The Black Twig Pickers make the kind of music that’s positively splendid while sitting on a porch with a glass of something cold near at hand. It’s the sound of the old-time string band, and if it registers exceptionally well from a porch, it’s ultimately made for dancing. On Whompyjawed, the Twig’s present two extended rug-cutters and along the way rub up against an equally fine tradition; that of the avant-garde.
Initially, writing about the new EP from Virginia-based string band The Black Twig Pickers seemed a rather daunting task. For the record is comprised of two extended run-throughs of old-timey instrumental gusto, a rather cut and dried gesture of what this group has been offering up over the course of the last decade via a succession of labels, the latest being Chicago’s long-serving Thrill Jockey concern.
But that’s an interesting angle, for Thrill Jockey has remained one of the more artistically strident of the veteran independent labels that flourished during the ‘90s indie boom. And while that means the imprint hasn’t hosted any of the unexpected chart breakouts from the last few years, on the other hand their roster is inevitably picked over by diligent listeners looking for kicks beyond the contemporary pop and rock norm.
So when Bettina Richards’ selects something that’s way off the map, say a set by the free-jazz duo of Fred Anderson & Hamid Drake, a reissue of early recordings by Malian master Sorry Bamba, or a series of LPs from American Primitive guitarists Jack Rose and Glenn Jones, these releases garner a potentially higher level of interest and are often appreciated in a different manner than if the music had been self-issued or placed in the racks by smaller, more specialist labels.
Likewise, Whompyjawed will not only serve as many listener’s introduction to The Black Twig Pickers, it will also be the first taste numerous ears will get of uncut Appalachian string band style, and due to the Thrill Jockey logo this opening dip will register as “art” rather than as a quaint curio of a bygone time. And where some might find this fact to be a prickly sticking point, I tend to think it’s an appropriate circumstance, for exploring the vastness of American Mountain Music in the 21st century is indeed an artistic act on (at least) two levels; that of pure sound (for it’s a great thing to hear) and as a labor of essential preservation.
And the Pickers do partially come from a locus of underground rock, with member Mike Gangloff having spent time with the abovementioned Jack Rose in noisy Virginia dronesters Pelt. That band, one of the finest in the ‘90s US deep u-ground field, released much of their output on the tiny but sturdy VHF label (still at it after 20 plus years), and that’s where the first few releases in the Black Twig story were housed.
If this makes the Pickers seem like an outgrowth of the Old/New Weird scene, that’s only somewhat accurate. On one hand, they surely come from a non-purist place; I can only imagine what some strict old-timey partisans would make of Pelt’s Brown Cyclopaedia, for example. But I can also picture some fans of Devendra or Espers getting restless rather quickly with the direct, non-tampered with examinations of tradition offered up by the Twigs.
Instead, Gangloff, Nathan Bowles, and Isak Howell come from a third place, one which instead of merely paying lip-service to tradition examines it so deeply that it almost seems to border on the experimental. Both sides of Whompyjawed feature extended dance tunes that gradually develop over ten-plus minutes each. In this sense they are extremely close to what actually transpired at any number of hoedowns, picnics and parties all around the Southeastern strip of the United States in the first half of last century.
Don’t misunderstand; overall, The Black Twig Pickers are devoted students of a music invented by the rural poor from West Virginia all the way down to Georgia in a period that likely ended before the birth of their parents. Students not originators, and there is basically no better way to get a handle on this music than to spend time with the compiled contents of classic 78s from such legendary names as Gid Tanner and the Skillet Lickers and the Red Fox Chasers. It’s the stuff relied upon by any current string band worth their salt, either consciously learned from those recordings or instead from older disciples in the informal manner of tutoring and sharing and additionally through the intense dedication of near constant practice.
But the records, those commercial objects that helped many of the musicians whose essence resides in their grooves to escape a life of poverty, the shellac discs that serve as our main source of what this art form sounded like way back then; they had a fairly large limitation, one of length. The 10-inch 78 that came to dominate the commercial market prior to the development of the LP held roughly three minutes of music a side, making them quite comparable to 45 rpm singles, a fact that helps to take some of the air out of the intense adulation that old-time players often receive.
I’m not insinuating that old-time musicians, either string band, jug band, country blues, hokum or some other variation thereof were actually sophisticated pop artists in disguise, no sir no ma’am. But they were certainly commercially savvy. From Charley Patton to the Mississippi Sheiks to Uncle Dave Macon to Bascomb Lamar Lunsford, the Old America was no doubt Weird, but it was also shrewd enough to quickly adapt the music’s needs to the length of a record side.
And naturally the sounds were strong enough to survive the adaptation. Also, lots of rural players dealt in ballads that were already close to or less than three minutes in length. But string bands, while not entirely reliant on dance numbers, surely made their bread and butter playing parties where frolicking physicality was at a premium.
No live dance band that’s worth a damn ends a song that’s getting the job done after just three minutes. And that’s one aspect of Whompyjawed that’s so interesting. Not only is it flagrantly obvious The Black Twig Pickers have internalized the slippery whatsis that makes certain contemporary excursions into old-time stylistics succeed where other examples flounder, but on this release they stretch out not as a break from tradition but as a way to simply engage the music’s rich history in a thoroughly modern way.
Had the technology been available, it is clear those esteemed bands of yore would’ve cut a record like Whompyjawed. And again, as true students of the music the Twigs understand this; instead of tackling it with a museum-like reverence and replicating the way those records sounded in the late-‘20s, they push outward and provide a long drink of some very strong spirits.
It bears mentioning that the Pickers lack the well mannered polish and calculated accessibility that’s helped make quite a few highfalutin contempo fiddlers and pluckers the toast of a brigade of well-read and finely-bred city-slickers. Whompyjawed is raw stuff, and in its gradual, methodic layering of melodic ideas it brings legitimate comparisons to minimalism.
Thrill Jockey’s press bit makes a mild comparison to Krautrock cornerstone Faust. And that’s cool, but I was thinking more of the brutally undervalued avant-garde figure Henry Flynt, he of You Are My Everlovin’ + Celestial Power and both volumes of Backporch Hillbilly Blues. The Black Twig Pickers and Henry Flynt ultimately sound nothing alike. It’s much more of a spirit/kinship thing, but I feel confident that the Pickers are familiar with Flynt’s body of work.
However, it’s important to not overstate the Twig’s avant-garde leanings, which are again solidly implicit throughout the proceedings. But it’s just as necessary to stress the vitality of the music. While impossible to deny as a deliberate throwback, it’s also far more alive than so much of what passes for the current cutting edge. The finest compliment I can give to The Black Twig Pickers is that by completely ignoring modern progress and following their own inclinations toward the artfully archaic, they’ve developed into a thriving contemporary group. More please.
GRADED ON A CURVE:
B+
