Vulgar Boatmen
You and Your Sister
Please Panic
Safe House Records
Release Date: 1989, 1992
Uncle Tupelo breaks up, and all of the sudden country rock is cool. Never mind that the
dynamic duo of Jay Farrar and Jeff Tweedy had been blurring boundaries for years, mixing country twang and city angst into a concoction that frightened program directors from Tacoma to Tuscaloosa. But it took until the 1990s, when suddenly genre-busting was as popular as baby-doll T-shirts, for rock radio to discover that it could make money off something that bands had been doing for years.
Farrar and Tweedy, hardly the new kids on the musical block, all of the sudden had hit singles with their new acts, Son Volt and Wilco. Joe Henry, no spring chicken himself, finally emerged from the shadows of High Critical Acclaim into the blazing glare of the media, though he had to field as many questions about his Material Girl sister-in-law as his own particular brand of country-tinged rock. Even raucous Mark Eitzel of American Music Club released a solo album that owed more to country than his typical hyper-masculine anguish.
But what happened to the bands that made this music before the marketing gurus
discovered alterna-country as the world's newest pet rock? Well, they languish in obscurity.
The Vulgar Boatmen are one of those bands that just missed cashing in on the latest trend. Their two albums -- You and Your Sister (1989) and Please Panic (1992) -- deserve a top spot in any serious record collection, but unfortunately have been relegated to a cult following who discovered the band through word-of-mouth.
Lanky, awkward and totally sincere, the Vulgar Boatmen wandered out of the South armed with beautifully straightforward melodies, a surprisingly complex rhythm section and achingly earnest vocals. In the country tradition, their songs are long, meandering stories of everyday life, but told with a deceptive simplicity. So what if the themes of lost love and wanderlust have been done before? The Vulgar Boatmen's seemingly wide-eyed innocence gives the songs a sharp focus that cuts to the emotional core.
Further confusing the whole concept of the Vulgar Boatmen is that they seem to be more a consortium of musicians than an actual band. Despite their spare, airy arrangements, about fifteen musicians are credited on each album, with the group splitting their time between Tallahassee and Indianapolis. Among the more notable names are the Silos' Walter Silas-Humara and Bob Rupe -- themselves pioneers of a distinctly Southwestern country-rock sound.
The sheer number of collaborators helps to create a rich collection of styles and textures on each album. You and Your Sister begins with the raspy guitar and pack-a-day vocals of "Mary Jane," but the mood soon turns wistful and introspective with the clever "Margaret Says." Perhaps the pinnacle of the band's achievement is "Drive Somewhere," a lilting six-minute tune tailor made for a cruise down some twisty backroad.
Please Panic continues the mix of sly ballads and acoustic romps, though the songwriting steers clear of some of the first album's more interesting twists and turns. Still, there are some real standouts. The rollicking "Don't Mention It" builds to a triumphant crescendo, while the plaintive "You Don't Love Me Yet" shows off the bands harmonies. On the quirkier side, "We Can Figure This Out" interplays bass and guitar to build a compelling musical tension that echoes the lyrics.
The Vulgar Boatmen seem to be in hibernation for now, but who knows? Maybe the
popularity of bands like Wilco and Son Volt will persuade them to come out of hiding and try to cash in on some of the record dollars they deserve. But until then, we're left with two albums full of music so honest and pure that maybe it doesn't belong on commercial radio anyway.
-- Chris Schwartz
schwartz@outersound.com
