ow many North American homes provide shelter to an acoustic guitar? Whether battered from overuse, dusty from neglect or pristine from adoration, acoustic guitars adorn the houses of players and non-players alike. They are wonderful to have around; romantic monuments to the continually waning wandering spirit. Acoustic guitars were the companions of cowboys; they alone held faith in hitchhikers; they spread the sheets on which the blues were born. Their sound is honest -- unfettered by tightly wound ropes of wire -- and when you hear one, you are hearing the dust that should rightfully be settling on the grave of the lone.


That is what you hear during the acoustic moments of a Bruce Springsteen album. The same could be said about Neil Young, Paul Simon, Steve Earle or even Beck. Their strongest works (Nebraska, Harvest, Simon and Garfunkel’s Greatest Hits, Transcendental Blues, One Foot In the Grave) all rely heavily on the naked- heart sound of the acoustic guitar, but they also depend on the relation those sounds and that heart have to the intended material. The Boss, Steve, Paul, Neil and Beck were all raised with an acoustic guitar in their lap, and it shows. They know, unerringly, which songs demand acoustic treatment and which do not.


Frank Black’s new album is laden (leaden at times) with acoustic guitar and proves that he does not belong to that cache of American songwriters with the power to conjure magic and fire out of an acoustic guitar at will. Devil’s Workshop is not awful, but its steady flow of roots rock near-misses is, at the very least, disheartening. The songs are not all acoustic-based -- two or three have no acoustic guitar whatsoever -- but much of the album is acoustic-driven, a characteristic that robs the potentially good songs of their required oomph and renders the weaker songs flatter than foolscap.


The first two songs border on great and give the deceptive impression that Black has finally recaptured the muse responsible for Teenager of the Year. “Velvety” is a bouncing, near-crash of an opener that is miles ahead of almost every other song on Devil’s Workshop. It’s lively, and will scorch the ass of any Robert Earl Keen fan, but it won’t accomplish much more than that. “Out of State” follows and establishes the main theme of the album -- travel -- and that theme’s most common inspiration -- pain. It’s another very good song that recalls “Holiday” by Black’s former band (whoever they were).


“Out of State” is depressing yet incessant, but it sheds light on the album’s greatest downfall: its lack of energy. There is simply too much acoustic guitar, too many slow tempos and too many listless vocal performances. This is neither the metalhead nor the Pixies fan in me talking. I am simply a bored listener. Every song on this album could use a shot of Wild Turkey. “Modern Age” is brisk, and its opening riff is as explosive as anything on the album, but the rest of the song is mired in an irrational devotion to roots rock. Exchange the acoustic guitar line for an electric assault and you’d have one of the best songs Black has penned in his entire lifetime as a musician. “Bartholomew” is in the same truck. It’s dusty, slightly swinging bar rock, but it never reaches any sort of apex. “His Kingly Cave” is a glaring example of the lackadaisical mid-tempo pap Black’s been tossing off for years. It possesses no hook, no emotion and, thanks to the dry acoustic treatment, no fun. “Are You Headed My Way” recalls the same variety of annoying, kitschy rock F.B. threw onto Teenager knowing full well that there were twenty other songs people could choose from. There are only ten songs on Devil’s Workshop and none of them are good enough to justify a song this pointless. “San Antonio, TX” is the audible representation of the truckstop food and flat beer consumed by the band while on the road trips that inspired this album. It is flavourless and tired despite its plunking piano and sharp-pickin’. There isn’t enough weight in these songs for them to be carried by an acoustic guitar.


But things get no better on the remaining, mostly electric tracks. “Heloise” is warm Stones rock that is decimated by a chorus that deflates the promised greatness of the song’s bridge. “Whiskey in Your Shoes” and “The Scene” are both loud, but they are also both forgettable rock music that wouldn’t sound out of place on Canadian radio. “Fields of Marigold” is the loudest song on the album, but the guitars slump around sulkily like a bad-postured teenager.


This album lacks. Perhaps Devil’s Workshop is in need of something simple, like volume or speed. I hope that’s it. It would be a feasible solution that could be enacted with a handful of live shows. But I fear that it’s something else, something more serious. To coax angels and demons out of an acoustic guitar, you must be gifted. Your songs need to be incredible and you must be able to channel them through a piece of wood that has your respect. (Sound silly? Think about that the next time you listen to Nirvana’s Unplugged in New York and find yourself thinking ‘Why isn’t this as good as I remember?’) The Springsteens, the Simons, the Earles, the Youngs, the Hansens, these men let acoustic guitars guide them, not vice versa, and it resulted in the bearing of souls and the facilitation of life-affirming art. Also significant is the fact that they all were able to reinvent themselves after early moments of brilliance and success. It’s been more than ten years since Trompe Le Monde and Frank Black still has yet to manage this feat. Until he does, he will remain out of their league, and he will continue to release albums that get worse with every listen.