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The Baptist Generals, "No Silver, No Gold"
Sub Pop
The Baptist Generals, whose very name hints at a collared intensity,have produced an album that pulls at that restraint until it snaps. 'NoSilver, No Gold' is haunted, clearly. On the first track, theyintroduce the mind that shapes this album. "Ay Distress" begins as asimple, weary sounding dirge. This lasts for three minutes into thesong, when someone's cell phone begins to ring in the studio, andsinger Chris Flemmons explodes into a fury, throwing his acousticguitar down and screaming "Goddamn it, Oh God. Fuck!" as those aroundhim try to calm him down. Indeed this is a man who is serious about hismusical expression. This volitility serves as an unsettlingundercurrent throughout the album. 'No Silver, No Gold' creaks andgroans like a dusty, rundown shack swaying on its foundation. It's thisprecariousness that demands attention, that at any moment it willcollapse and spill out its insides. Flemmons' approach to his guitar isnot one of melodic delicacy but percussive attack, raw and rough. Stll,many of the songs manage to feel delicate with obtuse lyrics that hintat deeper pain and emotion. "Give me your hands / I don't need yourmind now," he pleads on "Preservatine," "I need your hands / engaged inthe construction of a special place / we can hold onto the light."Flemmons' often rambling delivery adds to the unhinged feeling of thealbum. There are moments of poignant confession, "Diminished," alongside uncomfortable leching like "Creeper," where the singer comes offas an unwanted, drunken advance. You can't help but be creeped out byhis assurance, "Give me your number / I'll come around." The mostovertly volatile song is "Burning," where Flemmons scathingly accuses"You want love, do you? You call it love / It's a murder / It's atheft." 'No Silver, No Gold' reads like the diary of a broken soul,cathartic, a fascinating look into the mind of someone dealing with hisown haunting.
The Baptist Generals, whose very name hints at a collared intensity,have produced an album that pulls at that restraint until it snaps. 'NoSilver, No Gold' is haunted, clearly. On the first track, theyintroduce the mind that shapes this album. "Ay Distress" begins as asimple, weary sounding dirge. This lasts for three minutes into thesong, when someone's cell phone begins to ring in the studio, andsinger Chris Flemmons explodes into a fury, throwing his acousticguitar down and screaming "Goddamn it, Oh God. Fuck!" as those aroundhim try to calm him down. Indeed this is a man who is serious about hismusical expression. This volitility serves as an unsettlingundercurrent throughout the album. 'No Silver, No Gold' creaks andgroans like a dusty, rundown shack swaying on its foundation. It's thisprecariousness that demands attention, that at any moment it willcollapse and spill out its insides. Flemmons' approach to his guitar isnot one of melodic delicacy but percussive attack, raw and rough. Stll,many of the songs manage to feel delicate with obtuse lyrics that hintat deeper pain and emotion. "Give me your hands / I don't need yourmind now," he pleads on "Preservatine," "I need your hands / engaged inthe construction of a special place / we can hold onto the light."Flemmons' often rambling delivery adds to the unhinged feeling of thealbum. There are moments of poignant confession, "Diminished," alongside uncomfortable leching like "Creeper," where the singer comes offas an unwanted, drunken advance. You can't help but be creeped out byhis assurance, "Give me your number / I'll come around." The mostovertly volatile song is "Burning," where Flemmons scathingly accuses"You want love, do you? You call it love / It's a murder / It's atheft." 'No Silver, No Gold' reads like the diary of a broken soul,cathartic, a fascinating look into the mind of someone dealing with hisown haunting.
