Pitchfork

That American Music Club aren't more universally revered is perplexing. Between 1983 and 1994, the group released seven influential albums, eclectic melanges that integrated rock, folk, blues, jazz, and country into a document of raw Americana, yet never attained a level of recognition befitting such prolific and consistently powerful musicians.

Of course, it's easy to understand why they've never been a "buzz band"-- buzz is the currency of the young, and AMC catered to a slightly older set. They conveyed complex sentiments more likely to resonate with those who'd lived long enough to get knocked down a few times, shedding layers of self-esteem and solipsism along the way. The unbruised adolescent ego likes its angst to be clear-cut and attributable to the denigrations of an insouciant universe. Emotional complexity engenders too much unpleasant introspection and not enough pat catharsis. But this very trammel to superstardom has made AMC's longevity and continuing dynamism possible, and their first new album in 10 years, Love Songs for Patriots, is not only just as hearty as their earliest work, but it profits from another decade of experience grimed into its leathery creases.

Love Songs for Patriots is a uniformly strong collection of sharp-eyed, sardonic allegories. Its first three tracks-- "Ladies and Gentleman", "Another Morning", and "Patriot's Heart"-- demonstrate what AMC does better than almost anyone else: an elusive blend of gruff, shimmering music, understated drama, intuitive dynamics, and effortlessly poignant lyrics that burrow into the profane idealism at the heart of the American dream. Frontman Mark Eitzel's words are timeless and complicated, and sad without celebrating sadness: They acknowledge its inevitability while screaming defiantly into its sullen face.

On "Ladies and Gentlemen", Eitzel is the archetypal barroom prophet, a pale figure kicking up sawdust in a dark, smoky room and summoning spirits into the leaden air. A brewing storm of heavily distorted chords, sculpted feedback, and detuned piano rumble beneath him. The consummate showman, Eitzel moans and shouts as the music lurches through segments of stark lounge and roiling disarray, issuing a plainspoken demand for redemption through honesty: "Ladies and gentlemen, it's time/ The bartender is looking you right in the eye/ Says I'm going to replace all your weak blood with my wine/ If you can't live with the truth with the truth/ Go ahead, try to live with a lie."

"Another Morning" is more subdued, a well-sequenced mote of gossamer pop after the breathless claustrophobia of "Ladies and Gentlemen". Over a lovely bed of iridescent reverb, wafting acoustic guitar, and pliable percussion, Eitzel gently goads an unnamed "you" for her addiction to depression: "Someone does you wrong, you give away your whole life to prove it/ You wear your pain with pride, you refuse to remove it/ You become the evil that plays with you like a doll/ Big rooms only make our lives small." Delivered with less grace, the lines would seem mean-spirited and petty, but Eitzel breathes them out with such sympathy and tenderness that they become less an indictment than a prayer for deliverance.

Rounding out the trio is the commanding "Patriot's Heart". Another character sketch, it's a scathing... I almost said "indictment" again, but that's not quite right: There's no sense of accusation or self-righteousness embedded in the song. Instead, it's weary, defeated but still standing, and profoundly empathetic toward its subject, a male stripper whose transformation from person to icon embodies the downfall of a culture that's lost its heart to materialism. Over plodding crests and sloughs of bone-tired, ragged bar-rock, Eitzel gradually transfigures his protagonist from a debased yet essentially human soul into a symbolic reservoir for the sum total of untenable desire ("After a few tequilas, I become something holy"), culminating in the dissolution of maligned dignity. "I'm the past you wasted/ I'm the future you're obliterating/ Come on grandpa, remind me what we're celebrating."

The rest of the record continues to chart the shadowy regions of the spirit. Eitzel displays good-natured, satiric humor on the lulling, quiet ballad "Myopic Books", simple wisdom on the twinkling night-song "Love Is" ("We're so small compared to our hearts"), and undiluted, romantic hope on the breezy "Only Love Can Set You Free". Reviews of long-running bands often close by recommending that you check out their more salient back-catalog first, but I'm happy to say that the wonderfully humane and genuine Love Songs for Patriots is as fine a point of entry into their massive oeuvre as any.