Pitchfork

Lambchop's largely unsung 1994 release Jack's Tulips was one of the most baffling and unique indie artifacts of the early '90s. It proved these Nashvillians capable of exploring any polar extremity on the musical map. As it turns out, some mind- bending discoveries were made along the way. Awash with warm pop sunshine like "Betweemus" and marked by the influential drug anthem that the Frogs later appropriated, "So I Hear You're Moving (I Got Drugs That'll Blow Your Mind)", the album contained the most aurally- friendly lounge/ jazz/ alterna/ country/ indie/ pop found anywhere.

What Another Man Spills begins in typical Lambchop fashion on "Interrupted": a guitar flourish with classical overtones flutters its way through a pocket of silence. Spare multi- instrumentation gently tiptoes in from behind, creating a hushed, lazy companion for frontman Kurt Wagner's flat drawl. Here's the Wagner recipe: take one part Tennessee Ernie Ford, stir in Neil Young's lyrical facility, and add a jigger of Daniel Johnston dementia. Shake that mixture up and out pours Wagner.

"Scamper" is a standout example of how Lambchop's ingrained pop sensibility can lend credibility to a song about life with an incontinent old woman: "There's a closet full of generic adult diapers/ She's very old with a bladder/ Everything's soaking wet/ You're outside sucking on a can." On "Shucks" some rousing barrelhouse piano dances over the faint echo of the guitars and muffled trumpet. "Give Me Your Love" is, amazingly enough, a Barry White dance groove with castrati-like Bee Gees harmonizing.

Each musician in Lambchop makes indispensable contributions to the overall sound. In traditional Southern- rock fashion (Molly Hatchet, Lynyrd Skynyrd), Lambchop corrals enough band members to be eligible for its own zip code. Of course, the main difference is, Lambchop's dozen or so members aren't all lead guitarists. The real miracle here is how this bevy of accomplished multi- instrumentalists manages to employ their talents in a way that's not obviously showy or gratuitous.

Songs like "The Saturday Option" are as close as Lambchop comes to a "signature" sound: lap steel guitars brush against tinkling xylophones; vibraphone, cello, tuba, and delayed six- string guitar parts float unobtrusively around each other. The deliberate, almost subliminal chord changes create a steady current that carries the songs gently along. Of course, the plaintive weeping of the lap steel gets them pigeonholed by some as being a "country" band. Yet defining Lambchop's sound is about as futile as attempting to extract meaning from a Gertrude Stein novel. And unlike Stein, Kurt Wagner seems incapable of uninteresting nonsensical turns- of- phrase. Lambchop, as always, still manage to befuddle the critical establishment, and escape any sort of convenient categorization.