In American Central Dust, however, something’s different: The view from the car window is grim: “plastic bags fly from trees, proximos of cavalier progress / memories and landscapes in triage, disappearing averages, permanent changes.” They find the cities they love-Reno, San Antonio, Nuevo Laredo-“bleeding, but stubbornly shining.” Accordingly, the enthusiasm of Trace is gone nothing on American Central Dust approaches the invincibility of “Live Free” or the exuberance of “Route.” Instead, Farrar gropes wearily for solidarity in this modern wasteland for others-mechanics, drifters, dreamers, even Keith Richards-who, “like Leadbelly said, ain’t got no use for the bourgeois town.” The devil-daring attitude that Farrar set out with at the beginning of his road trip has dimmed. It’s a seat the band has occupied since it first hit the road with Trace, in 1995. And Son Volt, which rose (like Uncle Tupelo before it) from the dust of troubadours, describes the land in the same terms as its forebears, and often from the same perspective: the seat of a moving vehicle, with America whizzing past the window. He gives us grainy portraits of Rust-Belt Americans, portrayed with such reverence that one might imagine Farrar as a candidate for elective office were his paeans not so genuine (and irreligious). The record finds Jay Farrar back on the road, searching for meaning beneath America’s fingernails.
Second, it’s one of the best albums I’ve heard this year. Two things about Son Volt’s new album, American Central Dust, to start: First, there’s little here Son Volt hasn’t shown us before.
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