Califone - 'Roots And Crowns' (Thrill Jockey) Released 09/10/2006

Califone's 2004 album 'Heron King Blues' created considerable ripples in the more obscure regions of marginal Americana. If that release was anywhere near as accomplished as 'Roots And Crowns', a more appropriate reaction would have been frantic scenes in record stores as people pile in to secure their copies from steadily dwindling piles. Not that the Chicago outfit are too interested in creating noisy uproars. There's a lot going on here, but the onslaught of detail is unleashed in hushed tones, and at times the album resembles hearing the fractured emissions of a band playing underground whiff through a manhole, or listening to music emerging from an open window a few streets away.

There's nothing muted about the quality of the music, though, or the experimental ethos pushing it forward. The blue-tinged soul of 'Spider's House' is built around ghostly organ stabs and the muzzled rattle of a piano that's had it wires duct-taped and decorated with paperclips, whilst the mutant funk of 'Pink & Sour' is fuelled by skeletal percussion and a bass drone downtuned to lowly levels well below the reach of any notation system. Banjos, old-timey fiddles, horns, strings and electrifying slabs of razorwire slide guitar pop in for guest appearances, much of it twisted, distorted, treated and tweaked to the point where the sound balances between organic rootsiness and electro-industrial experimentalism. The virtuoso texture-crafting skills are supported throughout by equally superb songwriting, with subtle hooks that sink further with each listen to spare.

There are hints of Tom Waits’ clanging raids at the junkyard in the handful of beat-feasts, whilst the desert-folk tracks reside in the neighborhood of Ry Cooder's dusty, cactus-strewn soundtrack to 'Paris, Texas'. But the album's nearest relative is the National's 'Alligator'. Whereas that platter charted the going out bit, hitting the town in a gust of high spirits, 'Roots and Crowns' is a red-eyed trawl through deserted city streets in the wee small hours when the bars have closed and only insomniac nighthawks and dedicated boozehounds can still be bothered to pound the pavement whilst the last parties emit their final fanfares.

The highlight, a delicate reading of Psychic TV's 'Orchids', fits this scenario perfectly. "In the morning after the night I fall in love with the light," main songwriter Tim Rutili sighs in weary tones not far removed from former touring partner Wilco's Jeff Tweedy, acknowledging that even the dreariest darkness ends with the emergence of daylight, whilst the sparse music stretches and yawns as if it, too, had only just been stirred awake by the rising sun.

It's about time more listeners woke up to Califone's charms.