Okkervil River - Down the River of Golden Dreams

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Okkervil River
Down the River of Golden Dreams


Go ahead and call me "Dutch Door" for this one, 'cause I can swing both ways. I'm telling you, it's not an easy race to run, this either/or business. A safe and sturdy middle ground is hard to find these days; you try to ride a fence too long and you wind up with your arm in a sling-- or worse. Personally, I say either straight-shoot 'er or put down your guns. And so I take Okkervil River, for example: They seem to be pretty into their thing, be it alt-country or indie-folk or barnyard-to-dive bar-pop or what-the-fuck-have-you, and they seem pretty sincere about it-- which is the crux of the issue; but then again, you never can be too sure. Every few minutes or so during Down the River of Golden Dreams I have to sit back, scratch my chin, and wonder... "wait a minute..." 'Cause, damn, I sure hate being taken.

Sure, I'd like to think that maybe this is just an honest little batch of songs-- after all, these sentimental, acoustic tracks do feel like old friends. Perhaps these sketchy moments where the band drifts into well-trodden paths and postured frameworks that don't necessarily reflect the band's ingenuity are mere aberrations or stochastic eventualities. What makes me wonder is the occasional sidestep; the buoyantly affected pop-mongering of Bens Folds and Kweller on "Blanket and Crib", or frontman Will Sheff's frequent throaty outbursts during which he dons a Conor Oberst-style charcoal hoodie with a Ludens-stuffed kangaroo pocket. I mean, when he's reserved there are these undeniably Tweedy-inflected vocals of crestfallen awareness. And sure, maybe the stuff isn't so much a stealthy combination of its influences (though all done admirably), as it is an expansive, heartfelt, and genuine display of songsmithing that runs from pure balladry to starkly sketched, deeply personal and densely moody revelations. Maybe.

'Cause no posturing indiephile I know opens a song ("The War Criminal Rises and Speaks") over meekly struck piano chords, earnestly and without any trace of excess-pageantry, with "The heart wants to feel/ The heart wants to hold/ The heart takes past Subway, past Stop-N-Shop, past Biel's/ And calls it 'coming home.'" 'Cause it's just not cool. But it is effective, and consistent with the tone of the rest of the album. Most of the songs wade in this pool of lost love and desperation, thrashing or floating about with a seeming disregard for stylistic retention, but in a manner so sufficiently suffocating it sometimes feels calculatedly linear, even though the results come in a variety of shapes and sizes: there are moments big and small, frisky and repined, shifty and direct.

Okkervil River perfectly deploys healthy doses of Hammond organ, Rhodes piano, Mellotrons, and Wurlitzer over the course of the album. Sometimes, as on "It Ends with a Fall", these instruments serve to counteract the jaunty musings of the track to retain its dredged moodiness. On most of the album, though, acoustic guitars and slight percussion wilt beneath keys and sprinkled pedal steel flavorings. Tracks like "Maine Island Lovers" and "Yellow" largely forgo involved arrangements, but creep and crawl through Sheff's heartbroken narratives with spacious good taste. In all, the album may feel a bit like sleepwalking through a Decemberists set (and may also be packaged as such), but when you surrender yourself to the sincerity and listless candor of it all, it's easy to side with originality and purebred good taste. Songs this poignant and easy to digest will always have relevance, but then again, they had to have known that, hadn't they?

Posted to Pitchfork by William Morris on December 10, 2003.