Son Volt

Fans of any band will welcome such experimentation on a frontman’s solo album now and again and may even see it as a necessary indulgence in order to keep the main band harmoniously intact. However, back-to-back solo albums are a lot to digest and usually spell the end of the group. When asked if there was something he just couldn’t express through his solo efforts, and why he chose to reform Son Volt, he quickly responds, “The idea of doing solo records was supposed to be that it could be anything—samples, different instrumentation, etc. But with Son Volt, it just represents guys playing in a studio trying to capture the essence of the moment and then being able to take it on the road and have the same songs translate in a live context. With the solo stuff I never had the intention of taking the synthesizers on the road. I mean there’s something unique when you are playing with a group of people and there is a synergy involved. Something happens and it’s unexpected; it makes it all worthwhile. I maybe missed the unexpected.”

The moments captured on analog—now blasting through the studio’s system—are indeed worthwhile. This is pure, unabashed Son Volt, with trampoline reverb, humming echoes and warm, vintage power chords begging to be unleashed through multiple Marshall stacks. Watching the decibel- and voltage-unit needles quiver and stretch for the redline is a not-so-subtle wake-up call to those expecting a deeply layered, heavily produced affair. Son Volt has always conjured a feeling of road-weary resplendence and oil-stained amplification. Okemah and the Melody of Riot is a shiny neon sign pointing the way back to when guitars were full of piss and vinegar and proud of it.

ROCK AND ROLL AROUND MY HEAD 50 WATTS HAPPENING

Over three straight hours, Farrar paces the room drumming his thighs as Agnello meticulously works the dials and faders on the opening track, “Bandages & Scars”—a speed-up/slow-down rollercoaster ride anchored with blistering social commentary. Its critical inspiration is proudly on display in the repeated chorus, “the words of Woody Guthrie ringing in my head.”

This directness and unveiled nod to Farrar’s musical heritage is the act of an artist comfortable with his place in its lineage. The honesty is refreshing in the current sonic landscape of retrofitting The Cure, New Order and Blondie and calling it “the hot new sound.” The adage being, if it ain’t broke, then play it louder. Farrar obliges on the album’s second track, “Afterglow 61,” a thumping ode to the hallowed Highway 61. Where Dylan’s defiant tribute to the same cracked asphalt heralded a shift in the cultural landscape, Farrar’s take reads more like a musical history lesson reminding us that most things worth finding are between the painted lines.

“Highway 61 runs through St. Louis, where I’m from,” he says, “and during the rehearsals and recording of Trace I was living in New Orleans and making the 24-hour drive up through St. Louis to Minneapolis, and often I would get off the interstate and get on 61 which runs parallel to it, and drive it just for the experiences. I even stopped at Angola prison where Leadbelly was incarcerated. They were having a rodeo and art sale, which was a little bizarre.”

While, lyrically, Farrar still conjures truck-stop ghosts and sepia-toned postcards of yesteryear’s travails, the undercurrent seems more infused with political discontent. Although he acknowledges the pitfalls of using the rock ’n’ roll microphone as a soapbox, he once again refers to his elders.

“I was exposed to Woody Guthrie and Dylan by my parents at a young age. We even covered Dylan’s ‘Song to Woody Guthrie’ in Uncle Tupelo. Now my kids request ‘This Land is Your Land’ everyday, so I am interested and informed by Woody and Dylan’s approach. You don’t need to beat anyone over the head with it, but at various times, depending on the political climate, and since being a parent makes one feel like more of a stakeholder, you have to say something occasionally.”

The declaration framer states revolution sets the course straight
It was necessary then and it’s necessary now
Corruption in the system a grassroots insurrection
Will bring them down, will bring them down

The following day Agnello kicks us out of the room so he can isolate a certain sound in the mix. To break the monotony, Farrar walks into the adjacent studio, sits down at a piano, and quietly begins playing the opening notes of the album’s final track, “World Waits For You.” Integrating piano into the Son Volt sound may seem heretical, but it works. Inherently, the instrument lends an emotional weight that complements and conveys the sparse sincerity of the album’s sendoff. While Farrar once teased his parents that they were ultimately responsible for him becoming a musician because of their insistence on piano lessons, he now has become proficient enough to use it as another writing tool.