Whether you'll like it or not, Dog, the Baptist Generals' debut CD will be the most remarkable record you'll have heard in a long long time. The sheer beauty in the rawness of these recordings have not been heard since maybe Woody Guthrie or Bob Dylan. The Baptist Generals perform and record like they never heard of pop music. "Dog" is a gawldang throwdown and God-bless comedown, a CD that belongs on acetate in The Library Of Congress and in the home of every music lover with an ear for something completely new and totally innovative.
"Pats The Rub" with it's pumping fuzz bass may well be the stompingest song you'll ever hear, reminiscent of the power of the heaviest 60's garage punks. A new "Louie Louie" for a new generation, recorded with acoustic instruments only, but with more power than any rock record you've ever heard.
When the Baptist Generals play, there is an uneasy swell and swirl to the mix of C.S. Flemmons' earnest wail and his wrestling, nervous guitar; Steve Hill's drumming carries the sense even further; creating a bottomless, propelling rhythm that pushes the songs in a forward motion across a landscape inhabited by lovelorn dreamers, forgiven ladies, tired elderlies, fractured souls; all of them lost for the reach of whatever it may have been they wanted; this is Baptist Generals.
Flemmons is the bona fide brother of some of the most satisfying ghost-chasing songwriters in the book: Robbie Robertson, Will Oldham, Kevin Russell, Shane McGowan. Ornery, wrenching, sentimental, and above all texturally fascinating. Despite the scattered humour of some of the lyrics, these are the sounds of mountain hollows and old, festering wounds. "Evergone" may be the saddest song you'll ever hear, especially when the thirty-something Flemmons starts crooning like a 90-year old man ooooohing his last breath. This album sounds as if it was found in a ditch, but at the end of a rainbow. Pure gold.
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