he most expressive movies, like music, convey a palpable mood. It’s images flickering for hours, even days, post-viewing, that evidence its sheer lasting impression. Often this impression is subject only to the here-and-now period; concluding with the fade out. The superiority of one over the other is moot, but it’s safe to say, for many (myself included), mood is paramount.


Director David Lynch has always been in the mood business. His films are more caliginous dream states than easily explained allegories. The amount of time that must have went into Salon.com’s Mulholland Drive “explanation”; such a waste. Mood is often beyond, even exhausted by, elucidation, and David Lynch’s newest foray into noise is not unlike his better films: effortful, atmospheric, and best taken just as it is.


The meeting between the two performers on Blue Bob, John Neff and David Lynch, occurred when Neff built Lynch’s home musical studio in 1997. They soon began working together and churned out a few tracks just as an experiment; becoming a serious soon after leading directly into the recording of this album. Neither is new to the capricious world of music. Lynch has written lyrics and produced for Julee Cruise (with Angelo Badalamenti) and for Jocelyn Montgomery. Neff is a studio engineer and has played pedal steel for an innumerable number of bands, notably Star Room Boys, Japancakes, and Now It’s Overhead. Both men play all the instruments on the album, with Neff playing numerous guitars (not at the same time) and covering the vocals, and Lynch writing the lyrics and playing guitar and various percussion.


The press release for Blue Bob describes it as “a music idea based on the pounding machinery of the smokestack industry and the raw amplified birth of rock and roll. [I]nspired by machines, fire, smoke and electricity.” Lynch himself stated his intentions to Jeff, saying “’I want beats like machines, like dogs on PCP--when they bite down you feel it.” One listen to Blue Bob makes clear that his intentions were realized.


“Rollin’ Down (To My House)” begins with a throbbing chug guitar backed by percussion that sounds like it’s emitting mechanical steam with each strike. Lynch’s blue(s)-collar lyrics are typical yearning and betrayal fare, much less important than Neff’s phlegmy drawl. On “Thank You, Judge,” he gives a litany of items lost in a divorce settlement: “She got my stash of beer/She got my fishin’ gear/She got my .38/She got my lawn mower.” “Pink Western Range,” though, contains some of Lynch’s best, and lamentably inaudible, lyrics of the album: “In the Pink Western Range/A protozoan figure crawls/A dog, a dog/Barking like Robert Johnson.”


The tracks that stand out, though, are the instrumentals. The “Factory Interlude” segues into “Blue Horse,” a protracted (7 min.) sojourn to the Twin Peaks Lumber Mill. A sustained, wah, and bass guitar interlope to conjure up sooty images not unlike those in the artwork: steel and smoke. “Go Get Some” contains a guitar strum eerily reminiscent of the Mulholland Drive theme. Much more cacophonous than the previous instrumental; its beauty lies in its monotony and lack of emotion, like a Margaret Bourke-White photograph.


It’s difficult not to imagine how Blue Bob may have turned out if it was entirely instrumental. Or if Julee Cruise, or another gentle singing siren were enlisted to tackle Lynch’s lyrics. Because of this lack of a strong contrasting presence, the album may seem too monotonous for some tastes. However, Neff and Lynch’s creation lives up to its billing as the first “industrial-blues” album- and much like Lynch’s work in film, you either love it or hate it: but you can’t deny its inescapable mood.