“Peter said to Paul, ‘you know all those words we wrote; they’re just the rules to the game and the rules are first to go.”
So begins Girl in the War, the high-pitched announcement of Josh Ritter’s return; a bold introduction on par with the linked-line of bold introductions that previously escorted the prize of its worthy predecessors. A pace-setting notch defined by allusion, metaphor and see-sawing piety, the opening track’s debatable dabbles with faith and fear draw, in perfect scale, a defining blueprint of Ritter’s latest album, Animal Years, effectively charting what’s to come with table-of-contents precision just as Come and Find Me had in arranging a place setting for Mid-Western ghosts on Golden Age of Radio and Bright Smile did in previewing the coming pages of Hello Starling’s intimate fairytales. Knowing Ritter’s consistency, both internally and externally, with the simultaneous sounding of the all-too-real themes and all-so-magical tones that manifest themselves in this war-time gospel, it’s clear from the get-go that Animal Years will prove a musical-book of worship; a first-hand American diary penned like a 21st century history book. Girl in the War is the jump off of a Josh Ritter album that promises to finally end the unspoken domestic embargo that’s seemingly fronted the beauty of his past efforts.
Trekking farther from personal experience and ever-nearer to that of his broad nation, Animal Years chronicles a departure for Ritter; a continued embrace of subtle perception now dashed with even-subtler politics. And it all works once more- the delicate tones of each befitting his gentle voice and ringing enhanced by his long courtship of ambitious poetics and his respect for reserved melody. An elusive piece in the jigsaw puzzle of contemporary music, Animal Years fits into place not solely as this year’s most pleasing release to date, but further as an age-defining self-protest worthy of inclusion on the encyclopedic Bone of Song of Ritter’s invention; a rule-bending costume of vision musically metered in defiance to neo-pop radio-play caveats and the blast of canons stating that art reflective of rebellion against the frame of sociopolitical landscapes must clang barefaced in furious bells when raging against this vile machine. Yes, Ritter resists in all forms- an exception to musical protest- his tone reflexive, his tome a dissent passive in voice though progressive in effect- in all, his effort is a unifying token of excellence unseen in some time; one that proves the causes of its craft can be paired perfectly; one that shows music is a sisterhood formed of disparate twins.
As an art unarguably enjoyed, the cause of music’s gratification is still arguable. Some cite its art as reflections of the culture in which it’s fashioned; a new-world mirror built, in whole, to enlighten. Others classify the craft as an escape; a jet’s ejection seat; the fireside sconce that rotates a hearth when tugged. While the former class views such compositions (and other arts for that matter) as ornamented snapshots of a mad and ugly world, the latter depicts them as sane and beautiful sanctuaries from the same. And so it seems that music is a game of hide and seek; a contest of the rarest breed, where contenders vie earnestly for victories of rival-delivery- a game whose rules are understood by Ritter.
Josh Ritter isn’t the first to integrate these divergent schools of thought though. They’ve managed to work collectively on other rare occasions under the guidance of masters. Before aging, after polio, and around the time of Woodstock, Joni Mitchell succeeded in layering the dark truth of Clouds behind evasive flights in bright blue skies. Before the 80’s, after the Velvet Underground, and around the time of Apollo 17, Lou Reed heated the glam-reality of a transformist’s devilish heartbreak on a silver spoon and found that some thoughts, though bitterly swallowed, pulse angelically as distractive pastimes when injected into a raised vein. Before Islam, after morning broke, and around the time of Harold and Maude, Cat Stevens dipped Sad Lisa’s tears Into White and merged the physical pain of a loner’s isolation with the intellectually manufactured illumination of a transcendentalist’s world-wise solitude. The spot-on mirror and emergency window of art have, in the past, shared a frame and an agreed destination, and it’s this pedigree that Animal Years evokes.
Unlike any album of recent release, Animal Years meets each expectation of art with an equal offering, magnifying and veiling its influences and intentions to listener’s tastes. A fictitiously formed work of truthful inspiration blending an artist’s essence seamlessly with that of his vision- as a manifestation of wandering possibilities- the record plays host to a number of honest images aimed at divulging the bounds of contemporary affairs that develop in parity with its count of comical portraits twisted into existence through escapist metaphors that parody these same modern affairs; all along, in all, from start to finish, offering light departures from the heavy implications it illustrates. Animal Years is proof that art again is double-sided, as art, once again, proves modeled from its master’s eyes, one of which seems set on war; the other on the promise of eventual peace.
