Fraser River Delta Blues

When Becky Black sings, it sounds like strong beer and spicy gumbo. It sounds like the black coffee and beignets that are the only things in the world that can wash away your headache, and the feeling of dread as you wonder what you did to earn all these Mardi Gras beads. It’s a prickly, defiant, down-on-the-delta voice that summons the ghosts of Robert Johnson and Skip James – the kind Jack White can only dream of. The honky-tonk woman Mick sang about.Except Becky Black, and Maya Miller, collectively known as The Pack AD, aren’t from down on the delta. They’re from Vancouver. British Columbia. Canada. And the contradictions don’t end there.‘Tintype’, their debut album, has been floating around for a couple of months now, and has apparently been described by almost everyone who has heard it (including me, now) as hard drinking music. Which is fine, except for the fact that almost nowhere does the band mention liquor, bars, beer or hangovers as being any sort of influence or inspiration. Coffee is mentioned twice on their "MySpace":http://www.myspace.com/thepackad (which appears to be as close as they come to an official site right now), but at no point during the the seventeen songs on ‘Tintype’ do you think “hey, these girls spend a lot of time in Starbucks (or, since they’re Canadian, Tim Hortons).” The entire album says “put down the latte, you sissy, and let’s go get trashed.” But it’s less about the booze, and more about the nights in the bar when you get kicked in the crotch by love. Which could probably happen in Starbucks or Tim Hortons, too. I’m just saying.If your favourite dive bar or brew pub was to put this album on, though, that and a couple of pale ales would be a night to remember (or paradoxically, try to forget) in and of itself. It’s a good time to be sure, but it’s not a party album – in fact it’s dark as hell. This is the music that happens after party boys like the Hold Steady have packed up and gone home. If the album is condensed into a story, it’s either a single night talking to a stranger with too much eyeliner who you never see after the slow set; or it’s six months spent between lying in bed with that person and screaming blue murder at them.There’s a feminist streak running through the whole album, but it’s not an ‘all men are bastards/rapists/idiots’ militancy; nor is it a Sarah McLachlan-esque ‘they make me sad, but I love them’ stance. “You said it was over, but nothing’s over ‘til I say it is,” sings Black on ‘Cabin’ – it’s a declaration of exactly who wears the pants. But she softens – ever so slightly two lines later: “you said we should just be friends, but I can’t do that, I wanna be your lover again.” It’s Daniel Clowes’ (or Russ Meyer’s) velvet glove cast in iron. Pop singer Rihanna talks about being a good girl gone bad; Becky Black sounds like a bad girl who wants to be good – except bad’s more fun. This is a band that lists as it’s influences “Blind Willie Johnson, Junior Kimbrough, Robert Johnson, Son House, Muddy Waters, John Lee Hooker, Leadbelly, RL Burnside, Billie Holiday, Scott Joplin, The American Civil War, snow, the north, cowboys, bandits, coffee, the years 1860-1920, Koko Taylor, Janis Joplin, Aretha Franklin, Buddy Rich, John Bonham, MC5, The Sonics, The Groundhogs, Gordon Downie, Jonathon Richman, Sam Raimi, Harrison Ford, Guy Pearce, Jeremiah Johnson, Clint Eastwood, Howlin' Wolf, Mississipi John Hurt, Manhunt, Cold Mountain, Andersonville, The Thing, Highlander, Snake Pliskin, OZ, Chris Keller, George Romero and all of his Dead movies, Patrick Swayze (in Road House).” And they all show. It’s southern roots with northern origins; a hard as nails attitude to the album that occasionally just needs a hug. If this album is a person, it’s Lee Marvin.At it’s worst parts – which are few and far between – ‘Tintype’ sounds like the singer from Four Non-Blondes singing over the last minute of the Who’s ‘Magic Bus’. At it’s best it’s the blues done right; assuming you believe the Stones and Zeppelin got it right too. Most of all it’s a great album to put on, pour a cold one, and wonder what you ever saw in her. Or him. Or them. Hell, just listen - or Becky will kick your ass.