'Cruel Words' is an eerie treat of musical inventiveness from the dark hinterland of Americana. Exceptional!
"Mystery, oh mystery / Cowboy's life is strange / Gets very existential when his brains are rearranged", drawls Johnny Dowd to the accompaniment of vibrant '60s retro organ and bombastic drums on the darkly comic opener "House of Pain", about a philanderer who decides to take a gun to "that thing between his legs". For the uninitiated listener, this opening gambit amounts to a baptism by fire into the nightmarish domain inhabited by Dowd and the array of desperate, murderous, and marginalized characters he has chronicled in song over the last eight years.
Ever since Dowd decided at the age of 50 to utilise the offices of the removals company he co-owns in Ithaca, New York, to record his self-released, stripped-down, country-blues-soaked-in-blood debut Wrongside of Memphis, he has rejoiced in portraying the seedy underbelly of contemporary small-town U.S.A. But even though the subject matter may have remained a constant over the years, his music has long ago wandered far from its initial raw blues path to incorporate free-flowing jazz and swamp psychedelia.
Cruel Words, Dowd's sixth album and second for Bongo Beat Records following 2004's Cemetery Shoes, is no exception with his penchant for country blues and retro keyboards serving as a foundation from which to build a wonderfully ragged fusion of otherwordly funeral funk ("Ding Dong"), hard rockin' wig-out ("Cradle of Lies"), scuzzy electric-guitar-fuelled rap ("Anxiety"), and distorted penny-opera jazz ("Unwed Mother") to accompany his profound spoken-word lyrics. It also comes as no surprise to find that the cowboy-turned-eunuch of the opening number is not the only disenchanted individual to appear in Dowd's latest batch of excellent musical vignettes. There's the disillusioned wheelchair-bound vet in the funky anti-war song "Praise God" who questions the sacrifice he made for a country that has no more need for his services. On "Final Encore", Dowd, sounding like a burnt-out Nick Cave, paints a bleak picture of a suicidal musician's final moments in a cheap motel.
Elsewhere, Jon Langford (who previously performed with Dowd on the latter's self-penned song "Judgement Day" for the 2002 anti-death-penalty album The Executioner's Last Songs) and Sally Timms of the Mekons join Dowd regulars Brian Wilson (former employee of Dowd's moving company who plays drums and bass pedal), Mike Stark (keyboards), and longstanding back-up vocalist Kim Sherwood-Caso (who was sadly absent onCemetery Shoes) to provide additional vocals on the country lament "Drunk".
While you'd hardly expect this cacophony of woes to end on a happy note, Dowd wraps things up thrillingly with his longstanding live-set finale "Johnny B. Goode", a hell-bound reinterpretation of the Chuck Berry classic. With Sherwood-Caso's angelic backing vocals shadowed by a snarling, creepy Dowd, pounding keyboards, and distorted electric guitar that threatens to drive the song into freefall only to pull back from the abyss at the last moment, this provides a menacing yet exhilarating end to an enjoyably inventive and deliriously dark album.