Delaney Davidson - Self Decapitation
'I went down to the lake
I saw your mammy fuckin a snake' -
New Zealand native Davidson checking in with a cause for all those contrivedly whimsical, scarcely literate carny fakers to really get a quakin' about and all the rest to check what's cluttering up this tattered suitcase of clusterbomb country and piston-snapping blues for bedtimes that bleed slime - a mere cursory glance of which could instigate an inter-continental Custer-flunk. Third solo album and first on the venerable Beatman's Voodoo label (and featuring the director of les diabolique himself on git-tar) may mine fertile descents of murder ballad badlands and rancorous hankerings, but it butchers and maims them all to it's own drill-bit of devilment as it wends it's way on creepy journey like a tourniquet scrinching your soul, the caskets of curiosity filling your old hats and digging new holes for gateposts. You can see why he's a one time member of unstable same-label ghouls The Dead Brothers* and a compatibe touring compadre of the unimpeachable Possessed By Paul James. There's a real undaunted, devout air of dread ready to devour any undaring companions winding through the woodland whistles, Slavic brass breakdowns, Spaghetti western that spooked poor Hetty in perpetuity (the velvetly mourning Lee Hazlewood intonement Seasons Of God), canyon-cracking cowpunk and atomic boomchickaboomboomboom (I Slept Late) to industrial Leadbelly (In The Pines), Syd Barrett possessing latter-day Leonard Cohen spectrals (Tonight), flambed flamenco (Lackie's Men) to sporadic episodes of deranged dwarf polka romps devoid of self-conscious pomp 'n ceremony that'll put creaks in any floorboards and cracks in many a skull all regaled with a voice both caustic and sinister but equally capable of cauterising nocturnal brain abrasions as much as it capsizes your sanctity, all a-hover in the hollow-bodied echo of aeons. This guy's done some hard ramblin' that he transmutes into majestically macabre sermons of enticement to enchant the straggler who's finally wising up to the bohemian tedium 'oooh i'm mad me, ain't I, Joe' of little boring cuntlroy's that litter the aching, gratingly hip alleys of this eastern european gypsy-punk speckled birdcage. The bastard swagger of Magpie Song, at the gritty, gallows end succinctly spits on all that has passed. On the record and p'raps most of these last years. If there is Deliverance in the darklands, then d-d-d-d-d-doooo deliver our sorry asses to Davidson Holler, dog dammit.