In a very Lambchop fashion, Punching the Clown opens with Kurt Wagner listening to a song on the radio while driving at night: “a banjo strummed on a single minimalist chord and a small chorus of voices.” His later attempts to figure out what it was proved fruitless, but the search led him to discover lined-out singing, an a cappella gospel singing style that originated in Scotland in the nineteenth century, and which became one of the roots of gospel and country when Scottish immigrants settled in the Appalachians.
Punching the Clown is, therefore, unusually spare and minimalist musically: Wagner’s hazy, smoke-tinged voice is simply accompanied by the acoustic guitar of his co-writer Andrew Broder and Justin Vernon’s banjo. And as a fundamental element to bring different colors (and a layer of spirituality), the presence of not one but two lined-out singing choirs: recorded in London and Wisconsin, each contributing more Celtic or more Appalachian tonalities depending on the case.
They are unusual vocal harmonies, beautiful but raw. Without the refinement to which we are more accustomed, from the Beach Boys, the Beatles, or doo-wop, the way the melodies stack evokes something more primitive and enigmatic. And it is a roughness that fits perfectly with the roughness of Kurt Wagner’s voice and that lends everything a halo of antiquity, close to what critic Greil Marcus called “Old Weird America”: an imaginary pre-20th-century country in which strange characters, preachers, outlaws, and ghosts dwelt. The rural, dark, and eccentric America of crime ballads and songs about disasters that populate American traditional song anthologies or that recovered Bob Dylan’s Basement Tapes.
It is a sonic-lyrical context particularly suited to someone like Wagner, whose lyrics are often streams of unordered thoughts that combine everyday absurdity, unexpectedly sharp or melancholic observations, phrases heard and captured on the fly, or brushstrokes of dark or quirky characters.
The result is enigmatic or confusing depending on the listener’s taste: in “Just West of Nicolett” there’s a line saying that there is “something in Minnesota that makes it the wildest place ever seen” but — disturbingly — we are never told what it is. “The New World Wave” seems to seek to portray a couple of figures—“Loretta, Harry and his son Conrad”—to give an unexpected twist to the first person, a singing voice that declares that they wanted to be a teacher “but I couldn’t find work… / what a waste, in 1929.”
If you’re a Lambchop fan you already know this lyrical impressionism, and rather than feeling confused you’ll appreciate that the references to places in the United States, to past decades, to Lazarus, or to surreal three-legged dogs leave enough space for your imagination to fill in the rest, evoking that bizarre American past, which combined with more contemporary images renews it in a way toward a kind of “New Weird America.”
In this context, references to the current civil climate in the U.S. do surface more clearly, though succinctly: questions (“Mixed feelings about the parade / America on mute”), support for the immigrant and opposition to patriotism (“Here’s to the health of the migrant worker / Singing un-American tunes”) or rejection of religious fundamentalism (“Those Roman Catholics / Think they’re fantastic / If you don’t like it / Then just say so”).
Musically speaking, we’re looking at a dozen songs that are emblematic of the Wagnerian canon: melodies rarely come to full form, but you don’t come to Lambchop for bangers, but for a taste cultivated through repeated listening. And there’s plenty of that. The album shines most in the poignant, dying portrayal of the lovely “Weakened,” the moving and gospel-tinged “White People,” or the folk tenderness of “Andrew Jackson Asshat.” The final stretch, with “Cigar” and “To Do,” stands out especially for its simplicity and emotion.
Additionally, the occasional bass, castanets and hurdy-gurdy, along with sporadic touches of minimal electronics, ease and add variety to the album’s sparing acoustic palette.
For a band in its fourth decade of existence and that has explored orchestral soul (“Nixon”), intimate piano songs (“Is A Woman”), and even folk with auto-tune (“FLOTUS”), this new venture in pursuing a language pared down to its bare minimum is certainly admirable. Whoever is open to its austerity and subtle charm will greatly enjoy it.
