Rock ‘n’ roll ain’t always about getting the party started. Sometimes, with some people, it’s all only about keeping it going. Mark Lanegan, ex-frontman with oft-forgotten grunge greats Screaming Trees, has matured into exactly one of those people, going by the evidence creaking and croaking and groaning and grinding out of my working left headphone as I write this. And he’s not alone. This is not the same Mark Lanegan that recorded his last ‘Field Songs’ longplayer, all lone dusty porch blues. Nor is it the same Mark Lanegan that led Screaming Trees through their introverted fuzz pedal workouts. You could say it’s somewhere in between, which it is, but that’s not quite right either. This is the Mark Lanegan that was knocked off said porch with a well-meaning right-hook from an intoxicating bad influence and then fought back with some of the most exciting material of his life. The Mark Lanegan who was sucked whole into the ungovernable QOTSA cooperative. And it shows.
It’d be easy to view this record in competition, squaring up to Josh Hommes’ Desert Sessions and comparing performance credits – but it makes much more sense to see it as a compliment, an integral part of an interchangeable collective that’s rapidly becoming a genre unto itself. And anyway, if talking guestlist girth ‘Bubblegum’ would probably win. Nick Oliveri and Josh Homme feature throughout in varied roles, Afghan Whigs’ Greg Dulli (on the not entirely unlike the Twilight Singers ‘Methamphetamine Blues’), Ween’s Dean Ween, Izzy Stradlin and Duff McKagan (both on the out-of-character-mellow blues lullaby ‘Strange Religion’), Masters of Reality’s Chris Goss (playing and producing) and of course PJ Harvey all feature as shifting parts of the ensemble. But with one notable exception, and in spite of giving the record one hell of a backbone, they’re all staffing one man’s fantasy and contribute fairly anonymously.
But PJ Harvey, still arguably one of the most vital, harsh, sexy and abundant forces of nature on the face of the planet, is on top here – metaphorically, commandingly, probably physically. But her two tracks, highlights here undoubtedly, work in such a way that you can’t help but compliment them as a couple rather than just bask in her haze. Her collaborations are always reactionary pieces of work, she never walks off with full honours. ‘Hit The City’ is a dense, shimmering mirage; thick, repetitive and masterful, Velvet Underground do Kyuss type behaviour, her vocals hypnotising, circling his like a vulture. ‘Come To Me’ is quite something else though; creeping, seductive, irreversibly intoxicating trip-rock, partially evoking the Nick Cave ‘n’ Kylie masterpiece ‘Where The Wild Roses Grow’.
Elsewhere, on ‘Driving Death Valley Blues’ and the feedback sodden ‘Can’t Come Down’, he turns a few tricks he learnt during his stint in the Queens, ‘Morning Glory Wine’ and ‘Like Little Willie John’ see him edging back onto the porch and ‘Sideways In Reverse’ and ‘Head’ see him confidently straddle his entire career with both feet to the floor. We were unaware that this is his sixth solo record, not to mention all extra-curricular activity. Recognition is surely long, long overdue.