William Elliott Whitmore - Song Of The Blackbird

In the scurry to get a taste of what’s new, what’s good, what’s hip, I failed to take a look in my own literal backyard. We’ve got it rough in Iowa; most tend to think our lone contribution to the musical lore is Slipknot, or at the very least, one of their side-projects. There’s more to the landscape than corn, hogs, and metal bands with mask-wearing personnel, I can assure you, but I will admit that the landscape is littered with more bands that ape their influences than bands that are actually inspired by them. This is a problem.
So, we’ve had a very long musical dry spell in Iowa. We’ve had an even longer dry spell in my old hometown of Keokuk, Iowa, a small town located on the banks of the Mississippi River in the southeastern most tip of the state. In the 60’s, there was a band called Gonn from there. Not to be confused with Greg Ginn’s post-Black Flag band Gone, the Keokuk Gonn was one of the thousands of garage bands that littered the American landscape in the wake of Beatlemania, but they were good enough to get added to Rhino Records’ expanded edition of Nuggets.
Richard Page, the lead singer and bassist in Mr. Mister was also from Keokuk, but he left sooner than you could say “Kyrie.” I don’t think he’s been back since he was six and, quite honestly, I don’t blame him; Keokuk is one of those towns that had the misfortune of building its streets on the back of the manufacturing industry and, when those jobs left, it became one of those towns that had the misfortune of being introduced to methamphetamine.
From what I understand, William Elliot Whitmore still resides around Keokuk. So imagine my surprise when I picked up (belatedly) his third album for Southern, Song Of The Blackbird. It’s the type of album with enough well-worn lyrics and authentic Americana arrangements to make me beam with hometown pride and chastise myself for not hearing about this guy sooner.
The backdrop: Whitmore served as a roadie for the band Ten Grand until their leader, Matt Davis unexpectedly passed away at the age of 26 in 2003. Ten Grand offered Whitmore opening slots in many of their shows to promote his own material, which is strange as their music couldn’t have been miles apart from each other; Ten Grand walked the same ground as At The Drive In while Whitmore’s music was/is more grounded in traditional folk. Regardless of the difference between their respective genres, Ten Grand’s own label took notice of Whitmore’s talents and signed him to his own record deal.
Song Of The Blackbird comes with the required banjo/acoustic guitar accompaniment while occasionally allowing for full-band arrangements. These sparse conditions place the focus on two of Whitmore’s strengths: his voice and his songwriting, both of which belie his age. His birth certificate may list him at a youthful 28, his words often point to a man who’s lived a full life of the obligatory Midwestern dilemma of waking up to go to church on Sunday morning while still nursing the hangover from Saturday night’s indiscretions.
On “One Man’s Shame,” he explains “one man’s story/is another man’s shame/I ain’t bound for glory/I’m bound for flames” while offering a very legitimate justification for straying from the flock: “I came for the drinks/but I stayed for the love.” It goes without saying that, in Keokuk, the bars and taverns tend to outnumber the churches.
Whitmore’s vocal inspiration at times mirrors Tom Waits and Chris Whitley, yet his lyrics avoid you from automatically considering Song Of The Blackbird as being derivative. Waits, in particular, uses many different locales in his songwriting while Whitmore seems content taking the time to find the muse off of the familiar gravel roads that he travels each day. This slow-cooked approach works thanks to the meager arrangements that he uses in each of the album’s nine tracks. And at clocking in at just a hair over thirty minutes, you’re never too full of his material to ask for seconds.
Iowa isn’t that big of a place to begin with, so it still bewilders me how a guy like me who prides himself on being fairly snobbish about music has overlooked Whitmore, particularly after heralding from the same stomping grounds. The only redemption left is to encourage you to take a closer look at your own backyard, and to take a look at what’s hiding in the cornfields of Iowa.

This review originally appeared in Glorious Noise