Blame It on Gravity

AMG Review of Blame It on Gravity

Andrew Leahey
All Music Guide

After issuing several albums of rural, ramshackle twang, the Old 97's hit their stride with 1997's Too Far To Care, a record that fused pop flourishes with roadhouse country flavor. That fusion never quite left, but it became tempered over the years -- tempered by the band's hasty exit from Elektra Records in 2001, by Rhett Miller's subsequent solo career, and by the onset of fatherhood and middle age. Refreshingly, the Old 97's returned to that sonic sweet spot with Blame It on Gravity, a mature record that boasts the same combination that made Too Far to Care an ideal pop album for people in cowboy boots (or the perfect country album for those who'd never heard of Lyle Lovett and Gram Parsons). The album's timing was impeccable, arriving during the same spring that saw the final issue of No Depression Magazine -- which, incidentially, featured a story on the band -- as well as a nostalgic, reissued edition of Whiskeytown's Stranger's Almanac. Both were bittersweet reminders that alt country's golden days had faded into twilight, making the Old 97's all the more commendable for weathering the industry's changing tastes.

Blame It On Gravity owes much of its strength to Rhett Miller, an able-voiced frontman whose lyrics brim with internal rhymes and character sketches. In the Spanish-tinged "Dance with Me" (a close cousin to Fight Songs' "What We Talk About"), he steps into the role of a foreign lover, enticing an American tourist to show him her night moves before jumping into the role of her cuckolded husband. Beneath the storyline, guitars crunch and cymbals crash courtesy of Miller's three bandmates: bassist Murry Hammond, the group's bespectacled elder statesman and a contributor to some of Gravity's finest cuts (including the Beatles-inspired "My Two Feet"); drummer Philip Peeples, who pummels the snare with a rhythmic, horse-hooved stomp, and lead guitarist Ken Bethea, a controlled flurry of guitar pedals, cowpunk riffs, and spiky facial hair. Together, the Old 97's pepper their seventh studio effort with a familiar mix of rock songs, mature ballads, and the shuffling midtempo numbers that fall somewhere between both camps. Of particular note are "She Loves the Sunset," a breezy '50s-styled gem with tropical island flair, and the cozily atmospheric "Color of a Lonely Heart Is Blue," one of Murry Hammond's most moving and heartbreaking compositions to date. Such mellow tracks rub shoulders with the album's full-tilt rock numbers -- "Ride," "Early Morning," "The One," "The Fool," -- all of them delivered with the confidence of a band who's been there, done that, and stayed together while lesser groups split at the seams. No track quite approaches the breakneck pace of 1997's "Timebomb," but that's a minor quibble for a band who continues to remain earnest, fine-tuned, and wholly significant after 15 years of barroom rock & roll.