Johnny Dowd is a funny zigue, an ex-GI converted into the song that expected age advanced from 49 years to publish his first solo effusions (the impeccable Wrong Side of Memphis in 1998). He has been a good shovelful album equally commendable as each other. One could say that Johnny where he is a bit hit and full of widgets worrying him hang in the noggin. A kind of Roky Erickson Syd Barrett or who would sing with the gritty voice of Tom Waits or Don Van Vliet. A schizophrenic vaguely gothic country would have enough to worry the average (the average person is very wrong not to let worry). His new disc might be quieter, it is nevertheless still quite schizophrenic and often very good, it's a good album of old miser with horrific organ and voice "soaked in bourbon. Johnny is healthy enough, he sings with a girl on (Kim Sherwood) and it sounds like an unlikely couple sing in the waiting room of a funeral home (you'd also sing a Lee a little crazy and Nancy, who had lost his boots). There are pinioned blues, mambo and glaucous, soul stiff and garage rock fuzz on wetlands. Stories of Johnny still claims: morons white trash, hillbilly and my left hand doing odd things, there's cannibalism, a killer on the road, men and women who agonize that end badly ... So that's sticky, nothing but tacky, tacky but the languid and imperturbable Poppa's sticky like snake crazy fast digestive nap in the middle of the swamp. That is good, listen.
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