic guitar and the band coming back, with McCandless sounding as if he was playing behind Aretha.

“Bottle of Hope” is possibly the best cut on the disc, an instrumental ballad on which each band member offers a thoughtful, emotional solo, tightly wound about Furtado’s pointed guitar lines.

Another stellar cut—and the only vocal that connects—is the soft, piano-based ballad, “Some of Shelley’s Blues” (recorded originally by Michael Nesmith’s First National Band), gives the band to explore a softer sound, Furtado showing a frailty in his vocal that adds an emotional edge to the song. “Tell me, just one more time, the reason why you must leave / Tell me once more why you’re sure you don’t need me / Tell me again but don’t think you’ll convince me”, he sings.

The problem, though, is that the disc seems almost to be too flashy, to lack the kind of emotional depth you get from the best jazz or country music. “Rueben’s Train”, for instance, is weighted down by the vocal, while “Hartford” offers some wonderful picking and a nice piano break, but doesn’t seem to take the listener anywhere. It’s almost as if you’re being asked to say “wow”, to but not to commit, not to invest emotionally as a listener.

The same goes for a pair of traditionals “Oh Berta Berta” and “Staggerlee”. “Oh Berta Berta” has been souped up with Santana-esque flourishes—Burr’s electric piano and Brechtlein’s drumming sounding like something off Abraxas—and some nasty electric slide work from Furtado. But song seems too set, too much a musical exercise and, like “Hartford”, it fails to do anything more than inspire awe.

“Staggerlee” offers some nice picking and slide work, but the playing seems divorced from the violence of the lyric, drifting into jam-band territory when a hard blues or even a blue-grass vibe would have been better. And Furtado’s reed-thin vocal does not help, dissipating whatever energy the song may have had.

When all is said and done, the disc’s weaknesses are too hard to ignore. The playing is great, flawless, but lacks soul and ultimately leaves me a little cold.