Pitchfork

I can't tell you how many times I've listened as someone boasted their eclectic tastes and love for "all kinds of music, except country." You've probably heard it, too. Hell, I bet you've gone around saying it yourself. At least until that alt-country hype gave you hope that you weren't necessarily too cool for it, and didn't even have to buy boots or take line-dancing classes to indulge.

Sixteen Horsepower might be ideal country music for those who think themselves too hip for twang, but are too nauseated by Son Volt's slide-guitar fluff. Rather, this band inhabits the same dark corner once occupied by the Geraldine Fibbers, where goth and southern gothic intersect without much to interest purists of either form.

David Eugene Edwards is the son of a preacher man and claims that his lyrics come to him from a higher power. So why isn't his band working that angle for the hard sell, opening for DC Talk or, at the very least, releasing records on Tooth & Nail? Well, for starters, Sixteen Horsepower's music is scarier than any rock n' roll Antichrist you can name. In fact, if there's anything Edwards' holy rants bring to mind, it's an enraged Jules Winnfield reciting Ezekiel 25:17 with his gun's barrel bruising your temple.

Secret South blasts forward with a pump of fuzz bass that immediately puts emphasis on one of Sixteen Horsepower's more distinctive but less obvious defining traits: a massive low end. Bassist Pascal Humbert and the groaning cello occasionally supplied by guest string players suggest the kind of floor-rattling hum more closely associated with Jeeps than the horse-and-buggy that would make the band's ideal touring vehicle. Jean-Yves Tola completes the formative rhythm section, anchoring the surrounding banjo, fiddle, and bandoneon flourishes with galloping beats that not only serve as the foundation for these songs, but also justify the band's moniker-- they provide a relentless engine to Edwards' songs while dragging them away with wild horses.

But at the moment, Sixteen Horsepower are knee-deep in the awkwardness that follows being dropped from a major label. After reaching a plateau of quality with 1998's Low Estate, their doomed contract with A&M Records reached its inevitable conclusion. So now they're not only operating on a smaller label with less promotional reach, but they're also facing an inability to raise the stakes and satisfy the remaining fanbase.

Secret South is a characteristically strong showing, but ultimately, it pales in comparison to its predecessors. The self-produced album retains the band's unique sound, but fails to measure up to the perfect match they found in guitarist John Parish for Low Estate's crisply rustic atmosphere. Even without any of the droning squeezebox ballads that accounted for Low Estate's few weak spots, it somehow lacks the momentum and fury that made that album such an engaging listen.

Whereas Low Estate could be cleanly divided between the upbeat back porch sing-alongs, rambunctious quasi-cowpunk bursts, and the aforementioned dirges, Secret South almost wholly falls into a middle ground with less consistent results. The one mode that is most often in stock here is the slow burn, patiently building but never accelerating past a frustrating mid-tempo. Sometimes it works, as with the teasingly incomplete crescendos of "Poor Mouth." But elsewhere, the formula borders on unbearable, best evidenced by the overwrought wailing of "Cinder Alley."

With Edwards' songwriting in a bit of a slump here, it's not surprising that the album's most enjoyable moments are covers. The traditional "Wayfaring Stranger" suits him as well as any of his originals, with a tinny vocal tone giving the song an honest, folksy rendering. Even better is "Nobody 'Cept You," a gorgeous vow of dedication from Bob Dylan's Bootleg Series. And even if the lyrics aren't his, the song still shows Edwards in rare form, laying aside his usual rhetoric for earthly love and naked sincerity.

Ultimately, Secret South shows Sixteen Horsepower nailing their trademarks perhaps too well. With no ironic crutch or overtly modern traits (aside from a vaguely post-grunge sensibility), there's little to save them from niche, or worse, caricature. For the most part, they fend off these concerns with material that demands to be judged on its own merits. But let's face it, "Praying Arm Lane" resembles the theme from "Rawhide" just a little too closely to be taken seriously. Nonetheless, Sixteen Horsepower remains a breath of fresh air for those of us who aren't afraid of a little twang but would rather stay away from Nashville and No Depression.