Hands in the air please for the return of Arizona's number one sons. All the tropes are in place...the brushed snappy percusion, the twangero guitar, the open, desert-evoking levelheaded. And yes, the refund of the mariachi blare that so suits the writing of Covertino and Burns. After their disappointingly 'rock' album, Garden Ruin, Calexico have returned to the southerly states aLT country that's part-western, part-central american folks and all their possess. Thank goodness...
In a year that's seen acts as diverse as Fleet Foxes to Conor Oberst stretch along and challenge what the term 'Americana' could hold back, this return to form-of-sorts is a timely monitor of how influential Calexico have been. The band's turn at last eld Womad festival, with edgar Guest star Amparo S�nchez (world Health Organization appears here), shone out even amongst the mud and rainfall. And patch Calexico's real strength lies in live performance, Carried To Dust is a gem.
The record album does have a loose concept around which it hangs: a screenwriter's search for inhalation in the wide open spaces about La La Land (Writer's Minor Holiday). But there's also room for the political poetry of opener Victor Jara's hands (Jara was an artist/poet anguished by the Chilean absolutism) and the pure wriggling Mexicali delight of Inspiracion or the Morricone hydrophobia of El Gatillo (Trigger Madness). All of these are guaranteed to sound astounding live.
If there's any reservation here it's because a little as well often you get the sense of deja vu. The lyrical imagery and the amaranthus albus dryness sails a minuscule close to parody. It's almost as if they've had to emulate themselves to find the means forward once again, the melodies not bounce out as smartly as they might. And sometimes you long for the more outlandish weirdness that filled the gaps on earlier classics such as Feast Of Wire. But frankly, something this good shouldn't be sniffed at. Calexico are back on track. Cause for festivity, indeed.
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