Though it's been available as an import since February, it seems only fitting that Cruel Words, Johnny Dowd's fifth album, should be released stateside on the Fourth of July. This is a work that is undeniably American, straightforward and unapologetic in its tales of characters who may have slipped through this crack or that, but who refuse to go unnoticed or bowed by their circumstances. They're not necessarily angry, but you're left with the sense they're not resigned to their lot in life, either.
This is not an album geared to casual listening. From the pounding drum intro of "House of Pain" to the dying strains of "Johnny B Goode," Cruel Words demands the listener pay attention. This is the aural equivalent of film noir, deceptively simple on its surface but laced throughout with complex ambiguities. The characters who populate this landscape, from the disillusioned wheelchair-bound vet of "Praise God" to the newly divorced man residing in "Poverty House" to the dead lounge singer of "Final Encore," may be marginalized, but they hardly represent the underbelly of America. Largely, they have fallen on bad times and are not above the solace of the bottle, but they live with a cynical hope that things that will be alright in the end. "Jesus waits behind the counter/Waiting for the soldiers to return/From the long march to Bethlehem," Dowd growls in "World of Him," as he drunkenly but deftly maneuvers the minefields of the culture wars.
Johnny Dowd is generally catalogued under the "alt-country" file, one of those catch-all terms, like "progressive jazz" or "new punk," that sound authoritative (at least to lazy journalists) but have no meaning in reality. While Dowd's lyrics, structurally speaking, are perhaps rooted in a working class base, his music draws inspiration from a number of sources, all of which are distinctly American. With Michael Stark's Hammond B3 organ strains punctuating almost every song on Cruel Words, Dowd (vocals and guitar) and Brian Wilson (drums and bass pedals), along with Kim Sherwood on backing vocals, meld blues to acid jazz, roots soul to Texas swing, surf rock to lounge music, run it through a blender from hell and somehow manage to serve up a concoction that sounds wholly unique. Toss in a little British punk from the Mekons' Sally Timms and Jon Langford on "Drunk" for a dash of spice and Cruel Words emerges as a feast from the bland, albeit an acquired taste.
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