Lately I've been reading Bob Dylan's memoir, Chronicles. It's fascinating stuff, of course; a vivid, evocative portrait of the artist's formative years. But what really gets me is the way he tells it. Dylan's prose — the breathless rush of words, the exuberant citing of influences from Hank Williams to Balzac — perfectly captures the feelings of a young, hungry, and unbelievably talented poet, hurtling forward to his artistic peak.
At times the youthful folksinger seems literally aflame with a kind of Biblical portent: one can see momentous, earth-shaking events in the not-so-distant future, Blonde on Blondes and "Positively 4th Streets" and "Like a Rolling Stones."
Willy Mason is no Bob Dylan — let's make that clear right off the bat — but there are times on his 2004 debut album, Where the Humans Eat (reissued this year by Astralwerks), when he seems to be burning with the same kind of fire. You can hear it in the chugging snare drum and acoustic guitar licks which power opening track "Gotta Keep Moving," the sound of Johnny Cash's Tennessee train engine driving itself off the rails. You can hear it in "Sold My Soul," a reimagining of the classic blues hellfire narrative as a sleepy-eyed, surrealistic burlesque.
Of course, the fact that Mason has drunk deep from the well of American roots music can't hurt — his songs are as archetypal as his influences are impeccable. But it's the intangible, breakneck passion which lurks beneath the surface of Where the Humans Eat that will make listeners sit up and take notice. If you'll allow me the pompous critical pronouncement (sometimes they're necessary), then I'll go ahead and say that this album marks the emergence of a truly vital young talent.
Still, young talent is a volatile, ornery thing. And since Mason was just 19-years old when he recorded these songs, you can imagine how raw it gets. There are times when the singer's talent and ambition strain to surpass his capabilities; his voice, normally deep and monotone, strays uncomfortably from its range on the high notes, and his apocalyptic modern-world observations ("Oxygen," "21st Century Boy") have a tendency to stick in the craw.
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