Will Schube can shine shine like a trillion watt light bulb
The sideman or workhouse turned front man is a tired narrative. Because of its nature—the success of a certain project can be used to catapult said second-fiddler into his or her own realm of contextual ‘stardom’—this biographical ploy feels more exploitative than informative. Music should, in theory, speak for itself…But such a fanciful notion has been deemed nearly impossible thanks to internet saturation and the million-bands-per-minute pace we all seem to be consuming at. So, in hindsight, maybe this “backup guitar player tries his hand at songwriting” PR push isn’t such a bad idea; especially if it serves as an introduction to Steve Gunn. Gunn, now a “proper” solo artist, used to play guitar for Kurt Vile. Similar to Annie Clark or Vile himself (he used to play with Adam Granduciel in The War on Drugs), Gunn’s talents were too large and vast to be relegated anywhere but front and center; this was ecstatically announced by his 2013 release, Time Off. Gunn’s got a knack for blending his intricate guitar work with accessibly intimate melodies and kaleidoscopic rhythmic patterns that interlock and coalesce seamlessly. His work is strangely familiar; an acid flashback less jarring than it is a friendly reminder that present reality isn’t the only realm of possibility. Time Off was and still is an excellent record, but one that is limited in scope—at least retrospectively—when compared with his latest, Way Out Weather. Time Off displays a songwriter moving away from the avant-garde and abstract, embracing some semblance of traditional organization in a grasp for the tangible effects of a verse-chorus song structure. Its successes are lovely (particularly “Water Wheel” and “Lurker”), but its own confusion never fully relinquishes. Way Out Weather assuages these worries in a mighty and forceful way—not only displaying Gunn at his strongest—boasting perhaps the most cohesive track-by-track performance released this year.
Way Out Weather settles into its introductory moments as “Way Out Weather” (both the album’s title and opening track) warms itself up—reminiscent of an orchestra readying itself for performance. As instruments slowly emerge into the foreground—pianos stab, lap steels soar, and guitars meander—the track’s central melody emerges: a smooth guitar line interacts with a drum beat straight out of The Band’s back catalog (specifically calling to mind a slow and steady version of “Up On Cripple Creek”). Gunn’s voice is warbly yet confident, searching for no other reason than for the search itself. He sings, “Way out weather’s a common song/pulling tides to show what’s wrong.” The track never veers far from this initial structure, and it doesn’t need to. Gunn’s strength lies in his ability to layer—his tracks stretch across time in an accumulation of melodies both similar and disparate; there’s nothing excessive on Weather…Everything incorporated serves a function while resisting any sort of utilitarian role (it all sounds so natural and beautiful).
It’s hard for a musician or band to sound laid back without sounding disengaged or coming off as (an) asshole(s) (here’s looking at you, Foxygen), but Gunn manages to disengage from any high stakes and present the music as it is—as if Weather was something he stumbled upon as an already completed whole. “Wildwood”, the album’s second track, takes this notion and runs with it (to my untrained ear, there are at least three separate guitar lines at work at any given moment). The drums shuffle delicately—working intricately enough to bring attention to its groove yet never overshadowing Gunn’s increasingly confident voice. “Wildwood”, like “Way Out Weather” builds upon itself through a measured combination of newly-introduced instruments and the layering of already-displayed parts. This interaction is pervasive throughout Weather and it’s this intricate balance between the new and familiar which keeps the album fresh and invigorating. “Millie’s Garden” follows “Wildwood”, and is a strong candidate for song of the year, although I’m not sure it’s the best song on Weather (this speaks to the album’s versatility and malleability—it constantly re-introduces itself in new light). I spoke about it here, but the track’s swirling organ is as dynamite as can be. “Shadow Bros” is a psychedelic fairytale, the kind of thing that terrifies and invigorates all at once. “Fiction” is Gunn’s road trip song, featuring a fingerpicked electric guitar backed by lightly brushed drums and Gunn utilizing a more ghostly vocal delivery. The bass line saunters along, rarely grasping for space yet finding itself available to accompany at any given moment. “Fiction” is one of the album’s rare tracks in which Gunn’s guitar is the star—perhaps a slight case of old habits dying hard.
“Drifter”, the album’s most raucously engaged tune, takes Jerry Garcia’s legacy and carries it into the 21st century. Gunn’s voice is wonderfully assured, steady and brave. He sings, “singing the words that we all know/They always stay the same/Stirring around in a buried life/Sleeper in the keeper’s lane.” There’s a bit of a menacing or villainous lilt to Gunn’s voice on “Drifter”, an affect I’d love to see him display more often. There’s a real confident edge to his voice that doesn’t necessarily diminish the impact of his voice on other tracks, but merely leaves the listener yearning for more of The Drifter. The album’s only slip-up follows “Drifter”, as “Atmosphere” takes on the character of its title and does little more than meander around nothingness for five minutes. The words are engaging, the instruments, less so. Gunn sings, “So tired of the cold rain/Sent from the desert heat/Talking about the atmosphere/Tell me what I wanna hear.” Perhaps the sense of tiredness this track conveys is intentional, but it’s rather unfortunate that Gunn chose to place this song directly after the album’s most uproarious track. This seems to be less an issue of execution (the song would fit decently into other sections of the album) than one of sequencing; not bad, considering it’s the one true negative the album presents.
As “Atmosphere” ends precisely where it begins, Gunn introduces “Tommy’s Congo”, the most exciting track he’s released to date. Partly due to its nature as a composition, “Tommy’s Congo” is absurdly foreign within the context of Gunn’s discography. The drums bounce along with pulsing synthesizers (the first clue that we’re in a strange, strange world), while the guitars stab at space—seemingly as disoriented as the listener. However, as the guitar line gains a sense of the world it has entered, its weaving rhythm begins to hypnotize and lull. Gunn, in interaction with this deceptively welcoming guitar line, takes on the voice of something mystical, singing, “Never look down at what you need to do.” “Tommy’s Congo” sounds like a dicey mushroom trip in a foreign country, invigorating yet probably not something worth doing multiple times. This is part of what makes “Tommy’s Congo” so wonderful: within the context of the rest of Weather, which boasts a fairly cohesive aesthetic, the track is boldly subversive; an entire album of this stuff would surely take away from its lasting power. And this, too, I suppose, is what makes Weather so wonderfully enchanting. Its existence is in flux—the tracks interact in such a way as to create newness with each listen. No two tracks sound the same, but each exists in a world reminiscent of the others (including, somehow, “Tommy’s Congo”). A bewildering notion, yes, but perfectly at home in a world of way out weather.
