William Elliott Whitmore - Animals In The Dark

After three fine and sadly overlooked records on the Southern label, Iowa native William Elliott Whitmore moves to the larger Anti Records imprint for number four, putting him in the same company as Tom Waits, Neko Case, and others that regularly rank high on the Americana heavy rotation list.
To deem Whitmore as merely an “Americana” artist is a disservice. This is roots music, barely a guitar string away from the same kind of songs that would have been prevalent at the start if the 20th century. Added to this, Whitmore still lives and works on his family farm in Lee County, a story that will most assuredly get some traction from people who want to milk his legitimacy and exploit his good-naturedness. Here’s the thing about Iowa though: we have a tendency not to be afraid of a hard days work and we know the moment you start belittling us as some backwash hicks with little regard for your big city perceptions. And here’s the thing about Whitmore: there’s a sense of credibility that flows not from his press bio, but from the first time you hear his voice.
To see him in a local bar is an opportunity to miss him. He blends in well, fitting in with the rest of the inked twenty-somethings with two-week old facial hair. But put banjo in his hands, a stool for a seat and a Pabst to quench his thirst and watch him transform into one of our country’s most distinctive talents. Trust me, I’ve tried on more than one occasion to discount his act with cynicism and distrust only to break down and admit that this young man is the real deal.
Of course, the ideal setting to see Whitmore is live, but in lieu of that (or if it’s the farming season and WEW can’t tour as he is too busy attending to agricultural needs) you’ll be forced to chose a recorded document, and there’s now a better opportunity with his new label for you to run into one.
For those new to the flock, Animals In The Dark is a fine place to start
Animals In The Dark starts with nothing more than a rhythm and Whitmore’s cigarette-addled voice, declaring mutiny on a ship that the Bush administration nearly ran into dry land. “He don’t need no water/Let the motherfucker burn” he judges on W2 during “Mutiny.” There are other political overtones scattered throughout Animals…something that’s unusual in his previous work…and they sound like the result of careful consideration, not the gut-check Libertarian values that finds its way into some of the wells of Whitmore’s neck of the woods.
With all but a few songs devoted to statehouse affairs, there are more that deal with rural observations and small town characters. Many have been in his set list for years (“Johnny Law” “Hell Or High Water”) and all are delivered with the same bare-bone arrangement that has been his bread and butter all along.
The presumed added budget afforded to him has made the mix at tad more defined, but by no means polished. WEW’s voice remains front and center, and when any band arrangements find their way into the recording, they’re well out of the way. There’s actually some possibilities found with that type of structure and it would be interesting to see if Whitmore utilizes full band recordings for later recordings.
Animals In The Dark marks the end of the death and redemption trilogy that encompassed his first three albums. There were brief moments of light that filtered through the darkness of those albums, but Animals shows more of it. It absolutely has its fill of dread and depression, but there’s more tenacity to address it, leading the listener to believe that the subjects within his songs have a real shot at overcoming their adversity. “Hard Times” details a brief snapshot of Whitmore’s past, from the great-granddad that took a ship to America from Germany to his railroad mechanic father, all of whom had less that ideal conditions to work from. “Hard times made us” he declares “and I would not change them for anything.” For a young man who just reached the ripe old age of 30, it’s refreshing to hear how there are still some out there that understand how hardship is a part of our overall existence. We can let misfortune consume us and allow it to lay havoc, or we can press on and grow strong from our difficulties.
Whitmore’s own story is filled with tribulation, but to see him perform and hear him throughout his catalog, you get the sense that he’s come to terms with the circle of life and has vowed to relish each moment that he’s presented with. Perhaps this outlook is a common characteristic among farmers, as they are acutely aware of the seasons and how vital each one is in life. They’re reminders that no matter how bad things are today, nature is not one to wait around for things to get better. Whitmore gets that, and even though Animals In The Dark represents a new season for himself, there’s no better time to get acquainted with the songs of his most recent harvest.

This review originally appeared in Glorious Noise.

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

William Elliott Whitmore - Live Review

William Elliott Whitmore
The Picador
1/19/07

Homecomings in my hometown were generally considered with a certain amount of festivity. We typically had a homecoming parade on the day before the big game complete with the marching band, themed floats created by the members of each high-school class, and at least four couples competing for the title of “Homecoming King & Queen,” named during the halftime show of the big homecoming football game.
It was the kind of event that usually drew out the town’s alumni and was celebration enough for the alumni who live outside of the city limits to trek back home to see their old football team take on an opponent in their district. Even when the home team was not blessed with a talented squad and, therefore, had no chance of advancing on to the championships after the end of the regular season, people would still come to fill the stands of the stadium and show their support.
William Elliott Whitmore had his own sort of homecoming at The Picador on Friday night and even though his style of music really doesn’t have a chance in today’s fractured popular music environment, the supporters were out in droves on this January night, witnessing their Iowa boy shake out demons from his acoustic guitar and paint vast images (slightly fabricated at times) of life in Iowa from his well-worn banjo.
The setting was quite a memorable moment actually; it was the kind of crowd that is generally reserved for those historic performances (Built to Spill, Soul Asylum, the mighty House of Large Sizes) that you often refer back to when gauging the number of people who can fit into the confined accommodations that is The Picador.
This huge showing of support clearly made an impact on Whitmore, who frequently thanked the audience and commented on how many recognized faces came out to see him. His affection was genuine and it seemed to make him reach a little deeper into his soul on some songs, to the point where he needed to compose himself (“I need to take a minute and catch my breath!”) after the song had ended.
Lifting his hour-long set heavily from his latest Songs From The Blackbird and his second release Ashes To Dust, Whitmore laced his performance with several nods to his homestate, instilling a sense that we should be mindful and proud of our roots as he is so often to do within his own arrangements; with his stomping foot providing the only rhythm, Whitmore’s performance was as minimal and honest as they come. The audience took note of this, encouraging him with the drunken yells and hollers that probably mirrored the juke-joints and roadhouses that filled the era William strives to revive.

Whitmore does a good job of channeling this mystique with stage banter of how he lives in a one-room log cabin or how his dog killed a skunk on the night before, causing the rodent to spray its defense right into the mouth of his four-legged friend. But his “act” never seemed contrived as, in the middle of his cornfield reflections, he also encouraged the audience to check out the new Clipse album.
Whitmore noticed that the audience was fairly crowded and then started to invite anyone who was interested up on to the stage with him to make additional room. Throughout the night, the rapport between the performer and the audience was close, with several drinks (shots of whiskey and bottles of Pabst Blue Ribbon) being offered to him to the point where he declared “I’m fucking drunk!” The banjo playing then became a little looser and, either because of the alcohol or because the magnitude of his local supporters was finally realized, Whitmore ended his set with a tribute to the ground that we all would walk on when the doors closed: the fertile Iowa soil.
Whitmore makes his way back overseas next before returning to the states for a small tour of America. Regardless of where he travels, one can be certain that there will be a little bit of that black Iowa dirt on his shoes wherever he goes.
And we’ll be here for another homecoming celebration when he finally returns.