Horace Pickett are not reinventing the wheel. Instead, they take a bunch of already constructed wheels, patch them together into one rickety dust-wagon and take it for a nice, leisurely drive. They’ve recently released their first, self-titled full length and the progressive, sporadic song structure makes it a great record for the ADD-afflicted (and mustache-clad). Songs are arranged with subtle complexity and their clever hooks hang around just long enough to be appreciated and then depart just as that annoying friend of yours gets the idea he/she wants to sing along. It’s a well-crafted mixing pot of folk rock, Americana, vaudeville, big top circustry (I’m trying to coin a new word in every review I write, c’mon! stick!!) and half a dozen other seasonings. It’s impossible not to take delight in their tongue-and-cheek approach to fictional storytelling and I ain’t gonna fight it. I won’t!
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I’ll put it this way: someday in the near future you’re going to wake up and it’s going to be sunny and 75 degrees. Call in sick to work, pick up some beer, find two rocking chairs, call me, press play, and we’ll get started on that beer around 11 am. Maybe we’ll play whiffle ball. Maybe we’ll let a dog eat ice cream off our faces. Maybe we’ll paint our toenails an ironic shade of black. Maybe we’ll attach silver spurs to our Chuck Taylor’s. Maybe we’ll learn to juggle knives. Maybe we’ll wink at the garbage man. Maybe Horace Pickett will walk by and nod approvingly. It would be an injustice to listen to this album and not do one of those things. Seriously. Fucking call me. If nothing else, make them a stop on your stroll through the Folk Life Festival, and get your termite tuxedo tailored for god’s sake.
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For fans of: Tom Waits, Page France, Why?, and… dare I say… Randy Newman? Does he have fans? I mean other than me and every mom that saw Toy Story? You be the judge.
