Of the many grizzled phases of music’s late 20th century past, it seems that the some of the fewest survivors come from the medicated gloom of post-Nevermind Americana; the perennial Dave Grohl aside, other veterans are few in number, active ones even rarer beasts. Mark Lanegan, of course, isn’t one of the steady clutch of revivalists splitting the infinitive between pension fund cash in and self-parodying lounge act, his first solo project The Winding Sheet released long before his grunge vessel The Screaming Trees ground to a halt around the end of the last millennium.
Collaborative work with Afghan Wig magus Greg Dulli and Isobel Campbell notwithstanding, the gravel voiced Washingtonian’s jilted wandering arguably never sounded more brilliantly crushed than on Soulsaver’s 2007 release It’s Not How Far You Fall, It’s The Way You Land. In contrasting frames, his last effort Phantom Radio deftly signposted a career now nicely grounded in a familiar, loveable anti hero rotunda, but with Gargoyle the whisky gargling raconteur sets off again for a new pitch.
What this means in practice is a lighter tone – the aesthetics of that voice could surely never change – and a conscious exploration of previously taboo subjects like being positive, a new confessional best expressed on closer Old Swan’s via genial couplets like “Praise god/god in everything/god in everyone” whilst reverbing guitars and hopeful pads take us all home safely. Close your eyes and change those pipes in fact and it could be Coldplay. No, seriously.
Long time fans recoiling in horror can be assured however that their Don isn’t about to start cleaning the car every Sunday. The claustrophobic blues-folk of Sister is, for example, a merry set of archetypes: “Set the sky on fire/the savage kingdom is blind” delivered at a funereal pace, whilst opener Death’s Head Tattoo is drenched in ersatz stripper-goth beats and dry ice synths a go-go, rehashing Phantom Radio’s slightly perverse alt groove schtick.
The slightly by the numbers feel might be down to work with long time co-producer Alain Johannes or a recording process which took less than a month to wrap up, but either way, there’s a pervading sense of a songwriter trying to bolt some disparate ideas together whilst simultaneously honouring his roots. This halfway house makes for some utterly fascinating threads, especially the shoegazey-esque indie chirp of Beehive, the mildly psychedelic tones of First Day of Winter and the amen breaking intro to the otherwise melancholic Drunk On Destruction.
It’s this contrast – or indecision if you prefer – that starkly divides Gargoyle’s two finest tracks: hail first the meaty throb and travelogue ache of Nocturne, as reliable as mom’s rotten apple pie, however, it’s doppelgänger Blue Blue Sea, complete with faux accordion and upbeat programming, basks the listener in the warm glow of a man at peace and reconciled with all the world’s shortcomings.
Whether this struggle for a record’s soul will matter much to his healthy (sic) cabal of fans is open to debate – this is still unquestionably a Mark Lanegan album, proudly ensconced in the paraphernalia he’s spent decades closeting himself in. As a breakout attempt though Gargoyle gets itself caught on the perimeter fence, but there are still fine moments here, and worse prisons to be stuck in.
