Any precocious 12-year-old can write at length, and in iambic pentameter, about being and nothingness. That experience seeds within the nascent songwriter (or critic) the strong prejudice that only by studying the blackness of one’s soul might one possibly create lasting art. The Dixie Chicks’ contribution to American cultural discourse is of an entirely different order, for their supreme gift is fun.
No small gift, fun. Like the best magic, it is almost impossible to pull off, and incredibly hard to do well, especially in public. But you cannot — should not — listen to the gorgeous crescendo of Natalie Maines, Martie Maguire and Emily Robison coming down hard on a chorus and fail to share in the joy of the moment.
The Dixie Chicks’ sixth album emerges after a very public spat with their record label about money. (Or third album, if we’re not to count the three released before Maines joined the band; incidentally, they do count, as they have much to do with how the ensemble came to find its voice.) And, in what is apparently seen in some circles as an act of anti-commercial rebellion, Home was recorded with only acoustic instruments.
Despite and perhaps because of all that, Home sounds like just the kind of good time that beer commercials strain so hard to fabricate. Nobody listening casually to the radio will note the absence of electric guitars, nor care. The best songs here still press forward with the urgency of a champagne cork. Anybody who’s seen the Del McCoury Band play (or Nirvana’s acoustic set) knows full well how much attack can be wrung from well-played acoustic instruments. And they’ve brought in mandolinist Chris Thile just to be sure the job’s done.
No, what makes Home an interesting record (or, rather, what makes the best half of Home interesting) is the Dixie Chicks’ curious capacity to create an ambience of great fun while singing powerfully sad songs.
Start with the first single, Darrell Scott’s brilliant “Long Time Gone”. The attack on the state of country radio in the fourth verse (“Now they sound tired but they don’t sound haggard”) will doubtless be seen as some kind of political statement, but it’s tangential to the song’s richer text. Scott’s rural protagonist mourns the end of tobacco farming, fails at a country music career in Nashville (ah, but listen to Maines soar exultantly on the line “Yeah I’m gonna be a star”), and returns home to marry the girl who always loved him, raise their children, and mourn the changing of the world. All told at a furious tempo, spun around melodic figures that will be a long time staying.
Bruce Robison’s “Travelin’ Soldier” is a classic, tear-jerking story-song (may it not prove timely). “White Trash Wedding” — the only cut here written by all three Chicks — is a tour de farce, and great, sassy fun. Patty Griffin’s two contributions (“Top Of The World” and “Truth #2”, both from her shelved Silver Bell album) are given sparkling, exuberant readings.
About half the disc continues in that vein, and is spectacular. It’s worth noting that Home is one of several commercially viable albums to suggest the arrival of a new generation of master country songwriters. Jim Lauderdale, Buddy Miller, Darrell Scott, Tim O’Brien, Bruce Robison, and Patty Griffin are familiar names in these pages as artists; they are also becoming familiar names as songwriters on the country charts. Harlan Howard and many of his friends are gone, or retired; but good country songs are still being written and, increasingly, recorded.
The balance of Home follows a slower, less certain muse, beginning with a cover of Fleetwood Mac’s “Landslide”. Doubtless Stevie Nicks is an important role model, and surely millions of people loved this song, but I would gladly pay an annual tax never to have to hear any track from Rumours played ever again.
“Landslide”, at least, one remembers. Most of the slow songs on Home (such as Tim O’Brien and Gary Nicholson’s “More Love”) vanish without a trace, no matter how often heard. Perhaps they will play more eloquently to feminine ears, though the suspicion here is that the Chicks’ considerable vocal gifts do not blossom among the ballads. But, then, not everything can be fun.