As a fairly anonymous Idaho native Ritter has been as split; heralded, until recently, by distant fans and local critics alone, his talent largely ignored and his face reddened by the sting that accompanies the indie community's swatting backhand.
Not since Dylan or Cohen has a performer packed a voice as subtle and strong in tone, politics and poetics as Ritter’s, yet still, his best lain efforts have manage to earth themselves hidden and failed to muster the voltage necessary to jolt widespread buzz in these United States. Failing to couple the release of his last three masterpieces with announcements of pop-culture affairs on movie premier red carpets, his star's altitude has remained parallel to the low-lying plains of his Idaho plains. Finding his charm too mid-western for coastal appeal, his imagery too flat for city skylines and even his cover art too washed and rugged for the glam-devouring youth, Ritter’s name has remained on the tongues of a small but dedicated fan base, a minor grouping known more for its knowledge then its spending power. And while we shunned him in favor U2 b-sides and watched Bono pretend he was the Dalai Llama, our most-gifted son thrived alone in Ireland. Thankfully, we’ll miss out no longer.
Josh is finally getting the praise he deserves (drawing long-absent shouts from Paste, Pitchfork and the other underground assignment editors of hip) and returning home with a buzz. As it’s unusual, here’s hoping it catches the right circuit. Oddly timed, the buzz blares unusual, as noted, as this latest release seems also to be Ritter’s least commercial to date, encompassing various song-styles (narrative, stream-of-consciousness, personal reflection) and lacking a bass-y Alt-country pump-radio anthem (ala Man Burning or Golden Age of Radio) to rally fans. Absent too are an abundance of first-person encouters with which most relate well, the lot traded in favor of additional Ritter’s patented character-driven fine-lined storytelling. Kathleen nee Anne has now evolved to Lily; the devil once a train and a lover once an actress have traded places with wolves and seamstresses, respectively, as locales too are flipped and vision is skewed. It’s all for a cause though- Theme here is the focus, as taught by the crashing verses of Thin Blue Flame, a musical apocalypse waning and waxing in tone and dedication through horror and smirks like Howl set today and set to the strum of a guitar.
Animal Years sports themes abound, bringing politics and theology to a subdued forefront once reserved primarily for Ritter’s train ballads and his sincere odes to dustbowl landscapes marred by the hitchhiking devil’s footprint. All that Americana is still here too, don't worry. Now, though, it's just a piece of a continent- the launch pad for an album that will prove, in time, to pay more respect to each of the Union's states then all of Sufjan's promised odes combined.
In fact Animal years is so well layered and refined, it plays almost as a subconscious concept album, latching onto to an internally-tracked persona- a contemporary American identity stretched in attention over 11 interconnected phases. Over its history, Animal years finds Laurel and Hardy coming to terms with the terrors of war, the ultimatums of faith and the sad fact that their comedy is genius, but in the end, but an escape from the tragedy of its surroundings. Wolves sing their dirges in this world; the inescapable beasts of policy that howl karaoke in Idaho’s cover band nights and follow working men home without maps; solely by scent. In whole, Animal Years is a solid sum of battling portions whose boundaries overlap ironically at times, though always intentionally… Like monster ballads whose tone-deaf odes score soft the coursing sentiment of the stations of the cross, Animal Years is a feral soundtrack of the insane American experience patched together from the coursing identities found abound in this strange nation.
As always, Ritter delivers art- his voice and words amounting to a near fulfillment of the promises Dylan and Cohen made before their crafts wrinkled; his vision climbing to that of a poet capable of uniting the often wavering and ever divergent schools of thought dedicated to American music- those that once seemed as polar as the right and left; the red and blue states. Stripped of ego, devoid of glam, spared from press and built to save, Josh Ritter is the second coming of a troubadour whose songs can enlighten and offer escape simultaneously; the first-coming of a new-age guitar-strumming prophet who protests without notices and with both a sad understanding that nothing will ever change and a hopeful understanding that nor can it get any worse.
Both a bible and a blindfold, Animal Years is Ritter's answer to the continuing War and Peace of the American soul; a domestic remedy to chase the chocking ills of its tasteless foreign policy. Whether sought to sharpen or dull the stars and stripes, Animal Years offers a much needed therapy for the land they represent: a telling hope for its bleak future, a solid shield from its bleak past and a genuine voice to both alert and cover us as our nation under God, our perfect American world, falls to shitty little pieces beyond repair. |