can summarize everything I know about West Texas in one sentence: I-40 spans about 200 miles of it, one of its major cities is Amarillo, it's moderately populated, and it's relatively undistinguished, even for the Midwest. I know these things because it just so happens I've driven through there three times in the past two years as part of my semiannual collegiate commute between California and North Carolina. But despite perhaps having more knowledge of West Texas than the average Mountain Goats reviewer, my memory and general opinion of the area have been dulled by the crusty-eyed, detached world view that characterizes transnational car travel. Consequently, I have very little of interest to say about West Texas; however, chief (and incidentally, only) Mountain Goat John Darnielle apparently found enough inspiration there for fourteen tracks of lo-fi literary melancholy.


Just as the naked eye indicates there's not much in West Texas, All Hail West Texas at first listen sounds bare and insubstantial, not to mention primitively recorded. Sure, we all know what lo-fi sounds like, but you (the average soundcard-equipped reader) wouldn't need Steve Albini to trump Darnielle and his K-Mart boombox in the production department. In theory, anyone could do what Darnielle does given his setup: his acoustic guitar progressions, while affecting, require only a basic knowledge of chords to play; his voice is untrained, nasal and only marginally tuneful; and as for the omnipresent tape hum. . . well, that's as easy as not using the proper bandpass filter. But the lo-fi aesthetic suits the Mountain Goats particularly well, as its minimalism and lack of polish create the perfect backdrop for Darnielle's stark tales of small-town tragedy and disappointment.


Yep, the lyrics basically make this record. Darnielle shatters any question as to how his Mountain Goats differ from your friend with the acoustic and the average voice with his incredibly poignant and memorable portraits of podunkers in dire straits. From the pair of Slayer wannabes of "The Best Ever Death Metal Band In Denton" to the promising jock turned drug dealer in "Fall of the Star High School Running Back", his protagonists all seem doomed to soul-crushing ennui at best and jail/death at worst. Even the obviously well-off materialists of "Fault Lines" fall prey to the spiritual bankruptcy of compulsive consumption, proving that not even money can buy salvation from the unrelentingly bleak purgatory known as West Texas.


Okay, so far, so good. Moving tunes, exemplary lyrics, an effective delivery all around. . . so why not a higher rating? Well, to be honest, assimilating this entire record all at once doesn't seem to be the best way to enjoy it. The lack of sonic variety prevents most of the songs from making much of an impression musically, and in general lo-fi really starts to grate after about 20 straight minutes. Additionally, far more than other bands, the Mountain Goats demand so much of your attention that a 10-second lapse at a critical point in the song (or even an extended pause) can defeat its purpose. And of course, there's the minor quibble that I personally have more respect for Darnielle's ilk than love; I can appreciate his craft and laud his talent but I don't see myself ever approaching a record like this on my own. But if you get off on the literate singer-songwriterisms of Paul Simon, Leonard Cohen and the Silver Jews, you'll likely find a little more to enjoy in West Texas than I did.