Pitchfork

It was the worst day of my life. I get home from the plant and there's my woman: rolling around in my bed with my best pal, Big Whitey. And there's my mutt sitting on the floor, watching them go at it with his stupid dog-grin. I just can't get that image out of my mind. Man, I flew into a crazy rage, stormed out to my 81 Buick and tore dirt right out of that greazy hellhole.

The only thing that helps this pain in my gut is the new album by Okkervil River. I don't know what you'd call their music-- alt-country or indie rock or avant-folk or some such crossbred super-genre. Calms the nerves, though. Sure, it's kind of a downer, but without hitting the gutbucket misery of real country. And Okkervil can also let fly, too: the best song on the album, "Lady Liberty," smokes like a raccoon in a chimney, with horns blasting behind singer Will Sheff as he moans about loving the wrong woman. "I can picture you inside some stranger's house/ Inside some stranger's bed/ You're trying to seem mysterious/ The covers pulled over your head." Ain't nothin' stings like the truth.

Okkervil River sounds like a loose outfit; their self-released 1999 debut, Stars Too Small to Use was raw, shambling stuff, but with this new record they're starting to pull it together. The songwriting is impressively poignant, and the music is as tight and comforting as any old noose: under producer and engineer Brian Beattie's wing, the band has filled out and arranged these songs beautifully with every southern-flavored instrument you could dream up-- mandolin, pedal steel, fiddle, organ, and strings and horns. The record maintains a nice, lush air, but manages to stay somehow raucous simultaneously-- it's ponderous indie rock and country charm frequenting each other's local haunts.

But while these guys may be rising stars, they're still looking for comfort and a little love, if the lyrics are any indication. Damned if "My Bad Days," for one, isn't as stark as they come: Sheff can sound like a man who's been beaten back to a lost little boy. "Dead Dog Song" is a mandolin-propelled tune with great, hokey lyrics ("He'd never been to church, so he doesn't have a soul"). And the guys even bring in Daniel Johnston to duet on "Happy Hearts," just coming straight out and pleading for what we're all after: "Unconditional love, why did you leave me?" Come on, guys, you're killing me.

But one song in particular got my attention: "Westfall," the account of a murderer coming to trial. As alt-country serial killer ballads go, this one has nothing on Jim White's "The Wound That Never Heals"-- but it's a good song about evil and murder, and it almost sounds convincing when these nice boys sing: "They're looking for evil/ Thinking they can trace it/ But evil don't look like anything."

So it's past two in the morning and I'm still driving, when suddenly I see someone by the side of the road-- a woman, hitch-hiking-- and damned if she doesn't look like, well... just like my wife on her best day (twenty years ago). I know it can't be her, but I'm transfixed. She's got her thumb out and though I know it's wrong, I decide to pull over. I swerve to the side of the road and let her walk up to my car. Satan was arm-wrestling for my soul, but this time the Lord won: I hit the gas and skidded away before she got to my door. She didn't look too happy, but hell, she doesn't know how close she came to having something awful happen to her, 'cause I know I'm still in a funny mood. Anyway, there isn't room enough in the trunk for a third body.