In my post on the Gabe Dixon Band, I wished that there was a little more at stake in his music, and that the moderateness of it made the album seem as if nothing was at stake. I understand the sensible nature of the music; it must be tough to live when you spend your life worried about hit-level sales. I suspect that many of us would end up like Britney in the armoire if we experienced some of the pressures she’s dealt with.

This comes to mind listening to Tricky’s Knowle West Boy. The album sounds outflanked by time, and M.I.A. and Dizzee Rascal immediately came to mind as artists in more dangerous or more progressive places – the places Tricky once occupied. Particularly absent is the murk and ickiness of Maxinquaye and the albums that followed it, and while it must be easier to live in a less dour, self-consciously outrageous place, the music lacks urgency and edge. The trade-off makes sense – the emotionally exhausting, high risk short term for a long haul you get to enjoy – but the loss of edge is a tough loss.     

               

Yesterday, a friend and I were bemoaning the generally blah state of roots rock as a genre that had pretty thoroughly picked over the bones of Gram Parsons, Hank Williams, Buck Owens and Johnny Cash, one that overvalues authenticity and undervalues individuality. Exceptions to these thoughts come pretty easily – Plant/Krauss, James McMurtry and Mary Gauthier for three – but bands that fall into that zone are too numerous to mention. It often sounds like the bands are satisfied to write songs that could be mistaken for Music Row products in Nashville’s heyday. That some successfully do so is a testament to the artists’ craft, but a knock-off is a knock-off, no matter how well done.

I got some flicker of hope from the Gabe Dixon Band’s self-titled album. Not an inferno of hope – the title doesn’t risk hype or ratcheting up expectations – but Dixon puts down roots rock’s holy guitar and bases his songs on the piano. Perhaps for that reason, he develops more melodic hooks and isn’t above batting his eyes at the pop marketplace. He doesn’t embrace it entirely, doling out just enough hooks for each song without making anything gaudy. But he knows it’s there.

I hear Dixon as part of the singer/songwriter tradition, primarily in the moderate earnestness of the music, and particularly his vocals. Every word is sung as if it’s important, and anything that could be viewed as superfluous is suspected or rejected. If there’s wit, it’s undersold. That monotone mood is a problem for me, but it’s nice to hear someone take a step in some direction.