With all the recent revivalism and fascination with folk music...

    By: R. Sam Chaney

       Listening to the first few tracks of Low Anthem’s, What the Crow Brings, with the title in mind, one begins to wonder if this Providence-based folk duo has resorted to the concept album in their self-recorded and produced second effort. Ben Miller, vocalist, guitarist, organist, occasional drummer (among 22 other instruments, including a pair of cell-phones) sings of bones throughout the album; its presence difficult to ignore as coincidence. When asked about its use, Miller’s explanation of its origins is, however, far more dynamic. It stems from the image Miller recalls of grimed and cobwebbed wishbones hanging from a chandelier in the famed McSorely’s bar in Manhattan, left by unreturned soldiers of World War I. As the legend goes, a cadre of G.I.s came in before their overseas deployment and promised each other they would take them down and hope for the best of luck upon their return, rejoicing in the war’s end. Some did, but the evidence of those who did not, still remaining untouched, (though regularly ignored by many of the wealthier patrons who now shuffle through the 14th street bar) understandably augments our understanding of not only death, but all other thematics which Low Anthem channels them through, without suggesting that this was some easy device for lack of inspiration. From what might be obvious, easy, or simple, is made into a fulfilled and lyrical symbol of life, memory, growth, time, and change.

       This sort of meditative evolution also points to Low Anthem’s broader artistic talent and goals. With all the other recent revivalism and fascination with folk music, Anthem is performing a separate, and in some ways, more organic brand of the genre. As they (and others who have taken the time) had managed to encapsulate and yet create new meaning from such a historic (albeit obscure) icon of bones hanging on a chandelier, Anthem also manages to work from the standards of folk-rock songwriting without remaining trapped in its tenets. Rather, they build from what has been established, without vainly accepting or rejecting the tradition. As T.S. Eliot would argue for Modernism in literature, Anthem remains largely more inspired, rather than imitative of their own influences or contemporaries. Notable exemptions on the album might include, “Yellowed By The Sun” or “A Weary Horse Can Hide the Pain” (minus the vocal modulation) which give clear, though not sullied, nods to Neil Young and The Band.

       Still, on stage, Miller and his partner, Jeff Prystowsky (chiefly on upright bass, drums, and organ) exude honesty and a relieving lack of pretension or contrived hipster charisma. Instead, they possess a drawing intimacy sometimes lost in the extraterrestrial whimsy of freak-folkers like Devendra Banhardt or the pop sensibility of Curious George troubadour, Jack Johnson. Instead of weirding us (or the person next us) out, Miller's quiet hum of sweetly mournful lyrics asks (and by extension, requires) us only to listen. Instead of blithely playing along a predictably sanguine melody, the pair will (especially in a live setting) allow their staid nature and varied inspiration seep in carefully, even while playing campfire songs of love, such as the Carter Family’s “Keep on the Sunny Side”.

       The duo's colored medley of instrumental talents also works well with their above mentioned contexts. Though it can turn into a bit of an obstacle course for them on stage (let alone a nightmare for soundtechs) it still provides, by turns, a swelling and subtle reflection (“This God Damn House”), or sparsely picked quietness (“Sawdust Saloon”). When the twenty something’s (who taught each other most of the instruments while recording) are seen live, this is heightened by observing Miller and Prystowky's implicit dualities. Prystowsky is often expressing the more percussive and rhythmic elements, his expressions thrown between a brotherly smile and a ruefully withheld cathartic intensity, while Miller sighs out a song’s quiet core, head half bowed or boyishly peeking from under his orange wool cap. In the occasional turn around, such as a crushingly soulful yet minimalist rendition of “Don’t Let Nobody Turn You Around”, a gospel hymn, the generally subdued vocalist thrusts himself an arresting howl of naked anguish and conviction, which is indeed, at times, uncomfortably heart felt if not thundering.

       They do, admittedly, have an affection for covers in their early stages. Aside from “Sunny Side” they have performed Daniel Johnston and Tom Waits songs as well. However, as Miller sings in “Ballad of the Broken Bones”, there is a constant reminder, even from those hanging symbols of the dead past, let alone the contemporary one, “to grow and […] to dream.” Speaking with Prystowsky after a show at The Space in Hamden, it is precisely a want of evolution, even restlessness as he gestured in a couch, that causes Anthem’s pursuance of their art to be so special. The anxiety of influence may still linger for The Low Anthem, but it also fuels. A string of shows down the eastern coast, including one more at the Space, and several in the Boston-NY area, will conclude in December, leading into what both members hope to be an even more enlightening winter recording session. Until then, What the Crow Brings is on limited release at their shows (the first 500 they hand printed and sold at the start of October are already sold out), and you can see tour dates, and other media at their website, www.lowanthem.com.