Pitchfork

That echo chamber's a dangerous thing: A number of critics have mistakingly labeled Horse Feathers-- the Portland, Ore., duo of Justin Ringle and Peter Broderick-- another folksy Americana troupe with an interesting vocalist. Broderick, a talented 19-year-old multi-instrumentalist, certainly adds folk instruments such as banjo, mandolin, and saw to emotive, gothic backdrops; he also accents Ringle's quavery, near-falsetto with cello, piano, viola, violin, and various sorts of almost-funky percussion. Ignore the chatter-- there's something a bit more avant going on here.

The two approach music rustically, but the Iron & Wine name-checks are off the mark-- there's a different vibe and pacing and phrasing entirely. You could snag some Sam Beam beard curls on "Dustbowl", but what to do with the truly swinging send-out of "Falling Through the Roof"? Or "Untitled", a quiet bit of chamber piano that makes me think of a slow, sad, last waltz? Same goes for the syrupy keyed'n'bowed ministrations of "Like Lavender".

Ringle, who contributes guitar, banjo, and some percussion in addition to his arresting voice, is reminiscent of John Orth from Holopaw; there's something more gorgeously unhinged, though-- not mentally, but the way he sings with his entire body. You keep thinking he'll crack. At times, his pronunciations come out like a male Chan Marshall-- but on a bit too much caffeine. Listening to "Honest Doubters" from a distance, I heard the ghost of Jeff Mangum or Arthur Russell (a real ghost) via Kelley Polar.

In the end, forget the RIYL one-sheet copy and instead absorb a fragment of "Like Lavender"'s track marks: "Some things always stay the same/ How you looked wet from all the rain/ Like lavender the small of your hair, silly errs postponing your despair." Follow this with a small, stringed flourish to complete the silent epiphany. The ambiance of the album is great: "Hardwood Pews" rapidly builds from bedroom hush (and blush) to saw-bent crescendo. "Blood on the Snow" lists body parts in a somber parade-- "Their heads, their lips, their chests, their hips, they walk. Them bones they move, they talk. Their bones they bleed they rot"-- a deep-pool cello acting as slithery metronome.

Lyrically, Ringle's fond of thorny repetitions: "Goodnight, night, night" or "Like how her bark, it has calmed before her bite, bite, bite." These extra words add an emphasis, but also keep the libretto moving. For such a sweetly silent (but always swiveling) set, there's a ton of activity: "Walking and running, sucking and fucking at your will. You won't debate us, nor entertain us. It's your thrill." A truck-full of action verbs: "they move, they touch." Gathering bruises, there are trips to Heaven and Hell (and, well, Hades). Tongues "taste the sky." The boys hop a little waltz, tumbling through a bruised roof. Sometimes Ringle makes his voice quaver intentionally, stuttering with his tonsils.

Amid the blood, snow, sawdust, roses ("bones may break, parts go on bleeding"), the body's breakdown is seen as but another way to move. Worms singing in your guts, creating air holes-- you, yourself, become an instrument. Maybe this gets at what the album's title means to say: It's okay words are dead because they'll find newer forms within their decomposition. Whatever the case, Horse Feathers just keep moving (in both senses of the word...).