It was a telling statement that I recently saw attributed to Robert Earl Keen, the one in which he mentioned he “was kind of burned out on being the ‘yuck, yuck, pluck, pluck’ guy.” Now, Keen has always been much more than just a funny singer-songwriter from Texas, but the poignant yearning of such songs as “I’m Comin’ Home” often has been overshadowed by the dysfunctional wackiness of novelties such as “Merry Christmas From The Family” (to take two examples from his 1994 Sugar Hill disc Gringo Honeymoon).
That’s not to say humor is inherently a bad thing to instill into art. On the contrary, most artists could benefit from lightening up a little. But when it gets to the point where your listeners expect you to be facetious, it becomes a constant pressure to top yourself. And “Merry Christmas…” was the apex of funny, so why bother.
Instead, Keen has given us the sensorial whirlwind of Picnic. Without in any way undervaluing his previous 12 years and six releases on Sugar Hill (a great body of work, by anyone’s standards), Keen’s major-label debut is what a number of critics will probably refer to as a “career” record.
Compositional skills have never been at issue in Keen’s writing; the resident of Bandera, Texas, has long been considered another in a lineage of cinematic storytellers from a state that seems to cultivate them. But he’s never suffused his characters and landscapes with the degree of emotional intensity and urgency that are awash on Picnic.
Take the bracing album opener, for instance. On the surface, “Undone” may be your basic personality profile of a way-down-on-his-luck loser whose “years stack up like old beer cans.” But you really find yourself empathizing with the guy when you begin to realize that, one job layoff and a few lousy weeks later, you too could find yourself so wracked with anger and frustration to the point that “it’s your last night and you’re gonna have fun/They’ll read it in the papers when you come undone.” The subject’s fate is never specifically resolved, just as that impending wall is never really tangible for anyone.
Closure isn’t an element that you’ll find a lot of on Picnic. Resolution, in many instances, is irrelevant. Keen is much more interested in what motivates his characters than a clean end to a story. The mournful “I Wonder Where My Baby Is Tonight” is as pure a tale of loss as you’ll ever find — just plain wrenching anguish — while “Oh Rosie” is a ruminative “don’t forget me now” love letter to a faraway (but not distant) soulmate. Both are snapshots of a moment in time, and of the angst/grief/longing that coexist within that fleeting instant.
For those fearing that Keen has turned into a “serious” songwriter and will heretofore wear his heart permanently on the proverbial sleeve, don’t sweat it. He knows what it is that allows him to comfortably pull his chair up to the dinner table, and his narrative skills continue to remain far sharper than most. “Runnin’ With The Night” is pure Keen, a fun romp through the expansiveness of the wide-open West that can only be done justice by someone who has spent his life there. And “Shades Of Gray” puts a real-life historical spin on events as three heifer-swiping kids making a run for Oklahoma are momentarily suspected of a crime more federal in nature on a fateful early morning in April 1995.
One intriguing aspect of this record, considering the praise Keen receives as a songwriter, is his decision to include three tunes from other sources. But Keen has always displayed an uncanny ability to choose outside material that perfectly meshes with his style, and his interpretations of James McMurtry’s “Levelland”, Dave Alvin’s “Fourth Of July” and longtime friend J.D. Hutchison’s sublime “The Coming Home Of The Son And Brother” never break the album’s seamless flow.
There are several additional breaks with the past. In fact, you almost get the impression that last year’s live document, No. 2 Live Dinner, was the closing of a chapter in Keen’s career. He’s recently moved to a bigger workspace, becoming the first artist signed to the newly christened Arista Austin imprint. And whether by coincidence or design, that upgrade came with a decidedly different bent in sonics.
From the first filigreed strains of acoustic guitar, Picnic is alternately glimmering and crackling in its clarity. Put simply, it rocks. Stellar production by John Keane allows guitars to brilliantly ring and chime, lets every pluck of a mandolin or steel be heard, and coaxes Keen’s most impressive vocal performance on record to date. Keane also encouraged Keen’s desire to use his regular band members rather than employing studio musicians; those players bring a knowing level of interplay and tightness to much of the sessions.
Not that there weren’t a few outside forces at work. Gurf Morlix (late of Lucinda Williams’ band) showed up with his electric guitar, ever-present Shiner-Bock-bottleneck-slide, and something called a weissenborn. Tim O’Brien added mandolin on a trio of tracks, while Keane plays just about anything at any given time.
Which brings us to the catalyst of this entire project: Margo Timmins. The Cowboy Junkies vocalist, a fervent follower of Keen, sought him out in Texas and offered her services for Picnic. She was also the one who suggested Keane for the producer’s role. In retrospect, both decisions proved invaluable.
Timmins’ resplendent soprano serves as background coloring to a handful of songs before sharing an incredibly charming duet with Keen that closes the album. “Then Came Lo Mein” was a risky proposition for a guy wanting to downplay that “yuck and pluck” factor, but he survives it. Sure, there’s some silly wordplay, but at the song’s core is a messy sweetness that is totally genuine. And such unaffected moments ultimately reaffirm my belief in the power of music.
