Yawpers and "Boy in a Well," or 'French girl has a tryst with some dude on Armistice Day at the close of the First World War, la tragédie ensues.'

The Yawpers are from Denver. Boy in a Well is their third album, and second release on Bloodshot Records, outta Chicago. American stuff. 

Guess I must like it. I listen to it quite a bit, despite finding it as curious as all fuck. It’s a ‘concept’ album, but put aside the programmatic nature of the lyrics, don’t be distracted by the 34 pages of illustration (by J.D. Wilkes of the Legendary Shackshakers - accomplished, visceral and NSFW), skip the sincere, but inflated label hype (“Boy in a Well is complex; it’s a manically conceived, historically situated, emotionally underscored, plot-driven fictive universe. It’s demented, unpredictable, taboo, ambitious, and yet distinctively cohesive”).

And listen to the music. It has a manic intensity that’s hard to resist, way more powerful than the master thesis gymnastics required to perform critical exegesis. Heck, whatever drummer Noah Shomberg lays down here, driving this unconventional, bass-less trio, is more vital than literary analysis. 

Okay, Singer-guitarist Nate Cook, reeling from the heartache of a failed marriage, boards a plane drunk, loaded on Dramamine and has … uh … vision.

It’s like this: French girl has a tryst with some dude on Armistice Day at the close of the First World War, then sad shit happens. I dunno what the fuckin' kid is doing in the well and I could give two shits if he gets out. There's a reason why Donald Ray Pollock ain't frontin' a rock band and Hasil Adkins ain't writ no novel. Really, the narrative irritates as much as it moves. Still, when the band is rockin’, who gives a shit? And the band does rock. 

A lot of descriptions of the band label them “psychobilly.” I’m still not sure what that is. At their best the Yawpers are wild-eyed descendants of the hillbilly nuts who populate the Harry Smith compiled Anthology of American Folk Music. If you abandon literary pretensions and the burdens they impose, what you have left is a spooky, obsessive, enigma of an album, delivered with a barely controlled mania that’s equal parts bluegrass, rockabilly and blues. Which in some parts they used to call rock ’n’ roll. All of it torqued up a mite by modern gewgaws and amplification. The Yawpers share many of the same passions and ghosts as the Gun Club, the White Stripes and other weird white kids juiced up on the blues. 

Stop making sense. We’re back to the great American mystery, the mystery of Clarence Ashley’s “Coo Coo,” which is why is it so damn important that Clarence could see “old Willie, as she goes flying by?”

We have Donald Trump as president and you think shit has to make sense? Whatevs.

Tommy Stinson produces. Now if that doesn’t inspire confidence it’s because you’re still thinking of the teenage lush who spilled yard beer on you in some rock ’n’ roll hallway. Not the mature, iconic character he is now. Right. As producer, I’m thinking Tommy knows a shit hot take on a budget from one that is merely competent, and the seven words every producer needs to know: I think you can do that better. In the case of Nate Cook “better” doesn’t mean a better enunciation of your emulations of Stephen Crane, but closer to turning loose what Jeffrey Lee Pierce described as “an Elvis from hell.” Tommy done a good job based on that criterion. 

There’s some sparkle here, for sure. Dig the way the Yawpers combine Elvis P., Eddie Cochran and a bit of the Bruce on “A Decision is Made,” a ragged serenade, introducing us to ‘the boy in the well.’ Damned if Cook doesn’t sound like Ryan Adams (in a good way) on “A Room with a View” -  the arpeggiated guitar is reminiscent of “Dear Prudence,” and Cook’s ability to toss off evocative lyrics (“in a room with an echo, a room with one wall, and the hunger to consumer them all, in a room with a view”) that make scant literal sense, but have poetic allure is evident. Guitarist Jesse Parmet’s blast of slide solo - think Chris Whitley joins the Gun Club - gives “View” a nice turbocharge. 

There are echoes of Lux and Ivy here and there on Boy in a Well, especially on “Mon Dieu;” snaky, mojo rhythms on “Mon Nom” and “Face to Face to Face,” the latter with a touch of Dr. John vibe. The Dick Dale, Nokie Edwards twang of surf-rock is a definite part of Parmet’s guitarsenal, especially on the manic “No Going Back,” and the exorcising “Linen for the Orphan,” which comes complete with crying baby sounds - and it’s not even a Bob Ezrin production! Sometimes the mood gentles, as with the Piedmont picking of “God’s Mercy,” despite the song’s creepy resolution (“may all God’s children be wrestled to sleep, in the end I’m sure it’s for the best.”) or the opening measures of “A Visitor is Welcomed.”

Next time boys, lose your allusions. I would counsel Nate Cook to take his first person heartache and bad religion out to the woodshed and holla. Hell, go for your inner Stooges. Let your story be your story. Make a few words really fucking count. Boy in a Well is pretty damn good stuff, but if your concept was your own mess it might make one fine hot mess of a record.