http://www.entertainmentwise.com/review?id=35836
4/5 stars
Most artists’ paymasters break into a panicky sweat whenever their charges unveil their plans for a new, experimental direction. It's safe to assume Wooden Wand's label were more than a bit miffed when James Toth - the psych-folk practioner behind the wizardly pseudonym - revealed his intentions to go straight for this, his third solo release after umpteenth releases of lysergic freakouts in the ranks of US underground overlords Vanishing Voice. All of which points at what an extraordinarily talented oddball Toth is, and why his decision to dodge his more far-out tendencies for the duration of 'James And The Quiet' initially feels like an uneasy fit seemingly designed to illustrate the key lyrics of breezy folk strummathon 'Spitting At The Cameras': "when will you ever find comfort when you forfeit who you are."
Put simply, the prospect of encountering a bunch of sober tunes delivered straight on the follow-up to the psychedelically frazzled moping of 'Harem Of The Sundrum' (2005) and the bizarre brilliance of last year's vintage West Coast vibes exhuming 'Second Attention', not the mention the wah-wah pedal-bothering cosmic skronk Toth's musicianly past is littered with, seems worryingly tame and predictable, two adjectives not previously linked to Toth's output. Worse still, the grin-inducing, gloriously untidy grooves of the Sky High Band have been shelved in favour of the comparatively dry, uncluttered sound of a one-off studio outfit. No one with fully functioning ears would suggest the likes of Sonic Youth's Lee Ranaldo (who also produces) and Steve Shelley and various Vanishing Voice veterans who perform the instrumental duties here are anonymous hacks-for-hire, but the results are at first reminiscent of Neil Young swapping the soulful sloppiness of Crazy Horse for the steadier hands of professional musos - less prone to wrong turns, sure, but also somewhat lacking in instantly recognisable charm.
But Toth didn't become one of leftfield Americana's brightest promises by churning out duds. Listen closer and 'James and The Quiet' quickly proves as inescapably catchy as the bucket of tar populated by the dizzy honey bees in the chorus of 'In The Bucket'. The arrangements which at first seem threadbare and clinical release more of their captivating delights with each listen, with co-arranger Jessica Toth's rich tones providing the perfect vocal foil to Toth's singular pipes, half young Dylan's drawl and half Devendra Banhart warble. It's debatable whether Toth could ever cook up thoroughly conventional navel-gazing singer-songwriter fare, such is his natural pull towards the offbeat and the skewered.
Although the proceedings here are Toth's most direct and approachable yet, the warped wordplay and unsettling visions keep mainstream-friendly cosiness at bay, resulting in gems ala 'Invisible Children', which counters the melody's expansive, 'Exile on Main Street' without the class A's country-soul warmth with crackpot couplets throbbing with surreal strangeness (sample lyric: "the world's strongest man was a shaman of neat country bread"). Elsewhere, the gnarly stomp of 'The Pushers' turns a list of negatives railing against "poison people" into a rousing rallying cry, whilst 'Delia' and 'Blood' balance between serene harmony and ominous disquiet with potent results.
The clumsy 'Blessed Damnation' (less half-written than barely started), the plodding 'We Must Also Love The Thieves' and 'Future Dream's half-baked go at updating the playful verbal bravado of 'Bob Dylan's 115th Dream' draw blanks, but the suitably celestial closing hymn 'Wired To The Sky' ends the album on a heavenly high note.