Over the three previous albums they’ve released since forming in 2006, Ian and James Felice and their longtime buddies wilfully stretched the envelope of Americana to take in all manner of outside influences. Nothing that’s gone before, however, covered anywhere near as much ground as this schizophrenic cornucopia of sound that defies categorisation at every turn.
Just when the listener thinks they’ve got a handle on a song, they’re thrown a curveball. Back In The Dancehalls begins as a Band-like backwoods tale (albeit built around a drumbox and rattling percussion), then a traditional fiddle trades licks with minimalist synth; Honda Civic starts out as an accordion-led prairie waltz, before veering off into a horn-fuelled Memphis soul workout. There are equally sinister detours in the prog wash of Refrain, and the malevolent balladry of Container Ship.
What does it all mean? Why does the Waitsian ode to times past go under the title Oliver Stone? Who is the duplicitious Wall Street figure at the heart of Ponzi? Answers may be hard to come by, the Felices relishing their obtuse lyrics as much as their left-field musical backdrops. It may be a little too scattergun for those who like their alt.country to stick to a template but, for the rest of us, it’s an endlessly intriguing puzzle that brings forth more clues and red herrings with each play.
